Are You There, Vodka, It's Me Chelsea

According to Big Red, Sha

“All right, now you’ve crossed a line,” I told him.

After two more cocktails I called Home James, a drunk-driving service that sends someone over to where your car is located, with a scooter that folds up into your trunk. They drive you home, take their scooter out, and then hightail it back to headquarters. It’s not cheap, but it’s definitely a great way of avoiding Jack in the Box. They charge you extra to stop for fast food.

Just as I got into bed, my cell phone rang and it was Austin. He asked me if I had gotten home okay and then asked me if I thought we’d ever have sex. “Wow, that’s pretty straightforward. I like your style,” I said. “But I doubt it… I’m kind of seeing someone,” I told him. Saying I was seeing someone wasn’t a complete lie, since I was kind of casually sleeping with a guy named Darryl who lived in my apartment building-but it wasn’t anything I would have mentioned had Austin had a more reasonable hair color.

“Kind of seeing someone, or seeing someone?” he asked.

I have to admit I was turned on by his drunken confidence, which I knew was drunken because it hadn’t been there until he went on his Sha

“Okay, well, I’ll call you tomorrow and see if you change your mind.”

“Tootles.” I hung up and wondered why I would say something so stupid when I clearly had the upper hand. It was so like me to be sitting at a poker table, holding a royal flush, only to have another player at the table catch me high-fiving myself.

I woke up the next morning and stared at my ceiling, wondering why Excedrin couldn’t just walk out of my bathroom cabinet, hop onto my bed, and triple-axle its way into my mouth. Then my thoughts turned to Big Red. There was something about the way he helped the guy from Home James fold up his scooter and pop it into my trunk that was very endearing. Then my thoughts moved north to his hair, and my body shuddered. If only it wasn’t so bright.

My manager, Dave, called me later that morning to see if Big Red had come to my show.

“Yes,” I replied.

“And?” Dave asked.

“And what?” I asked.

“Well, did you discuss the movie at all?” he asked me.

“No, Dave, as a matter of fact, we didn’t. And you could have mentioned his hair.”

“I think he’s pretty cool,” he responded. “He actually just wrote a movie for a client of mine and he’s a real stand-up guy. He’s the type of guy I would like to see you end up with.”

“Really?” I asked. “He’s the type of guy you’d like me to end up with? An orange-head?”

“He’s really smart, Chelsea. I think he went to Stanford,” Dave said.

This statement turned me on the most because I was definitely at a place in my life where brains were starting to matter. There are only so many conversations you can have about NASCAR and female mud wrestling before your mind starts playing tricks on you.

“Well, who knows if he’ll even ask me out?” I said coyly.

“Chels, I got another call,” he said. “Is there anything else?”

Not exactly the response I was looking for.

“Thanks for nothing,” I said, and hung up.

I wondered how long I would have to wait for Big Red to call me.

I rolled over and picked an Us Weekly magazine off the floor. The cover had a picture of Angelina, Brad, and their little Eskimo son, Maddox. I sat staring at the photo, wondering why this little guy looks so pissed off in every picture.

At first I thought he was just pissed about his mohawk, but then I realized he’s probably furious. Maddox must have thought he hit the jackpot when some A-list celebrity rescued him from third-world Cambodia, only to discover that she was going to shuffle him back and forth to every other third-world country in the universe. He’s probably like, “When the fuck are we go

My phone rang and I jumped out of my chair with an alacrity my body hadn’t seen since a tetherball class I had taken in the fall of ’94. Unfortunately, the number that came up was Darryl’s, the guy I happened to be sleeping with who lived down the hall. He was going away for a few weeks to shoot a movie with Hulk Hogan, and was calling to ask if I would pet-sit his goldfish while he was away.

“You mean you’re not bringing him with you?” I asked.

“It’s actually a girl,” he said.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess I can watch her.”

He hung up, came over, dropped off a key, and told me where the fish food was. Why anyone without children would have a fish was beyond me, but what’s even more alarming was that Darryl’s fish’s name was Maude. I had learned this information once before, but somehow had managed to block it out.

Then he asked me if I wanted to come over and play Ms. Pac-Man. He had one of the real arcade versions in his apartment.

“Sure,” I said. “Maybe we can use this opportunity for Maude to really get comfortable with me,” I told him. I knew Ms. Pac-Man was code for getting naked in the middle of the afternoon, but the only thing on my calendar that day was an appointment with a palm reader, which wasn’t until 5 p.m.

Darryl and I had a blast together. We’d have crazy rabbitlike make-out sessions, and then I’d make fun of him for his receding hairline. Darryl was the epitome of a Hollywood actor-he had been in a ton of B-movies and was absolutely, madly in love with himself. It was fine, because he knew he was ridiculous, and we would actually have a lot of laughs making fun of him together. He would stand naked and recite monologues to me, all the while asking me to confirm his suspicion that he was one of the most underrated actors working. I would tell him again and again that if he would just consider getting hair plugs, he would get the recognition he deserved.

Two days later in Darryl’s apartment, while feeding Maude, my cell phone rang and it was Big Red.

We chitchatted for a minute or two before he asked me if I was happy to hear from him.

“I guess,” I responded dryly, not really sure how one responded to that line of questioning.

“Try to contain your excitement,” he replied. “It’s a little overwhelming.”

“I’m sorry, I’m fish-sitting and the fish doesn’t look good. She’s upside down and not moving. Is that how they sleep?”

“Does it plug into an outlet, or is it battery operated?” he asked.

“The fish?” I asked.

“Yes,” he responded.

“I would assume it’s battery operated since I don’t see a plug, which, by the way, would be really dangerous, considering it lives in water.”

“Good observation. Sounds to me like she’s dead.”

“Oh, that’s just perfect,” I said. “I’ve only been fish-sitting for two days, and I already killed her?”

“What kind of fish is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know. The orange kind.”

“A goldfish?”

“Yeah, that’s it. It’s a goldfish.”

“Well, just go get another one. They all look the same.”

“How much is that going to run me?”

“I think they’re like a dollar,” he said.

“That’s a little more than I wanted to spend.”

“So, anyway,” he said, changing the subject. “I decided I want to take you to di

“Oh, really?”

“Yep; I’ll pick you up tomorrow night around seven.” This turned me on immensely, and at the same time sounded to me like false arrogance. Like a guy who was trying really hard to pretend he wasn’t insecure. I didn’t let that overshadow my decision because either way, I love a man who takes charge. But I also didn’t want to seem too eager.