stick what exactly?
As a new entry on the pantheon of bad ideas, he leans in closer to the mirror.
The one in the bathroom is more flattering, of that he is certain.
And who thought it was a good idea to put a full-length mirror in the bedroom?
He sucks in his gut. He pats it a few times.
He lets it out.
He decides that he needs to work out.
Or buy baggier clothing
He rubs his hand over his face.
His eye brows need trimming. He looks like a Scottish farmer.
Or his sheep
He runs his hand through his hair to spike it up.
He does his best Billy Idol sneer.
He feels old.
He slowly meanders into the bathroom.
He walks over to the toilet, leaving the door open behind him.
He stands there, taking care of business, while scratching his butt inside boxers that could have been at Woodstock.
He yawns as he walks back into his room.
He looks at a poster, on the inside of his closet door, of a gorgeous Hollywood actress that a smartass friend gave him to keep him company “during this dark period.”
“How you doing, baby?” he asks the poster.
“Okay, I guess.”
He walks back to the poster.
He stares at it.
He shakes his head.
He slowly moves his hand towards it.
He touches it with a finger.
“Whoa there, sailor. Touch me like that again and we’re going to have to get hitched.”
He falls over.
He stands in front of the poster.
“Hi. For the third time,” she replies.
“I’m Missy Peregrym.”
“Like the falcon?”
“That’s a peregrine.”
“Hmmm. Can I just call you Missy?”
“It’s your delusional coping mechanism.”
He sits on the bed.
“This is new,” he mumbles.
“Not for me. There’s this kid in Toronto… You do not want to know what he uses one of my posters for.”
“I’m guessing that many young boys are using your posters for that.”
“Not while dressed as Sarah Palin.”
He eats a slice of pizza.
“I didn’t see it coming at all,” he tells her.
“Bitches, yo,” she commiserates.
He picks another slice off his plate and offers it to Missy.
She briefly debates it, until, “Fuck it, I’m two dimensional…”
They Mmmm to each other and nod.
“Interesting that you picked a poster from Stick It. That movie is five years old,” she says.
“It was a gift. Wait… were you legal when you made it?”
“Yeah,” she replies.
“And the movie is underrated gold, really,” she informs, with a mouthful.
“Uhm… I have never seen it.”
“There are two copies on your shelf over there.”
“I’m holding it for a friend…ssssssss”
“You need to find yourself a nice girl to go on one date with,” she tells him, while fixing her ponytail.
“Maybe you? You’re the closest thing to a woman in my life.”
“Yeaaaaah… I’m dating the autographed Jon Stewart photo on the other wall.”
“Okay. You do make a nice couple.”
“We think so. You need to go out. Tomorrow night.”
“And talk to girls.”
He puts on a blue shirt.
“The red one is better,” Missy tells him.
“You remember the plan?”
“To talk to girls?”
“Exactly. And you’re going to do well because…?”
“I have mad socializing skillz?”
“That’s my boy! Now give me a high five,” she demands.
He does it.
“I think I’m ready.”
“Beauty. And when things go well, don’t be afraid to ask her on a date. Maybe to watch tv. I hear there’s a great cop show Thursday nights on ABC. The star is a talented young actress. Not too hard on the eyes.”
“I get it,” he says.
“Check your local listings!”
He closes the closet door.
Her muffled voice comes from inside, “It’s on Global in Canada!”
He’s doing it.
He’s really doing it.
He’s talking to a girl.
She’s talking back.
She’s touching his arm.
She is TOUCHING HIS ARM.
The DJ starts playing Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell.”
She grabs his hand.
“I love this song. Let’s dance!”
The sun sneaks in through the blinds on another gorgeous L.A. morning.
Missy Peregrym’s dark hair is spread out over her crisp white pillow.
Her Blackberry vibrates under her covers.
She fishes it out.
“Hello…” she offers sleepily. “Hi! How are you, love?”
“I had a weird dream,” she tells the listener. “I was trapped in a small area.”
She listens again.
“Yeah. That could be fun. Or… you could watch Rookie Blue! The L.A. Times called it “Grey’s Anatomy” with uniforms and guns.”