Gum

by Evan McMurry

 

The six of us met in the foyer of the restaurant. We wouldn’t have known we belonged together except we all carried the brown scratchy notebooks sent to us in the mail, accompanied with directions simple and vague: describe an average night out; include one photo per page.

The other five seemed of the same age, early to mid-twenties, skin-flushed with a little drag around the eyes from the night before. That made sense; the flyers had been distributed in the clubs downtown, which pulled from a limited pool. Made sense, that is, except for me. I was too young to drink—though not too young to deliver ice, a product in urgent demand when a club ran out at eleven o’clock on a Friday night. I wasn’t even the one who nicked the flyer. Junior, who worked delivery with me on Friday and Saturday nights, was the scrounge. He dumped bags of ice in the service wells and on his way out grabbed what he could—black plastic ashtrays, a stack of coasters, a sip from a drink left melting on a cocktail table—and paraded into our warehouse with cheap loot tumbling from his arms. “Why do you take this crap?” I asked him one night. He held up a square red candle. “You and Christine need a candle for the apartment?”

We did. I took it, as I would end up taking that flyer, that garish yellow post soliciting participants for a focus group on dating that Junior handed to me one night with a grin darting towards the edges of his fat cheeks. Christine and I had been dating since sophomore year, six years on, and Junior, deep into his uncommitted thirties, liked to say we made monogamy appear even more boring than he’d always suspected.

I looked around now at the five others, who, except for two women chatting away at each other on the booth left of me, were silently pulling at their cuticles or tapping the faux-tweed notebook covers. The talkers were an accident of proximity. On my left was a lithe, glossy woman who entered just after me and strode to the hostess stand with a prom-queen gait escorted by the gazes of every male present; she had sharp green doe eyes that looked as though they had been selected out of a department store case precisely to offset her bronze skin. The other was just as coordinated but not as proportioned; large, blank spaces of flesh filled out her forearms and midriff and thighs. They were dressed almost identically, maroon tank tops over faded jeans, and differed only in headwear: a beret pulled slightly askew over the prom queen’s forehead, her straight auburn bangs dangling like chimes from underneath, while her new friend had bushels of curled brown hair springing from her head as if trying to escape.

The men were less engaging. A lothario slumped in a guayabera and boots at the end of the banquette, staring with cowboy cool into the middle distance as if it were a party he might hit up later. Beside him sat a short, manicured blond man in a sky blue polo shirt framing the sleepy seductiveness of his half-closed eyes. Between these two groups was a massive, hulking man, face all jaw and body all shoulders. He looked as though he could lift the restaurant and shake it until the woman he wanted fell out. I figured he and the prom queen would eventually get around to discovering they had a lot in common—though, as Junior pointed out on slow nights when we people-watched downtown, I didn’t have much experience in these things.

And that was why I was there. Christine had seen it as a lark, “subverting” a cheesy dating forum. But I was there out of intense personal curiosity. I was turning twenty-one in three months—“Your birthday will last a week, my friend,” was all Junior had to say of his plans—and I suspected Junior might be right. Not about my weeklong celebration, but about his other, more sinister warning, that I was content to stay in night after night with Christine as she dozed on my shoulder midway through a movie only because I didn’t know how much more was out there. “Your six year relationship,” Junior said—and he said it as my friend, he assured me—“will not last six months past your birthday.”

This was a dire enough prediction that I was willing to engage in some field research to confirm or debunk it. All those people I pushed through every night hugging a bag of ice that soaked through my shirt, who stretched over the counter waving credit cards for the bartenders’ attention, who hollered outside of bars over which club to go to next, the girl who cried to her friends on the sidewalk about the awful thing her boyfriend had said, that guy who slurred accusations at an ex-flame until a bouncer removed him, those long lines of boys and girls who grimaced at their phones as if they were toys that weren’t as exciting as the ads had promised—somewhere amongst this crowd was someone who might crack open a whole new world to me. Right?

***

“I think it’s time we got started.”

The call to action came from a woman in a black business suit who flashed an orthodontically-pristine smile and introduced herself as Amy. We followed her into the banquet room, where a couple of rectangular tables had been pushed together and topped with one unlit candle. In one corner two men operated a video camera and a boom mic—the flyer had said something about being filmed but hadn’t specified why—while in the opposite corner a server stirred from his early-shift doldrums to take a drink order. Jaded waiters were my favorite kind, as they didn’t check IDs, and from this one I eagerly ordered a glass of Zinfandel because it was the most adventurous-sounding word on the list.

Amy told us to enjoy a round before we got started. The two girls hadn’t stopped talking and were now inclined toward each other in giggling conspiracy. The lothario went back to being bored, while Sleepy Seductive Guy practiced his half-lids. The hulking man thundered down into the seat next to me and leaned over as if about to confide a cataclysmic secret.

“Trevor.”

He stuck out a big slice of flesh for a hand, and as I shook it Trevor tilted further in, occluding us with one of his huge shoulders. “What do you got so far?”

Trevor boasted the slicked back hair I’d seen on so many men in clubs, a level of maintenance that promised they took care of their appearance, while dabbing his chin was the corresponding stubble that warned said care could never domesticate their irrepressible masculinity. I’d explained this to Junior one night, attempting to distil my passive dislike for these guys into some impressive thesis that would show I was no naïf. But Junior shook his head. “Girls like slicked back hair, they like stubble.” He pointed proudly to his own version of each.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Trevor said. “See those two over there, going at it like best friends? Never happen outside of this situation.”

“It wouldn’t?” I asked, and I wasn’t being sarcastic.

“Naw, you kidding me? Those two met at a bar, nothing to do with each other. See, you gotta look at these things anthropologically.” He scooched his chair towards me. “Chick in the beret, the cute one? She’s only talking to the other because she ain’t out on the prowl. At a bar, looking to score? No way she’d talk to a girl like that. Now the other girl, she’s what we call a happy-hour friend. She’s good until six, six-thirty. You ditch her once the drinks go full price, you track me?”

I resisted the impulse to write all of this down. There were happy-hour friends and full-price friends. Check. I casually indicated Sleepy Seductive Guy, who was sitting to the right of us and looked as if he was about to nod off. “What do you make of him?”

“Girlfriend stealer.” Trevor raised two manly bushy eyebrows. “Mark my words. Ever see your lady talking to someone like him, you’re in extreme measure territory.”

“What kind of measures?” I whispered, but before Trevor could respond Amy called our forum to order.

We introduced ourselves. I learned prom queen’s name was Bailey and her new best friend’s name was Dawn. (Lothario and Sleepy had names, but they were too generic to register). Amy outlined our purpose—“We’re just here to get a feel for how young people are going out”—and said she trusted we’d all brought our notebooks. Each of us held our notebooks closely, suddenly afraid of giving away what was inside. Myself especially. Seeing how seriously everybody else was treating their nights out, I began to think mine was an unfunny joke that would backfire.

We started with Bailey, because, really, Bailey had probably gone first in everything in life. Page by page we bar-hopped with her, from a cultured beginning at a martini bar, Bailey and two of her suitors swirling triangles of vodka, to an ending several hours later at a rooftop lounge, Bailey barely perceptible among a crowd shouting in various directions at last call. As Bailey displayed each photo—and in a couple I swear I saw Junior pocketing a candle in the background —Amy interrupted with questions, mostly related to Bailey’s accessories. She rarely appeared without a large hemp purse dangling from her shoulder, and Amy noticed it was different from the small fuchsia handbag looped on her chair back at dinner. This led to a discussion about the different purses required for various occasions. Amy quizzed her on the process of stocking a handbag for the night out. We got a catalogue of lipstick, lip gloss, chapstick, compact mirror, wallet, secondary wallet, ID holder, gum, mint, phone…

This tedium was broken by the arrival of dinner. Christine had been working for the past two years at an organic market, the contents of our refrigerator growing increasingly moral and flavorless, forcing me to sneak red meat on the side. While I attacked my bleeding steak with carnivorous energy, Sleepy Seductive Guy led us through his night, starting at an appetizer joint known for its prosciutto, striking up conversations with various long-legged, black-heeled women until Sleepy had a particular one in his bedroom sights. Amy cross-examined him about the decisions behind his outfit. Sleepy liked light fabrics that breathed, he said; a single drop of sweat could tank an otherwise promising encounter. Amy asked the men how many pockets we needed when we went out, whether that had an effect on the clothes we selected. Where did we put our phone? Our wallet? Our gum?

I looked up. The question had been directed to me. Where did I put my gum when I went out? I had no answer for this. With the room staring, I quickly shoved a bite of filet into my mouth and pointed at my full cheeks. Pass. We moved on to Dawn.

Dawn’s night was a less glamorous shadow of Bailey’s, with the martinis replaced by neon margaritas, suitors exchanged for high school friends. We trailed Dawn smoking, Dawn toasting, Dawn consoling a teary-eyed friend. Her narration was full and vivid, so proud she was of the panoply of establishments she visited and people she met. She sought backing on every detail from Bailey—you go there too, right? Before Amy could ask, Dawn accounted for her lack of handbag. She brandished a flat packet of gum about the size of an outstretched hand and bent it so we could see in. She’d fashioned a strip of plastic inside the packet, which firmly held her ID and credit card.

“I got sick of carrying all that extra stuff. I mean, this is all you need when you go out, right?” Dawn said, as her audience peered at the wonder of consolidation. “I dunno, I guess I just think handbags are a pain.”

Amy clacked away at her laptop. “This is really all you take when you go out?” Bailey leaned forward, saying, “Oh my God, that’s such a great idea,” and then Dawn stood and showed how it fit right into her back pocket. Her face, beaming since Bailey had chosen her as a confidant, now radiated with genuine surprise; she looked as though she had never been in the spotlight but had been practicing for it her whole life.

While the room was focused on Dawn, Trevor scribbled on a piece of paper and slid it to me with grade-school covertness. What do you think we’re getting at here? Before I could invent a reply I heard Amy thank Dawn and thought with panic of my notebook.

My night out in pictures was Christine’s contribution to this excursion. She’d raided friends’ closets with an eye for old Halloween costumes, and directed the set pieces that appeared in my notebook. Her personal favorite was the photo of me dressed as a pirate arguing with a lamp post. This was the image that flashed in my mind when Amy’s gaze settled upon me.

“I think it’s time we took a break,” she said.

***

As the group stretched and small-talked by the iron benches outside the restaurant, I smoked on the sidewalk and contemplated an exit. I’d gotten my free steak and glass of zin, and found little worth subverting. It would make a lackluster story for Christine, and Junior would be disappointed, but I also felt something essential inside of me had been tested and affirmed. I crushed the cigarette beneath my shoe and turned towards the parking lot. And there was Dawn.

She was standing alone with her phone out, but clearly wasn’t calling or texting anyone—it was something to look at as she stole furtive glances at her old friend Bailey, strolling with Trevor towards the parking lot. Bits of their conversation floated back, Bailey’s voice a melodic treble at the discoveries of all they had in common, Trevor’s low chuckle a bass line of approval. He was right, Bailey had shed her friend the moment a prize was in sight. You had to look at these things anthropologically.

Dawn blanked her phone’s screen at my approach, no doubt to hide that she wasn’t doing anything on it, then realized with a flinch her action only confirmed this, then realized she’d flinched. To stop this cascade I lit a new cigarette and held it out to her. She examined my offering as if it contained a mean trick, then took a drag.

“This thing seem weird to you?” Dawn asked as she passed the cigarette back. “I mean, this was supposed to be about dating, right? But we haven’t even talked about dating. It’s all been how we dress and handbags and stuff. What do handbags have to do with dating?”

I didn’t know where to begin. Anybody who didn’t see what had been going on for the previous hour had to have been blinded by something, naiveté, hope—or, I realized, looking at Dawn, hope’s dark little shadow, loneliness. Dawn didn’t notice my lack of response because she was casting an envious glance at Bailey, who laughed at something Trevor had said, and then seized her gesture as the perfect opportunity to place a delicate hand on his bicep.

“Well,” Dawn said, “at least somebody got a date out of this.”

Amy emerged from the entryway and called everybody in. Dawn took one last look at her erstwhile friend and headed back, body sagging as she went as if recalling that just a few minutes before it had been the center of all of our attentions.

I stepped on my cigarette, swiveled on my heel, and marched inside.

***

There may have been nights, I admitted to Junior, when I excused my shoulder gently from under Christine’s sleeping head and snuck into the yard behind our duplex to smoke and stare at the dull planks of our back fence, nights when I would have called myself bored. Junior took this as proof—“proooo-oooof!”—that gargantuan desires swelled just beneath my content surface, that the moment I surrendered they would engulf my current self and transform it.

Here’s what I didn’t tell Junior: there were also nights, before holidays when the crowds thinned and we had but one or two deliveries, when I would dump ice in a bar’s well, go around to the other side of the counter and order a complimentary cocktail from the bartender, who never asked how old I was, and look about before finally settling my gaze upon one patron, who was talking to one of her friends or maybe even standing alone, and imagine a different life. This new girlfriend and I would take drives up the mountains, which Christine always talked about but never did; our social circle would encompass more than just Christine’s nit-picky coworkers; the earnest dinner parties we threw would be replaced by raucous neighborhood dives; the yawning indie rock she preferred would be overridden by the ceaseless thump blaring from the club’s speakers. Junior was right, there were entire alternate existences.

But they lived in imagination only. I tried a couple times talking with the hypothetical future partner; a few lines in, I’d mention how her last comment reminded me of what my girlfriend always said; a bewildered look tipped me off, and I backed sheepishly away. In reality I couldn’t imagine myself without Christine. I enjoyed helping julienne carrots and cucumbers for her organic dinner parties, even if I didn’t savor the result. We traded Tupperware full of Christine’s dishes for bottles of wine from the older guests, and the next night Christine and I would get trashed off grocery store vino and attempt to pole vault in our living room using a broom or some other crazy shenanigan, and when we were sweaty and breathless from that we made love on the floor, grinning at each other face-to-face with our teeth smeared purple like ecstatic beasts. Who cared if I didn’t like her music or her salads.

Those nights I drove the truck back to the warehouse, hung with Junior until closing, and went home to find Christine asleep on our couch. She woke up long enough for me to ease next to her and then nestled as she had for years in the crook of my neck. After a few minutes, I fell asleep with her. That was just fine by me.

***

The seating arrangement was different after the break. Bailey sat in her same seat because, really, it was her seat, but Trevor helped himself to the chair formerly occupied by Dawn. The two scooted within inches of each other and Trevor tipped a shoulder towards her, sealing it with a huddle. Dawn was relegated to the spot beside me, her face rigid as it observed the new couple, eyelids lowered like blinds against a bitter glare.

“I want to ask you all,” Amy said, “what the most important things are you bring when you go out.”

My arm shot up.

A table of faces turned towards me, as I hadn’t uttered a word the entire time. In the end I got only one word out.

“Gum,” I said.

The syllable hopped from my mouth and pirouetted in the center of the table, all tension diffusing and the last bit of humidity evaporating into the air conditioning. It worked like a rhyme at the end of a convoluted stanza, a cadence resolving all dissonance that preceded it.

“I’m happy you said that,” Amy said, smiling like a slot machine about to pay out. “I really am. Going around the room, who would say gum is essential to a night out?”

Bailey piped up. “Oh, totally. I always have gum.”

Sleepy woke up. “There’s never gum when you need it.”

“How do you mean, Matt?” That was his name, Matt.

“Well, you can buy, like, smokes and shit at a bar, right? But after all the smoking and drinking, you need gum or a mint or something if you’re gonna hook up. So why can’t you buy that at a bar?”

Amy nodded. “Going around the room, if gum were sold at a bar, how likely, on a scale of one to ten, would you be to buy it?”

This led to an extended discussion on gum and booze, sidelined by Bailey’s complaint that gum did not mix with gin and tonics. Amy asked, on a scale of one to ten, how likely we would be to buy a gum product flavored to enhance rather than clash with our cocktails. I spent the time trying to determine whether Amy’s gum company—whose name was stamped on the camera case leaned against the far wall for all to see—was trying to develop an ad campaign or new packaging or what. So distracted were we that it was a while before anyone noticed Dawn was crying.

“Honey?” Amy said as she caught Dawn’s chest tremble. “Oh no, honey, what’s wrong?”

“Gum?” The word tripped over her lower lip. “This whole thing was about gum?”

The room was so quiet you could hear the cameraman hit the off button.

“The flyer said this was about dating,” Dawn pleaded, her chest heaving again.

“Oh, no, honey.” Amy hurried toward her.

“You lied to us,” Dawn blurted out. “You lied to us.”

***

Christine was asleep in front of the television when I got home, her face lit by the moonlight glow of scrolling movie credits. I told her the story before she went to work the next morning. She shook her head for Dawn, shook her head at Bailey and Trevor, shook her head at Amy and casual, professional deception. Junior laughed for much of the tale, interrupting several times to remind me he told me this was going to be worth it. But when I got to the end he kind of chortled and then the chortle died and he was quieter than usual the rest of the night. I kept the anecdote going for a couple months, regaling Christine’s humorless coworkers, then a couple of high school friends who crashed in our living room for a spell. I told it even when people didn’t seem interested, hoping some moral would arise from its airing.

Eventually I forgot about the incident. Or, rather, it was subsumed by a more critical situation, namely that Junior’s prediction proved correct. I turned twenty-one, ditched the ice business to become a bar back and eventually a bartender at a craft beer joint so new I’d never even delivered chunks of frozen water to them. The other bartenders and I kept the place open for ourselves after the shift, flipping a switch on the jukebox to play free Pixies songs as we shot Irish whiskey. I did not get home until three or four in the morning, long after Christine had migrated from the couch to the bed. She had to be at the organic market at seven each morning; I didn’t even stir when she left. Soon our relationship consisted of nothing but each other’s outlines, barely perceptible in the darkness of our bedroom.

I forgot about the story for a full year-and-a-half, until one night when I was standing in line at the grocery store, a single bottle of Zinfandel tucked under my arm to take back to the studio apartment I’d gotten after Christine and I broke up. Some commotion erupted behind my back, two sorority girls in Greek-monikered sweats exclaiming over some great something. The two had opened a pack of gum, a featured product in the checkout line. One of them removed the foil sheet containing the little gum compartments and bent the empty packet so that a clear plastic strip was visible inside. She stuck her ID it into the strip and pulled it back out again, and then demonstrated to her friend how the whole thing fit into the pocket of her sweats.

“Isn’t that such a great idea?” she said.

Then I paid for my wine and went home alone.

 

Evan McMurry‘s fiction has appeared in over one-dozen publications, including Post Road, Euphony, Palaver and more, and was named a finalist for the Al-Simāk Award for Fiction from the Chicago Review of Books. He graduated from Reed College and received his MFA from Texas State University-San Marcos.