I only shave when I see her...

Chester only shaves when he knows he is going to see Francine. He doesn't need to look good on any other day and, though he detests the itchy spines of peach fuzz that poke a pesky reminder at his unshaved visage, Chester does not care enough to rub his face with a blade unless Francine's name dots his itinerary.

Chester hadn't shaved in over two weeks. Something had come up and he'd had to postpone a date with Francine. He had done this twice and a five o'clock shadow had grown into something resembling mildew all over Chester's face and neck. It was ugly, it was scratchy and it had a funny smell.

Chester's friends begged him to shave, even if it was for their own benefit. They called him names like Serpico, Scorsese and Chewbacca. They thought he was winning a dirty man competition. One particularly mean friend even asked Chester how it felt to change his name "from Cat Stevens to Yusef Islam." These were painful comments but Chester refused to shave. He only shaved for Francine.

One day, Chester had completed his morning routine (shower, _____ and shine) and was in his car hurrying to get to school school when his phone buzzed. It was Francine. Chester took the call. Francine talked briefly about her adventure at the hair salon the day before before getting in to the meat of her call. She wanted to know if Chester was available for lunch. Her afternoon class had been canceled and she had to go by Chester's school anyway to purchase a graphing calculator...

Chester panicked. He looked in his rear view mirror and noted the knotted troughs of hair pouring from his face like milk from a curd strainer. He whipped open the glove compartment, hoping against hope that someone had left a blade in his car -- even if it was a disposable pink razor or a Venus Embrace. He'd actually used on of those once and it wasn't too bad. The lavender scent on the comfort strip left a pleasant aftersmell, too.

Focus Chester! Chester tried to regain control of his thoughts. Maybe he could stall Francine.

"You know, I've got tons of homework to do today. I should see about getting that done..." Chester knew this was weak, but he had to try something.

"Don't be silly. I'll see you at noon at Mr. Pickles." Francine would have none of Chester's shennanigans.

Women! Chester thought.

The minute hand of the clock behind the professor moved at an excrutiatingly dilatory pace. Chester wanted to stand up and move it forward. He wanted to get the awkward introduction between beard and Francine out of the way. But the temporal will could not be swayed. The seconds passed in no great hurry and the sardonic tick of the second hand only magnified Chester's consernation.

When class ended, Chester prayed a brief prayer of deliverance and then marched across the street toward the bumpy green cucumber restaurant.

Francine was already there and her reaction was about what Chester had expected:

"Chester! My, what happened to your face?"

"It's a growth. Fungal. It's not contagious. The doctor said it should be gone in a treatment or two." Chester was so proud of himself!

"Will it come back?"

"Maybe. Probably not, though. What are you having for lunch?" 

And that was that.  Chester had survived his facial hair.

That Joe Nichols song about Tequila...

Chester is often considered the baby in the social groups in which he runs. He is the youngest person (and the only guy) in his upper division French literature class (be ye jealous!). His face has more fuzz than a Flavorcrest and his cheeks have so little gristle that some meanies have taken to calling him Princess Peach. Chester takes this all in stride, knowing that when his friend's skin looks like like partially masticated teriyaki jerky and they lose control over basic motor functions, Chester will have Nivea skin and be able to choose when and where he...eh...functions.
[Switching to past tense for narrative reasons]

It was Erin's 21st birthday. She was stoked to be a legal drinking-permissible adult and wanted to go test the limits of her new freedom. The baby Chester was chosen to be the designated driver. Actually, Erin and Chester were going together and exclusively to a drinking establishment. No one else would be accompanying them. It was to be a date. A date where Erin would drink and Chester would watch, while holding the keys and wondering just how tipsy Erin would get.

To clarify, Erin was really pretty. She was attractive in that pleasing and graceful way that only certain girls can manage. She was also normally very responsible and not the sort of person who orders two piña coladas (one for each hand). Chester really liked her; that was one of the reasons he agreed to go in the first place. Chester was also really curious about what might happen after Erin consumed a few adult beverages. He felt like a scientist: he'd formulated a hypothesis (things would get more fun) and was ready to put it to the test.

The server arrived and heard Erin's first drink order: a fruity margarita that was sure to make the hairy, manly man in me scream. It was not the kind of drink guys ordered and Chester didn't understand its allure, but Erin ordered it with the sort of prepared confidence that suggested she had premeditated her drink order. I made a mental note to consider my own first drink order for my 21st birthday.

The drink arrived and I noted immediately that it was quite large. The margarita container (for it can hardly be called a cup) looked like it held several gulps full of sugary adult beverage, almost enough that I would have to take a breath if I wanted to "throw it back" like a shot. I quickly realized that this was one drink that was not meant to be "thrown back."

To complete a mental picture of this situation, it's important to know that there isn't much to Erin. Some people are built like freight trains and can take a lot of alcohol before showing signs of excess. Others are built like a Schwinn bicycle: A little wind is all it takes to knock them over. Erin is closer toward the Schwinn. And she wasn't ready for the immense size of this liquid assault.

It was just like that Joe Nichols song about tequila: Erin drank a few sips, excused herself to the restroom and came back without her scarf. It was a nice scarf too: turquoise with blue polka dots. Then she started playing with her earing and it fell off in her adult beverage. Chester thought that it was kinda awkward to sit around while she fished around for it, first with her fork, knife and spoon and finally, as a last resort, with her fingers. He wanted to help, but it didn't seem appropriate. It was her drink; she should do the fishing.

Chester figured this was a normal part of consuming alcohol and wasn't concerned until Erin returned from the restroom for a second time. She had her scarf again, but her socks and belt were missing. Something was very strange about that restroom!

Chester drove Erin home at a slow pace. She asked to drive, but he turned her down. She asked to stop by BevMo's to purchase a quick drink, but he kept driving. She asked to stop at In N' Out for a cheeseburger - despite the fact that she had just eaten a birthday dinner and complimentary cake. Chester assented to this request because Animal Style fries sounded really tasty.

And that was the date. Chester returned Erin to her place and drove away. Very confused. He gave the evening a B minus, because Erin had told him she really liked him just before going into the house. That was really nice of her!

Incidentally, Chester's twenty-first birthday is seven short months away. He is willing to entertain suggestions as to what his first drink should be. Leave your advice in the comment section...

Shopping Trip (part 2)

In part one, Chester and Denise went on a shopping trip to "the GAP." It didn't go well: they purchased nothing. In part two, Denise is trying on clothes, trying to find a suitable blouse to wear with jeans. We join them at Aéropostale, the mall-based specialty retailer of casual apparel for young people and proud owner of the most hideous name in all of clothing.

Chester followed Denise around like an indentured lackey. Unlike the speed and dexterity with which she selected jeans for Chester to try, Denise took forever to pick out a suitable top. Some she commented on snidely, others she reached for and touched suspiciously, still others she regarded with an air of disdain that Chester would never understand. Chester knew he never wanted to be looked at that way by anyone and thought about advising the management that they burn the offending clothing item. He almost raised the suggestion to Denise, but was worried that she might secretly like that blouse and be upset with him for requesting its destruction.

Chester was so confused!

Onward Denise and Chester marched, darting around like bees in the spring, from rack to rack and mannequin to mannequin. Denise found parts of the store Chester never dreamed existed and could never have found without her help.

It was a full twenty minutes of "shopping" before Denise selected something she liked. To Chester, it looked exactly like all the other blouses that Denise had disdained with her visage or besmirched with her lips, but he smiled and nodded, relieved that the expedition had finally found some traction. Armed with her one item, Denise went back to her hunting. And Chester returned to his role as the trailing lackey.

Denise's second clothing choice was being worn by a mannequin. Although the item was available on the racks, it was only in Denise's size on the store display-person. She promptly started undressing the poor creature.

That's when Chester got really scared. It's not like he'd never seen an unclothed mannequin before (I mean, what's there to see?), but the idea of stripping one down in public ran contrary to his conservative upbringing. Granted, every mannequin should have the right to be unclothed, but it should do so in the privacy of its home, not in the middle of Aéropostale, the mall-based specialty retailer of casual apparel for young people and proud owner of the most hideous name in all of clothing. Besides the mannequin's feelings, Chester worried about the store's ability to advertise. As we discussed in part one, the whole purpose of having a clothing store is to win the battle against nudity. If a mannequin isn't wearing clothes, what does that say about the war?

Chester's entreaties did nothing to slow Denise's fingers, as she slid the blouse off the poor plastic person. Chester dramatically averted his eyes as she buttoned on a new covering. Chester sighed with relief that no young children had passed and made a mental note to write a complaint about Denise's behavior to the staff at Aéropostale, the mall-based specialty retailer of casual apparel for young people and proud owner of the most hideous name in all of clothing.

Armed with her clothing items, Denise entered the fitting rooms. Outside, Chester wondered how he should react when he saw Denise exit the dressing area wearing the mannequin's clothes. If Chester praised the garb and Denise didn't like it, he risked losing judgment credibility. Similarly, if he expressed dislike of the clothing item, that reaction might be interpreted as dislike of Denise. And Chester was pretty fond of Denise...

Chester had removed a scrap of paper from his pocket and was starting to construct a game theoretic payoff matrix on which to base his reaction when Denise emerged. She was wearing the first top she had selected. Chester sat silently, staring at Denise, or, an observer might easily have concluded, past her. He said nothing. The silence grew eerie as Denise spun around twice -- what grace, Chester thought -- and asked the words he'd been dreading.

"Watcha think?"

Chester coughed and chortled on his words for a few seconds to delay responding. But something about his contrived hacking triggered a bronchial reaction and he entered a genuine fit of coughing. After a minute of red faced gasping for air, during which Chester rolled on the tile ground trying desperately to regain control of his respiration, Denise burst into tears and reentered the dressing room. When Chester recovered he heard sobbing from behind the dressing room door.

"Denise? Gee, Dee...girl, I'm sorry. I have this frog in my throat..." Chester was trying to make things right. "You look nice. I mean, the blouse is sorta ploppy, if that's a word. You know, kinda frumpy. Like something Gloppy would wear. But I like Gloppy. Gloppy can work. Always been a fan of Candy Land..."

The dressing room door flew open and Denise strode out, not sparing a glance at Chester.

"Drive me home," she said. And Chester did. Every five minutes he began an apology, but really didn't know what he was apologizing for, except making Denise feel bad -- but he wasn't sure whether he or his bronchial reaction were responsible for her tepid state of mind. And his clarifying question was met with even colder silence.

Chester concluded that this shopping trip had gone even worse than the first. Not only had they purchased nothing, but Denise hadn't even tried on her second clothing choice!

Shopping Trip (part 1)

Can I make a confession? Of course I can, half of FCN's posts begin with that facetious five word sentence. What a hoax. This blog is a non-catholic confessional and you, the faithful few, are our priests. It's a cyber line on which we hang out all our filthiest laundry. Well, here it goes: My confession is that until last week, I had never been on a real shopping trip. Sure, I'd done an occasional pit stop at a department store, sneaking through the doors afraid that my other guy friends might see me penetrate the sanctuary of retail clothing -- but in all my twenty years of living (and boy have I lived), I've never been on a bonafide shopping trip, with a female intent on spending money.

It's stories like these that make me glad we have so few readers: less embarrassment for me.

But this story isn't about me, it's about Chester, my faithful alter ego and imaginary childhood friend who stays with me despite the number of times I've stood him up, and Denise, the girl with whom he'd scheduled a date.

Chester, in case you don't recall from earlier, has trouble with decisiveness. He wants to be able to open a young woman's door for her without asking her permission first. He wants to be able to choose what octane gas he wants at the pump without changing his mind after swiping his credit card. He wants be a man's man and make moves without looking back. But his irksome mind keeps thinking of new, better ideas and he lacks the wherewithal to say "no."

The "what to do" conversation had gone something like this:

DENISE: "Chester, do you have plans for today or did you just come over to sit on my couch?"

CHESTER: "Well, not really. I mean, it's a nice couch. And I've always been a fan of the Espo Modern Tan. Is this microfiber? It's nice. Soft. Firm but pliable. Sitting on it is like dermabrasion for your behind. Very pleasant, actually. So I'm not knocking your sofa. It's just...there are a lot of things we could do today. That new Clive Owen movie just came out, In N' Out is giving away discounted double-doubles or we could just chill. Some of those options have a lot of merit...this couch is nice."

DENISE: "You wanna go shopping?"

CHESTER: "Okay."

And that is how Chester ended up in the GAP, a clothing store named for the hole it leaves in your wallet.

The GAP is a confusing store. The walls are lined with all manner of clothing, most of which looks identical, and the center areas are dominated by table-like kiosks which hold even more clothing. Most of the clothes are really nicely folded, which struck Chester as odd.

Nobody calls GAP "GAP." It is always "the GAP," the way a court jester might refer to his king as "His Majesty." This regal designation actually works to improve the store's aura and I found myself humbled to be in the royal sanctum of anti-nudity. Because that's all clothes really are: an open war on nudity. Ever since the Fall, we've tried to combat our embarrassment by covering ourselves up, as if a little textile could obscure how ugly we are. Some people, it seems, are able to wear clothes and still lose the battle. Their ugliness is on display for everyone.

Maybe Denise thought Chester was ugly. Chester didn't want to dwell too long on this ego-diminishing thought and forced his mind to move on.
Although, if she did think he was ugly, why was she going out with him? She was going out with him to a clothing store, silly Chester, to purchase coverings. Coverings that would obscure his appearance.

Chester was trying hard to look at the clothes, the shirtless GAP model on the wall (who was, no doubt, trying to hawk a shirt), anything to keep his mind off his own personal appearance, when Denise came up with an armful of clothes. Here, try these on.

"Denise, this is going to be awful expensive," Chester responded. "I was thinking I might just buy a pair of jeans..."

"Yes..."

"Well, you've picked out a third of the store. I'm not that rich..." Chester had told Denise that he was independently wealthy. Chester figured Denise believed him and he didn't want to pop that balloon.

"Yes...well, you can't very well go buy something without trying on a lot of stuff first. You need to search and experiment."

With an "Oh," Chester marched into the dressing room and after interrupting a plus-size woman in a state of undress ("sorry ma'am...that may be a little tight"), settled into the clothes-trying business.

It took forever. Each pair was exactly alike, but Denise found unique things to say about them. Chester didn't know where she found all the adjectives -- words like "casual," "formal," "ripped" and "boggy." But he appreciated the fact that he was the center of attention and so put up with the charade.

In the end, Denise didn't like any of the jeans and they left the store without any purchases. To Chester, the trip had been a dismal failure, but Denise was in bright spirits and appeared satisfied with the outing.

Check back in later for part 2, when Denise tries on clothes and Chester has to be critical.

Let's take a long ride

Her name was Cherise. Chester had seen her at school and picked up her name from the campus directory, a behavior a friend of his said sounded a lot like stalking. Equipped with her name, Chester located her Facebook page and viewed every one of the 538 pictures that she'd been tagged in. She was attractive, with a trim figure and boyish cut brunette hair. Chester sometimes wondered at Cherise's fashion - the rolled up jeans look really didn't work for her - but he was intrigued by this young "Bronx Babe," as her profile billed her.

Chester looked up his "mutual friends" list and noticed that Harold, a chemistry student with the social life of an invalid, was on her friends list. Cherise only had 124 friends, so Chester figured Harold probably knew Cherise pretty well. Chester gave Harold a call.

"Harold, it's me, Chess." Chester tried to remember how he knew Harold.

"Chess?"

"Chess...Chester, you know, from the thing at the place with the guy with the, you know, nail gun?"

"Oh that Chester...dude are you okay?" Harold remembered.

Chester artfully found out Harold was going to an issue advocacy meeting on campus later that week and that Cherise would probably be there. Chester invited himself and then started reading up on animal rights. Chester didn't know how he got roped into these things.

At the PETA meeting, between disturbingly graphic portrayals of slaughter houses and animal innards, Chester made Cherise's acquaintance. Harold played his part well ("Hey, Cherise, there's someone I'd like you to meet") and Chester made a mental note to bring his friend a cafeteria bagel in thanks. Chester and Cherise hit it off well and, by the time Chester had agreed to attend a protest rally at Foster Farms, the two had a date.

For all the planning that Chester put into his meeting with Cherise, he had forgotten to think about where he would ask her out. He didn't want to do dinner, since he was an avid meat lover and couldn't imagine a dinner out without a bloody slab. On the fly, he settled on a dance he'd read about in the newspaper. It wasn't anything formal; just a themed dance somewhere in the boondocks. Cherise intoned that she was from New York and didn't know the area very well. Chester bluffed, telling Cherise that he knew the surrounding hills almost as well as he knew the Backstreet Boys, which was "saying something." Chester spent the rest of the evening living down his admission and denying he actually listened to boy bands.

The next day Chester called Harold.

"Har, what does she like?" Chester had to pump his friend for information about his date in two days.

"Who?" It sounded like Harold just woke up.

"Cherise."

"No, who is this?"

"Harold, it's me, Chess." Chester was irritated; surely Harold could remember his old friend.

"Chess?"

"Chess...Chester, you know, from the thing at the place with the guy with the, you know, nail gun?"

"Oh that Chester...dude are you okay?" Harold remembered.

"Why wouldn't I be okay? So what does Cherise like?" Chester wanted to keep the conversation focused.

"She doesn't like the Backstreet Boys, you dork." Harold was now very much awake.

Chester learned from Harold that Cherise was a quiet soul who cared for the helpless and would want to see a quiet but fun evening. Chester knew he could arrange that.

The night of the date came and Chester picked up Cherise outside her townhouse. Chester had been to this particular dance hall once before, but had been asleep in the backseat during the drive. He thought he remembered the way. He turned out onto the main highway and started driving. The road looked familiar, but Cherise's crinkled brow lead him to question his memory. It had been pretty deep sleep...

"You okay, Cherise?" Chester thought that maybe Cherise's discomfort was unrelated to his disorientation.

"Are you sure you know the way?" Cherise had a confidence in her voice that let Chester know she knew the answer.

"Uh, yeah. It's further up ahead, on the left. As I said, I've been here before and..." Chester let his voice trail off when he noticed a sheet of paper that Cherise pulled from her purse. It was mapquest. His date had mapquested the directions after Chester had explicitly said he knew the way! Where was the respect in that?

Following Cherise's directions, Chester turned his car around and arrived at the dance twenty minutes late. As they were getting out of the car, Chester asked to see the Mapquest paper. Cherise handed it over.

"Do you trust me?" Chester had an idea.

"Sure, I guess. C'mon this is a first date, remember?" Cherise didn't know what to think and gasped as Chester tore up the paper and lit a match beneath the torn pieces. The flames licked up and turned to ashes any way the two of them had of returning home. Chester explained that he remembered the road clearly and would not need directions to go home. His theory would be tested in a few short hours.

After the dance, Chester and Cherise piled into the car. Chester noted with some concern that the fuel light was on as he put his ride into gear and started back down the main road. For the first half hour, while Chester tried various side roads to "jog" his memory, the pair chatted amicably about the evening. Cherise was very adept at the Charleston and had taught Chester a couple of new dance moves. Chester laughed at Cherise's story of her first dance lesson in New York, but their conversation trailed off as the time ticked by. Soon they were accompanied only by the hum of the engine and the friction of the wheels against the road. Cherise's brow crinkled again.

"Highway 49 -- I think that was the road," she said. Chester turned in his seat to look at her and his face carried a clear message: I know.

"How long has your fuel light been on?" Cherise was both helpful and curious. Chester didn't answer but continued driving. There had to be a gas station around here somewhere!

Forty-five minutes after they left the dance, Cherise thought to check her cell phone. As soon as she flipped open the screen, the display said "battery dead" and went black. Chester had left his phone charging by his bed and had intended to rely on Cherise's mobile. His car charger didn't match her feminine model and the two were incommunicado.

"Boy, these country evenings are sure pretty, aren't they?" Asked Chester, trying to lighten the mood.

"Maybe we should stop and ask someone or flag down a car; why don't you have GPS? Why did you tear up the mapquest? Why didn't you fill up the tank or bring your cell phone?" Cherise was losing it. Chester was good at these things. He could tell when someone was losing it. Chester wanted to ask Cherise why she hadn't charged her phone and why she chose to go to a dance with a no-good like him, but he feared the answer to the second question and kept silent.

An hour after leaving the dance, Chester saw his first glimpse of wildlife. A deer was crossing the road and Chester slowed down to get a better look.

"Hey, it's Bambi." Chester didn't know why he said that or why Cherise said "aw" but he figured the moment had been a success.

"Maybe we should turn around," Chester announced after an hour and fifteen minutes. He could feel his car losing power and wanted to get closer to civilization in case his vehicle died.

"No, this actually looks familiar," said Cherise taking control. "Your turn is another mile on the left. If you'd driven straight instead of turning onto side roads all the time, we would have been there by now. This whole drive has been miserable. I wish I'd gone to see Sisterhood Of The Traveling Pants 2 instead of agreeing to this rigmarole. Just take me home."

Cherise's words cut, but Chester didn't let on. He just drove. He, too, considered the merits of SOTTP2 and wondered if that would have been a better choice. Chester made a mental note to not mention the movie or the "rigmarole" comment to his guy friends. When he got back to the townhouse, Chester tried to say goodbye to Cherise as she stepped out of the car. Cherise turned to Chester and hesitated. Her face showed a conflict of emotion. She was the sweet, quiet type, but Cherise was also mad. After a beat, when both of them said nothing, Cherise spoke:

"You asked me earlier if I trust you." Another beat. Chester didn't like where this was going. "I was wrong. I'm sorry." The image of Cherise turning around to sprint to her townhouse is seared in Chester's mind.

That was three days ago. Chester has not spoken to Cherise or Harold since.

Estrogen Assault

Meet Chester. Chester is a college student who uses his title as a way to get instant credibility. He works less than most people his age, but it's okay because someday he will have a degree. And he will make more money than the people who are working hard now. Chester is proud of how he thought this all through and looks forward to a time when he can rest on his laurels and live the high life. Because Chester isn't living the high life right now. Not at all. Chester needs to go to class periodically and some of his professors actually require him to do the readings. Life isn't hard for Chester, but it isn't as easy he'd like it, either.

It was nine o'clock at night and Chester was lounging in his room. His room was, at that moment, in the happy place between several month-long stretches of absolute disorganization. Chester could see his floor. It's always special when Chester can see the floor of his room. Chester had homework to do, but didn't want to do it and was creating all sorts of odd emergencies that needed resolving in order to avoid the ominous book lying prostrate on my desk in a manner that can only be described as unattractive. Chester had to eat something, Chester had to drink, Chester had to do some push-ups. Chester was almost ready to start preparing to get in the mindset to warm up to think up another excuse to avoid studying when his phone buzzed.

It was Bertha, an intelligent 20-something Chester knew from high school. He'd always liked Bertha, but never quite worked up the nerve to tell her or even act on his feelings. Bertha was home for the summer and wanted to hang out. Did Chester want to come over for a movie night?

Did Chester want to come over? Does Batman fly? Do basketballs bounce? Do Rice Crispies make weird popping noises after you pour the milk? Of course Chester wanted to come over. When could Chester come over? Were there any other excuses Chester could use to visit?

Chester did not think about what he was agreeing to. He did not ask what movie would be showing or who else would be present for the "movie night." His mind was completely occupied with thoughts of Bertha. An evening with her would be pleasant no matter what. Chester convinced himself of this.

Chester arrived at Bertha's house in his typical fashion: a few minutes late, out of breath and slightly disheveled. His afternoon had been stolen by YouTube and he only regained control of his body in time to sniff check his shirt and speed to his friend's house.

When Chester pulled up, he saw Bertha's father sitting placidly in the front yard with a .306 rifle. Chester knew he was Bertha's father because of his Dad T-Shirt. Chester stopped his car, but left his engine running. With the air from his car's central system cooling the sweat drops that formed on his brow, Chester debated the merits of continuing. He had a fast car; he could zip out of the driveway and be on the interstate before Bertha's Daddy could draw a bead. Chester wanted to see Bertha, but Chester did not want to be shot.

As if to make up Chester's mind for him, Bertha's Daddy motioned for Chester to get out of the car. Chester gulped, twisted the key out of the ignition and slid the door open. After brief introductions ("You must be Chester"), Bertha's Daddy pulled the rifle to his shoulder and squeezed off a quick shot toward the a fence outlining the perimeter of the property. When Chester extricated himself from the fetal position and the blood returned to his head, he saw a collection of tin cans on the fence. Bertha's Daddy was taking target practice.

"Missed," Bertha's Daddy muttered. "You'd best get inside and get cleaned up; looks like you might have done something involuntary." Chester hadn't, but he appreciated the other man's concern and walked briskly toward the house. Once inside, he had another shock.

If the outdoors were teaming with testosterone, the inside was paved with estrogen, hard compacted and then decorated with more estrogen. Bertha had invited a bunch of female friends for the occasion and the house was a roar of giggling, cooking and dress making. Yes, dress making. Even Bertha's brother, an overweight n'er do well with whom Chester had a lot in common, had flown the coup for the evening. Chester did not know what to do. He wanted to be very small, to be an ant on the ground that everyone ignores. Some of the girls tried to talk to him, but Chester didn't know what to say or how to answer. The conversation continued without him and he felt utterly lost, surrounded by a bunch of beautiful, giggling people who he would never understand. Chester almost felt that facing the .306 would be more pleasant than the estrogen assault. Almost.

Dinner was worse. Chester spoke English, not estrogen and he had a hard time keeping up with the pigeon dialect of his host and the other guests. At least Daddy Bertha was there. Chester now found him comforting as the bastion of masculinity in a sea of girls. He was the buoy Chester used to navigate his conversational ship and, although Daddy Bertha brought his .306 to the table with him, Chester started to like the man.

Chester had forgotten all about the movie that formed the pretense for his visit when Bertha asked if everyone was ready. Chester had never been asked whether he was "ready" for a movie before. He thought that was funny, but didn't laugh because his throat was too constricted.

To this moment, Chester cannot remember what movie he saw. It might have been the utterly pointless Beaches, the overrated Sleepless in Seattle or the tragic failure Steel Magnolias, which was, by the way, saved from utter destitution only by the stunning Dolly Parton. Chester does recall that Daddy Bertha did not watch the movie and that everyone in the room but him was bawling like a hungry two-year old somewhere near the end. Chester didn't see what was so sad, but he had a hard time staying awake, too. And at the only remotely interesting part of the film, the others told him to look away. Crazy.

When the credits rolled, Chester found an excuse to leave, got into his car and drove a mile or so, his mind blank. Then he got out and rolled in some dirt. He didn't know why, but it made him feel better - more like a man. He also stopped by GNC and purchased some supplements that would be illegal in the NCAA. Chester knew he wasn't Dara Torres; he could take these drugs.

The next day, when Bertha asked if Chester wanted to join her next weekend for a shopping trip, Chester did not hesitate before giving a negative response. He had been cured; at least for a little while...