Foxes

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

Shelfie was a man of contradiction. An untamed monolith of virile stature, hidden behind porcelain veneers and a fake tan. Rob Lowe would be no match for man so breeched in such hapless incongruity. Or would he?

In the beginning, I could not do more than simply nod and stare. There was so much visceral upkeep that encircled him and all his surroundings, my body and my mind began to shut down. I was illiterate with doe-eyed, one word responses. Luckily, Shelfie lived in that rudimentary world of communication. But then things changed.

“Ok, so, are you and Tracy--” Shelfie stammered, pointing with his thumb toward the house.

At least that’s what I thought he was doing, and I didn’t have the balls to finish his sentence with, “..sticking my thumb up her ass?” Instead, I played it cool.

“We’re friends. Tracy and I are friends.”

“Have you ever thought--” he said, continuing down a path that was a bit slippery for my taste. I didn’t want this guy sporting wood by my responses.

“Never,” I said lying. Of course I thought about fucking her you hairy knuckled buffoon. Me and every other guy she fucking meets. Good thing that didn’t come out of my mouth.

“She’s quite the fox,” he said, without the least bit of irony in his voice. My God, I was stuck in a driveway with Vinnie Barbarino.

“Oh, very foxy,” I continued, “just not my type, that’s all.”

Another blatant lie. I had to do it. How can you explain the power trip that I was on with Tracy. Our relationship was based on me not fucking her. That gave me the power. Every other guy she met, including Shelfie, imagined a roll in the sack with her before “hello” even left their lips. And generally that desire manifested itself in cheesy pickup lines or the like. Tracy was brazen in this account and became almost instinctual at shooting down pickup attempts. Even the most Matinee-faced Hollywood prettyboy could not enter through that door. It took a more subversive technique. The technique of not caring.

But as much as it was the attraction, it was also the rub. If I did show interest, maybe I could lose her. Maybe what connects us is the disconnect. So, I would simply accept and continue our sexually-charged yet sexually absent relationship. But for now, I was merely listening.

“Lowe, don’t take this the wrong way, but she may be a bit out of your league, mine too, don’t get me wrong.”

I became alive.

“Well, you’re probably not on the playing field, now that you’re married,” I said with just enough laughter to dispel my plausible deniability.

He answered back with an equal amount of cover.

“I didn’t mean that as an insult, really, I just thought she’s young, pretty, has a BMW, you’re a little bit older.”

“Rick, we graduated together. I’m the same age.”

“Oh man, I thought you were almost my age. I'm 40, but thought you were, you know, like mid to upper 30's.”

I seethed.

“No, I just turned 30.”

“Don't get bent out of shape, I just meant that you looked more mature or something. More responsible.”

He changed the subject immediately.

“Rob, I would do anything for my wife. Really, anything. I would lie, cheat, steal. But you know what the one thing I did for her that was the hardest in my life?”

“What’s that, Rick?”

“This,” he said, lowering his shirt and showing a completely shaved chest. It was a ridiculous site, arms thick with human Velcro and a chest that looked like a babies ass.

“I was drunk and Val and I were in the Jacuzzi tub, well we got out the razor and well, when it was my turn, this is what she did.”

I didn’t know what to say. Rick immediately sensed that we may not be ready for such an illustrative conversation. He could have stopped at letting me know he would kill for her.

Thankfully, he changed the subject, once again.

“So what do you think of her?”

“Your wife?” I asked.

“No, the car. Did Tracy tell you anything about it?”

“No, she didn’t”

“All right. Rob, I take care of my cars like I take care of my women. You see how well taken care of Val is. That’s like my cars," he said, pointing to his garage. Around him was a Mercedes that looked really expensive, some new sloped one, a Range-Rover and something else, concealed by a car cover. He pointed to the Range Rover.

“See that, that’s why we’re selling this car. Val wanted it, I got it,” he said. Before me was an enormous white and overpriced white SUV with giant white rims and huge tires. It was flashy even by P-diddy standards.

“It’s nice.”

“Rob, kids are nice. Moms are nice, picnics are nice. But this car if fucking beautiful, Just like women. Women and cars are beautiful, not nice. Where do nice girls finish?”

I looked at him and nodded.

“Huh, where do nice girls finish?” he continued. I realized there was no room for the rhetorical in shelfie’s maligned metaphor universe. I answered.

“Last.”

“Exactly, Rob, they finish last.”

I stared at the soap bubbles and wondered how I lived my whole life without his wisdom. Without the knowledge that women and machines are equated in ways I had never imagined.

“Rob, you don’t want this car. Don’t tell my wife I said this, but you don’t want it.”

I was confused.

“Is there something wrong with it?”

“Mechanically, it’s fine. But image wise. I mean, my wife drives it. Drove it.”

“Yea, so.”

“So. All right. I doubt you’ll be able to get laid with this car?”

“You can’t take your car into the Beef and Brew,” I said.

Now we were both confused.

“Rob, I like you. You seem like a good guy. I just think a guy like you might need the help of a hipper ride to help you with the girls. I mean, I want to sell the car, yea, and if you want to buy it, great. But I needed to tell you that. I can drop a sign on this and have it sold in a day. I’m just looking out for you.”

The confusion grew exponentially. Did I underestimate the mind of Shelfie? Fuck, sometimes I am so quick to claim superiority over people, that I get hoodwinked. He was challenging my manhood with reverse psychology.

“Rob, I grew up in Tarzana, in the 80’s. Man, it was a great fucking time. My dad had a construction company and I busted my ass in the hot Valley weather every summer. I stayed home, scrimped and after three years of weekends and summers and having no life, guess what I did?”

“Quit?” I asked in an effort to deflate the lecture.

“Of course not. I bought a car. A beautiful Firebird convertible. God, I loved that car. It made everything worthwhile. I got my confidence, met girls and had one of the best summers of my life, while I continued to work. I owned the Valley back then.”

“Yea, I like firebirds,” I said, wondering if they even made those things. I thought they went the way of the mustache or muscle-tee.

“You want to see something?” he said.

“You’re not going to lift your shirt up again, are you?”

“No,” he said laughing, “come here.”

He walked me across his stamped concrete to the single stall in the garage. He lifted up the car cover to reveal not a Ferrari, but something far more valuable in his universe. The Firebird convertible.

“I had to sell it to start my business, but once I got it going I had someone track it down and buy it on the spot. I completely restored it to original. Want to take a spin?"

“Uh sure,” I said, “Should we tell-"

“Man, you’re whipped Lowe, and she’s not even your girlfriend.”

“All right, let’s go.”

He turned the key as a deep grumbling signaled its emergence from hibernation. He gunned the gas and squealed the wheels. And as much as I wanted to make fun of him for it, I couldn’t. I was honestly having too much fun. Yea, he was about the challenge, but he also had an eye on what got him here, what made him happy and how to give to someone while still being true to yourself. Locked in this rock-jawed caricature could very well be the secret to a successful marriage, a successful life. I just needed to chisel away the subterfuge to find the answer.

“You play cards,” he asked as the smell of burnt black rubber filled the street.

“Old maid?” I said, trying to endear myself to my new friend in the muscle-car. He laughed.

We drove around the block and onto Mulholland, flying faster than the wind, faster than the birds. And as the evening breeze careened off my hair, I realized something strangely profound. The reason for this vibrant occasion was to do more than simply buy a car. It was to reconnect me to a time when fast cars and burnouts defined who you were. It was to reconnect me to high school. But this time I wasn’t watching the burnout. I was making it.

And it was fucking paradise.