Page 55 of Meet Stan

“Yeah, like that ever works.” I heard him drinking from the tap and then his voice returned. “You screwed the pooch this time, Stan. I don’t know if youcanfix this.”

“Oh come on, there’s always a way.”

“With business, maybe. But not with heartbreak. Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but after your dramatic breakup, I offered her a full-time project manager position at the Singapore branch.”

“You what?” I sputtered. “You son of a bitch.”

“Hey, don’t blame me. I was waffling about whether or not to offer it to her or not, because quite frankly you two seemed really happy together.”

I broke down a little, sliding to my knees and slumping against the window ledge.

“I think we were happy, man. It wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. It wasn’t the plan.”

“Oh, you wanted to bang her for a while and then dump her, huh? Well, she dumped you instead, and damn, did you ever have that coming. It was like she spoke with the voice of every chick you swept off their feet and then abandoned.”

“You make me sound like a piece of shit.”

“Hey, you insisted on being Stan the Man. The eternal frat boy. The bachelor holdout. You’ve spent years trying to convince everyone you’re that guy. So why are you mad now that we all think you’re what you’ve been telling us you were all along?”

“I—come on, man.” I was on the edge of tears. Not because I thought he was being unfair. No, because he was goddamn right. He was goddamn right.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was a bit harsh. All I’m saying is, you don’t have to be that guy if you don’t want to. You can be the guy who gets the girl and keeps her. Next time.”

“Next time?” I sputtered.

“Yeah, like I said, I think it’s too late. Plus, honestly, I have to say that I think she’d make an excellent project manager and it would be kind of a waste if you guys hooked up.”

“When is she scheduled to leave?”

“This morning at nine.”

I rubbed my eyes and laughed bitterly.

“Thanks, Candy.”

“You know I hate it when—”

I ended the call, and then stood up. It was too late. I’d lost her for good. Now what was I going to do?

Punish myself? Don’t mind if I do. It sounded like a good idea.

I threw on a coat and took a cab down to one of the twenty-four-hour-a-day bars in Jersey. There’s a curious mix of folks in that time of night, when most bars have long since closed down. You have a smattering of college-aged party kids who just didn’t want to go back home or to the dorm room. You also had the real, dedicated drunks, who mostly kept to themselves or sat in small groups who burst into occasional peals of laughter.

Then, you had the one percenter motorcycle clubs, who believe it or not generally didn’t start any shit. They were there to drink and relax after a long ride and didn’t want trouble.

I did. I sure as fuck did.

I went to the bar to get myself a bowl of loudmouth soup. I knocked down a couple of brews—served in a can, because they don’t have glass in an establishment like that one—and looked around for my target.

I saw him in the corner, dealing stud. Six and a half feet tall, big beer belly but arms like the chains they use to pull anchors. Lots of tattoos, and an attitude that suggested the cards weren’t going his way. Perfect.

I sat my can of beer down, belched, and sidled off my stool. I loosened my tie and took it off, tucking it into my pocket. I took about three steps toward him when someone slammed into me, hard.

“Hey, what the fuck?” said a high-pitched, yet gravelly voice.

I looked into the eyes of a leather-clad biker, shaggy beard and bandana hiding much of his face. I’d run right into him.

He wasn’t nearly as big as the other guy, but I figured he would do.

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