You can't say we're satisfied.

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.

I knew the location had changed, yet the prophetic daydreams of reconnecting lived firmly in the old walls of Shenanigans, a bar I used to frequent regularly as a tactile under-ager. The danky beer-stained floors were still fresh in memory, providing a deliberate vantage point of thought. It was exactly the familiarity I needed for my internal pre-dawn dress rehearsals. Because upon this final trip of reconnection I wanted to be different. I wanted to be majestic. I wanted to be everything I wasn't growing up.

Alex and I sat down to an unfamiliar booth, both taking time to recalibrate the upscale version of our teenage watering hole. I looked around, searching for something recognizable. In the woodwork, around the bar. In the faces. Gone were the days of id-driven youth, when a well-placed twenty happily entranced 17-year-olds to a night of alcohol-induced fervor.

We ordered up a pitcher of Bass and toasted to last night, or what we could remember of it. Inside was a joyous scene, a bar-stool group singing songs and slapping backs. Their evening was in full swing, but our wedding's bridal party was still at the restaurant, pretentiously resolute to shoo away the oldsters before cocktailing. We took advantage of our time alone. The night was not to be wished away by either of us.

One pitcher turned into two. It was a solid buzz for the both of us. I let loose a spate of details about the older woman in my life, and he ate it up as eagerly as the bar-party devoured their onion blossom. We laughed, told old stories and created a more upbeat version of last night, saying goodbye to the pain and welcoming the pleasure that two old friends can bestow upon each other. But joy is fleeting, especially in my world.

“My God, Rob Lowe, is that you?”

“Oh, Hi Wan-“ I stopped myself, “Wendy.”

“It’s OK Rob, you can call me Wangie. I knew all about the nickname. Besides, I made fun of your name all the time.”

She turned to Alex.

“Alex, you have a great name, you can’t call me Wangie,” she said, scoldingly.

“I would never dream of it, where is Angie by the way, are you two still hanging out?”

“Oh yea, she was parking the car. I had to run in to go pee. She’ll be around in a minute.”

“Well, don’t let us hold you up. When nature calls. It was good seeing you though.” Alex said.

"Oh, you boys aren’t getting off that easy. I’ll be back.”

We flashed the obligatory smile and watched her move toward the door. In walked Angie, and I could see them speak and look our way.

“Please don’t come over,” Alex said mid-wave under his breath.

“She’s coming,” I said.

I moved to the end of the booth to prevent the "sit down." It was timed perfectly, but the plan backfired, as Angie used her ass to scoot me inside. She sat down next to me, unperturbed and crassly grabbed my left hand to look for a ring. Alex was next up and Angie's hand swiftly crossed the table with even more brazen abandon.

“No rings, are you boys still on the market,” she said, snickering loudly.

We sat woefully.

She continued her grand entrance, like a true actress who’s co-star missed their mark. On with the show.

“Come here,” she said, throwing a bear hug hold around my shoulders. Hugs are awkward enough without the added handicap of being seated.

“Ooo, Rob, you’ve filled out in the muscle department. You were too skinny in High School.”

“I hear he has an amazing muscle, Rob, show her.” Alex said, putting his hand across the table in a vain attempt to redirect the hug into a handshake.

“What? No, get up,” she said, handing me the menu she was fiddling with. She walked around the booth and gave Alex a hug. At least his was standing up. Much easier to pull off with dignity.

She sat back down, “No pervy stuff, Alex. I remember the jokes.”

And jokes there were. You could fill a hallway with them, the snickers, the gallant on-the-floor laughter. Ridicule followed these girls like cans on a just-married limo.

Long before there was a Bennifer or Brajolina, there was a Wangie. It was the evocative combination of our town's most ferociously outgoing drama girls, Wendy Slokum and Angie Contessa. They were no more inseparable that most high school friends, Alex and I included. But their overt personalities cause perpetual problems with most. They were in it to win it, and everybody knew. In high school, I avoided them at all cost. And by their standard, appeasment translated into friendship. To them, I was their bud.

By a relative standard, Wendy was the “quiet one” of the two. She was also the hotter. Angie was less attractive and even less quiet. And it true form, natures’ cruelty captured these two. Wendy was a virgin and Angie was not. Many a classmate would have sold their soul to Lucifer to have Angie's moral turtitude transplanted inside Wendy, even for a day. Alex and I may have been included on that list, but our sexual fantasy included a personality transplant.

Wendy returned from her liquid elimination, and loudly clapped her hands into a slate.

“Action,” she screamed, as her wet bathroom hands shot drips all over us.

“Oh, it’s just water. Don’t worry,” she said.

Angie laughed. Alex and I sat, wishing ourselves far, far away. Iraq even.

“Mr. director, did you like my joke? Action,” she screamed louder with the same hand motion.

Angie was oblivious to the law of diminishing returns and belly-laughed even louder.

We sat.

“Actually, I’m not a director,” Alex said, not really wanting to let it slide. Although he should have.

“Ok, producer, whatever,” she replied, “One of them screams ‘Action’.”

“Yea, that wouldn’t be me. I’m a cinematographer. I don’t really scream too much.”

“Well they’re all the same to me, ‘Action’ she screamed again. And again with the hands. And again with the adoration of Angie.

Wendy sighed, serene for a half-beat to enjoy her performance. Quickly, she marched again to her mark.

“Rob, are you still in LA?”

I nodded.

“We love it,” Angela said, laying a cute smile for Wendy's benefit. I had the feeling that whenever someone said "LA," that was her standard comeback.

Wendy gave an approving smile back and moved on.

“Girlfriends, wives, kids?” Wendy asked to no one in particular.

“None for me,” I said.

“Ditto.” Alex replied.

“And you guys?” I asked, hoping to cover the topics to hurry a polite goodbye.

“Nothin,” Angie said, dismissively. “Do you have any friends in California looking for a wife?”

“None,” I replied non-sympathetically. I was becoming less polite.

“Alex, any of your director friends need a few good women?” Wendy asked, giggling.

Alex let the director tag drop this time and rolled with it.

“I’m afraid they are all gay. Like most Director/Producers. Except me, of course. I love pussy.”

“What a waste of a man, not you, the gay thing,” Angie said, unaware of the lead Alex had around her neck.

“Yea,” Wendy said with equal chagrin.

"You know the movie business," I added.

The thought stewed into a silent act break. Blissful, beautiful, fun-loving silence. But Alex and I knew the intermission would soon be over.

"We still act, if you need some actresses for any of your movies. We're at the theatre. Just did The Miser." Wendy said.

"Yea, you should like direct them in one of your movies," I said to Alex.

If looks could kill.

"They're not really my movies. I'm hired on with really nothing to do with that."

"Oh, he's being modest," I added. It was payback for last night, and he knew it.

"Where're you working?" he said, changing the subject.

“We're both still at the bank, but I have a terrible boss,” Angie said, looking sheepish.

“Oh, stop,” Wendy said. It was obvious Wendy was the boss.

We nodded in unison like syncopated swimmers, gasping for air.

But apparently our mild acknowldegement wasn’t good enough. Angie felt the need to explain the joke to a seemingly feeble audience.

“She’s my boss,” Angie said, smiling and pointing at Wendy.

“We get it. It was a great joke. We’re just kind of in the middle of a relatively sober conversation. Rob’s, uh, best friend just, uh died in California, and we were talking about it," Alex stammered. He has always been a horrible liar.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Rob what happened?” Wendy asked.

Cue Rob to be on the spot.

“Uh, well, it was a b. It was a bus. My dog,” I held up my hands for quotes, “My best friend, got hit by a car, a bus. A bus.”

“Oh, Rob, I’m sorry.” Angie said

“It was tough for him. He saw Hot Dog on the menu, just before you guys came, and that-“ Alex said, trying to translate forelorn giggles into bereaved emotion.

“Oh, you don’t have to explain. Do you need some alone time?”

Alex’s eyes lit up.

“Yes, alone time. I thought I was fine, but then, you know the menu. Yea, alone time would be good.”

I was fighting back the giggles too.

“Are you in town for Hayden’s wedding?”

I nodded.

“We may stop by,” Angie said. I was afraid to ask if they were invited or just planned on crashing the wedding. But I thought "stop by" was an interesting choice of words for a wedding. With or without invitations, they would be there. Expecially now that Alex was going.

We exchanged hugs and bid farewell until tomorrow, hoping the moment would never come. These are just the kind of girls that corner you in a mis-spent night. Your only forward movement to get out of the conversation as quickly as possible.

“Nice work,” I said to Alex when they left.

“Best friend, your dog. That was a good touch.”

“I was just going to let it flow, in case you wanted to do some neck and chinnin' with Angie.”

He stopped laughing, and we both went back to our senior prom, the night Angie blew Alex on the ski-condo floor. Angie wasn't even even his date. Seems a drunken Angie crashed our after-party and Alex just happened to be greeted to a 3 am wake up call in the form of an unannounced mouth on a bewildered cock.

It was only after that he realized his date was sleeping next to him, fully clothed. It was a sore subject, and Alex willfully acknowledged that Angie was the most unattractive women he'd ever been with. He hides behind the plausible deniability of the circumstances. It was a conspicuous teenage memory to all but him. To Alex, it was unholy and derivative.

I looked across the table and saw Alex was no longer with me. He was caught up in a resolved stare, aimed at the bar entrance. I watched as my words flowed over him with truancy. I followed his eyes, trying to figure the object of attention, but before I could see, the object was next to me. The spell was broken and a veneered demeanor fell upon him. He knew he was being watched. His feelings became agnostic.

“Hi, Rob,” she said, planting a kiss on my cheek, “Mom told me you'd be here.”

She turned her attention and her affection.

“Hi Alex,” she said with sweet eyes, cool as a cucumber.

"Shannon," he replied, with a dialect of undetectable emotion.