“You filmed it?”
“No. Just my reactions…you know, a ‘personal diary’ kind of thing. In the bathroom of the restaurant, then afterwards at home. I could have just made it up, but truth is always stranger than fiction. So I wanted it to be authentic.”
Margo does that thing where she smiles while biting her lip.
“You bring her home after?”
I shudder theatrically for Margo’s benefit. “No. She was…not my type.”
She lets out a laugh. “Do tell. The ones where you don’t hook up are always the funniest to hear about.”
“Are they?”
“Sure,” she says, shrugging so hard one of her tank top straps slips down her shoulder, “it takes a pretty serious dealbreaker or a pretty heinous date for you not to bring somebody home.”
I take a long sip of beer as a response.
“Come on…what was the dealbreaker?” she insists. “I know it’s bad if you’re avoiding the question.”
Slowly, I set my beer down, clear my throat, and look Margo dead in the eye. “Do you believe in extraterrestrial abduction?” I say, utterly serious.
Margo tosses her head back as she laughs, all throbbing throat for a second as she claps loudly.
“No way! She said she was abducted by aliens?” she says.
“It’s all very serious. She runs a group out of Santa Barbara that goes into the forest and communicates with them, well, the ones who have the implant, that is. You can’t do it if they haven’t put the implant in,” I say, tapping the back of my neck.
Margo slaps her palm on the table and clutches her waist, giggling so hard I have to pat her back at one point so she can get air.
“You know, Margo, it’s people like you who put up the kinds of social barriers that keep the extraterrestrials from returning more frequently—” But I don’t get to finish my sentence, because Margo’s shaking her head and trying not to spit her drink across the table.
“I don’t buy it…no…” she says, when she’s calmed a little. “Are you sure she wasn’t just feeding you a line? Maybe she wasn’t as impressed with you as most girls are?”
“I thought that too, at first,” I say, nodding slowly. “But the tattoo looked pretty real.”
“Tattoo?”
I brush a finger across the inside of my forearm.
“‘I believe,’ and the ‘e’ was a little flying saucer—pretty nice design, actually.”
Now Margo’s humor is replaced with incredulity as she leans across the table and looks at me open-mouthed.
“Whoa…that’s like some X-Files type shit.”
“So yeah,” I say, “it was a pretty good reaction video I made. Although I think actual date footage might be a good idea in the future, because the people watching wouldn’t even believe half the dates I go on.”
Margo shakes her head and looks away.
“That’s so weird. I mean, I think of a person like that and I just…don’t think of the kind of airheads you usually date.”
“What do you mean, ‘airheads’?”
“You know what I mean,” Margo says, picking up her drink again with a grin, “clothes so tight it looks like they bought them in the kids’ section, heels tall enough to replace a lightbulb. All pouty lips and Snapchat filters. You know. The typical L.A. type.”
She finishes her beer and then waves at the bartender, pointing at the empty glasses.
“Hey, come on, give me some credit.”
Margo looks at me sincerely and says, “I’m just kidding.”
I laugh. “Sure you are. Anyway, the hot ones are always the craziest. The sun worshippers, the conspiracy theorists, the alien abductees—they’re all tens.”
“Seriously? How does that work?”
“Think about it. When you’re that good-looking, what guy is going to tell you you’re batshit insane? A beautiful girl could tell a guy she thinks the earth is flat and he’d play along if he thought it gave him a chance.”
“Ugh. Men,” Margo groans, but she’s half-smiling. “So where does that put me? Am I not crazy enough to be a ‘ten’?”
“Ha! You’re hot enough to be crazy, for sure.” I lean over the table conspiratorially to say, “Hey, do you remember that one beach party with the ice cream truck?”
“The one where those twins got into a fight over you?”
I shake my head. “No, no. The one where I got those five girls to go skinny-dipping with me.”
Margo thinks and then nods slowly. “Yeah...what about it?”
I lean back and bring the beer up with a grin. “Nothing. Just wanted to remind ourselves of it.”
Margo rolls her eyes. “Like I could forget. One of them was the dean’s daughter! It was campus gossip for weeks.”
I spread my hands and make an innocent face. “I still maintain I never touched her.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Margo says. “In fact, what I heard was that you—”
“Hey now,” I interrupt. “You were just as bad. Remember that night at Craig’s party? You are not that bad at strip poker…”
She blushes. “Well, yeah, but Craig was amazing. God…I just wanted to take him home and use him as furniture.”
“I’m not even gonna ask what that means.”
“I was not ‘just as bad’ by the way. You were all over the girls’ dorm. They should have put your face on a ‘wanted’ poster! Everyone used to joke about it being ‘their turn’ with you. I think a few are probably still waiting.”
“Line’s a bit longer now,” I joke.
“I bet it is,” Margo says, flashing another wry grin before staring into her empty glass.
I look at her, wondering suddenly where the fun of remembering turned into this slightly heavy vibe. “Men are gonna line up for you too, once they find out you’re on the market again. And this time you’ll pick a good one. I can feel it. Just…don’t settle down so soon. Keep your options open. Play the field. I think after all this time you’ve figured out what you don’t want, so now you can go after what you do.”
“Am I really supposed to take dating advice from you, Mr. Serial Dater?” Margo asks, but she’s smiling.
I thought it was solid advice, but she’s got a point, and I’m not sure how to respond.
Luckily, that’s when the drinks come, two beers and two shots.
“You wanted shots?” I ask her.
“They’re on the house,” Casey the bartender says, flashing Margo another big smile. “Not every day I get an internet celebrity in here. My granddaughter loves that video. She made me watch it three times yesterday.”
There’s a sudden roar in the bar that drowns out the chugging rhythm on the jukebox. We all turn around and see the TV—someone’s changed the channel to a celebrity entertainment show and Margo’s cat video is playing on it. I watch her face turn red, and she shrinks a little further back into the booth, away from all the smiling, laughing faces directed at her now. Time to save the day.
I swoop over to the bar to grab the remote from someone’s drunken hand, then switch the channel back to the basketball game. A few people grumble, but most get caught up in the three pointer playing out on the screen. I beckon Casey toward me and offer him a few folded twenties.