"What Happens Next" by Pamela Ribon
from the short story collection Girls' Night Out, a Red Dress Ink publication
I walked into that video store knowing I was going to rent three movies and ask Eric out.
Eric made my thoughts jumble together. I had been planning on doing this for a while, but before a syllable would come out of my mouth, every possible scenario played in my brain like a demonic blooper reel. A terrifying cause-and-effect would unfurl in my head until I stopped myself from doing anything at all.
If I told him I liked his shoes, he’d look down at them, causing out heads to clunk together like a Three Stooges punch line. Then he’d back up, covering his head, wincing. This would make him step on the foot of the woman behind him, who would, inevitably just have had bunion surgery. So the woman with the foot would wail, falling to the ground, clutching herself while screaming about a lawsuit. She would, of course, have some small dog that would yip and growl before peeing all over the carpet. Eric would be fired on the spot, and it would be completely my fault.
I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly was different about tonight. It could still go horribly wrong, but something about this evening made it okay to fail. It’d be worth it.
I had run out of microwave popcorn. While this may seem completely unrelated to video rentals at first, when I found the empty box in my cabinet, the first person I thought of was Eric. It wasn’t only because Eric sells me this microwave popcorn due to its convenient location at the checkout line. When I didn’t have any popcorn, I wanted to turn to Eric and say, “We’re out of popcorn.” I wanted to start a sentence with the word “We” and I wanted the “You” part of the “You + Me = We” to be Eric.
Eric + Maggie = We.
I left the house without closing the cabinet door. The next time I made popcorn, I had to have at least tried to make my life have a “We” in it.
I thought I’d walk into Happy Endings Video as if I had no intention of talking to Eric. I’d use a different checkout line for my DVDs. I’d find the girl he’s always talking about—the skinny one with dreadlocks—and ask her to check out my movies. I’d seen her once but never talked to her. It’d be much cooler to finish my transaction with that girl before walking over to Eric and asking, “Can I get some popcorn?” Then, while he rang up my three-pack box of Pop Secret in Light Butter, I’d stare at the top of his head, looking deep into his dark tangle of curls, and ask, “Do you work Friday nights?”
It was a question I already knew the answer to, and he knew that. He’d smile, but I wouldn’t see his smile because he’d be looking down, and he’d say, “Maggie, you already know the answer to that.”
And I’d smile, but he wouldn’t see it because he’d be still staring down at my popcorn, which by now he’d probably have put in a plastic bag, and I’d say, “I do. But I also have a question I don’t know the answer to.”
I’d end my sentence with a preposition like that because he once told me he can’t let a sentence like that hang in the air. Eric was in graduate school for English, wanted to be a fancy-pants professor one day. I wanted to be the one who sewed patches onto the elbows of his blazers. I wanted to clean his monocle, polish his pipe, alphabetize his Twain. It all sounded so incredibly sexy.
“You have a question you’d like me to answer?” he’d say.
And I’d say, “Do you want to have dinner with me on Friday night?”
But I’d have leaned in to ask, to appear flirty, to appear irresistible, and I’d have accidentally rested my forearm on the intercom switch, so my question had boomed over the loudspeaker. The entire video store would have heard me. They would all be looking, laughing, judging.
And Eric would have to stammer, over the loudspeaker, “We’re having a sale on Vin Diesel tonight. Don’t miss it.”
There’d be this agonizing silence as he turned off the switch, handed me my popcorn and kept his eyes averted from my face. I’d take the popcorn and leave the store, the city, and the state, forever.
So.
Maybe I’d start my video-store experience the same way I always did, marching right up to Eric and asking, “What have you got for me?” Eric had been helping me pick my rentals for the six weeks I’d been coming to the store. I’d have to start things naturally, act like it was all the other times I’d walked in, but then somehow work in the part where I date him, make out with him, marry him and have his intellectually superior children.
I wanted to skip all of tonight and fast-forward to the part where we’d already gone out and had a great time. Then the next time I walked into the store I could jump up on the yellow counter, dangling my legs over the returned disks, and lean in for a kiss from my cute video-store boyfriend. He’d compliment my T-shirt (which he’d bought me) that boasted some ironic, geeky sentence, like “Don’t mess with tech support,” and I’d run my hand over the mess of brown curls on his head. By then we’d have some kind of inside joke from our fantastic date—a nickname he’d given his skinny female coworker, perhaps—and I’d be able to be a part of his inner world. “You working with Man-Hips?” I’d ask, and Eric would laugh that warm laugh he’s got, and he’d nod his head in Man-Hips direction. Then he’d wiggle his finger, warning me to keep his secrets quiet. I’d flirt back that he’d have to do something to keep me quiet, like buy me something, and he’d say “Buy you something? You never asked me to buy you something before.” And I’d say, “Yeah, that part of this fantasy is nothing like me. I was just going with it.” he’d frown and say, “I’m breaking up with you.” Then I’d have to jump off the yellow counter, but I’d miss, and I’d fall into the returned-disks bin. Man-Hips would help me up but I’d accidentally call her Man-Hips and I’d have to change my video store, apartment, and time zone.
So.
Eric knows more about me than I do about him, purely through his knowledge of my past movie selections. He’d hold up a DVD and say the movie’s title. If I had seen it, I’d launch into the story of when, with whom and what had happened that night. Through Eric’s game of Twenty Movie Questions he’d found out the story of my best friend moving away to grad school (we’d stayed up all night watching her favorite movies—Grease, Steel Magnolias and, for reasons still unknown to me, Taxi Driver), the last time I had the flu (I had watched the first two seasons of 24), and my recent breakup (I still haven’t seen Out of Africa). Eric used his job to peek into my life. Now it was up to me to bring his life into mine.
I didn’t want it to be my move. Eric had never asked me if I’d seen Fight Club, so he didn’t know that I don’t usually ask men out. My Fight Club experience was so awful I vowed to let love find me. I had asked out a guy named Terrence, which isn’t a real name as far as I’m concerned, and he spent most of the date commenting on whatever piece of food I put into my mouth while simultaneously explaining how he was never going to get married. As soon as I purchased The Popcorn That Brought on Terrence’s Most Disapproving Glare, I knew it wasn’t worth putting myself through that.
It wasn’t fair that someone always had to make the first step toward progress. Someone had to be the brave one, or the stupid one, the one who was willing to change everything. I didn’t want Eric to remain my video-store clerk; I wanted him to be someone I could see away from the glare of the fluorescent lights. I wanted to know what he looked like when he wasn’t wearing a yellow vest. And because I wanted to know what he looked like in the dark, or in my bed, I had to be the one to put myself at risk, in public, and ask him if he thinks about me outside of the store, too. I had to see if he would eat a meal with me. That’s the next step. I flirt with you here in this store, and now I see if you’d like to eat food with me. The dating ritual was truly bizarre. Why not: I let you borrow my favorite sweater, and now let’s see if we have fun planting a rosebush together? It seemed just as arbitrary. If I tell you what day it is now, will you then return a library book with me Friday night? Dating was coupling up in new situations to see if people were still compatible. Why did it have to be the same series of steps—talking, eating, kissing—before we decided? Maybe I should throw Eric a curveball. He might prefer a girl who asked him to IKEA instead of a restaurant. Except then he might think I considered him hired help. Now that you’ve chosen a movie selection for me, would you please grab that Allen wrench and help me put together this Skööl bookcase? Does this make you want to eat food with me?
I pushed the door of Happy Endings Video too strongly; they smacked against the wall with a clatter, making everyone in the store stare at me, wide-eyed. “Sorry,” I said, my voice too quiet for the large room.
But I was in. I was one step closer to finding out if Eric would eat food with me. No matter what happened, once I did this I had earned the right to buy myself a burger and fries tonight. That was the reward I had decided to give myself. I could eat whatever I wanted tonight because I was a winner. I overcame obstacles. And winners ate cheeseburgers. Or I could order Chinese. Maybe some kung pao chicken from that new place, the one I’ve wanted to try. But if I ordered from there and it wasn’t good, I’d have ruined my victory dinner with a risky new venture. Maybe my victory purchase shouldn’t be something food related. That might look bad, when it comes to my self-esteem. I don’t need food to be a reward. I’m not that kind of girl. How does a girl reward herself intellectually but still emotionally after a semi-shallow victory such as asking Cute Video-Store Boy out on a date? Let myself read an extra chapter of a book? Rent a foreign movie? Go for a long walk? being a smart girl sure could be lame. I’d rather treat myself to a bottle of wine and an Us Weekly. I make progress in my life so I can judge the lack of progress in Cameron Diaz’s.
I stood at the front of the store long enough for Eric to notice me. He waved at me from behind the counter. He was working an incredibly long line that weaved all the way back to the PlayStation games. I mouthed, “Busy!” and he shrugged back at me with a grin. I loved our secret communication, the shorthand language we’d acquired.
There was a time when I thought I had blown it with Eric, when I was sure I had disappointed him with our differences. We were wandering through the aisles, trying to find my next selection, and had just finished bonding over how terrified we were of The Dark Crystal when we were kids.
“Gelfling!” Eric screeched at me from behind the Academy Awards section.
“Stop it!” I shrieked back, tossing a copy of Gandhi at his head.
He caught the case, flipped it in the air and gave me one of those looks that said he was sizing me up. Then he announced: “The Godfather.”
I was hoping this wouldn’t happen for a few months, at least. I was going to have to confess something that would break the heart of any Movie Geek Boy. As much as I knew it would hurt, I needed to tell Eric the truth. I had to make sure he’d still respect me.
“I’ve never seen it.” I kept my eyes closed so I couldn’t see his immediate reaction. All I heard was the sound of Eric’s breath escaping his body.
“How could you not have seen it?”
I was too busy blushing over the compliment to realize he was serious.
“Bad parenting?” I offered.
“Bad everything,” he said. “Here,” he said, handing me a DVD with Marlon Brando’s face on it. “Wait.” He handed me another case.
“This is the same movie.”
“I want you to rent it twice.”
He was right. It was wonderful. The only thing that would have made it better was if we had watched it together, so he could hold my hand during his favorite parts.
Eric was busy with customers, so if I wanted to impress him moments before asking him out, I was going to have to pick three killer rentals. What said, “I am an independent woman who makes her own choices, confident enough to let a man’s taste influence her decisions but not be bullied into doing whatever he says?” Quite a movie; did it star Angelina Jolie?
I let my fingers dawdle on the plastic spines, listening to the quiet patter they created as I dragged my hand down an aisle. Perhaps I should start with an independent film, something made for next to no money, something with a good story behind it. I paused in front of Cult Classics, waiting for inspiration to strike.
“You see this one?” a female voice asked. A finger came over my shoulder, in front of my face, pointing at the words El Mariachi. “It’s awesome. Rodriguez made it with the money he’d earned volunteering his body for medical experimentation.”
I turned to find a skinny girl in a Happy Endings uniform. The skinny girl. The yellow vest was baggy over her tiny frame, the bottom hitting her midthigh. She wore torn jeans with fishnet stockings peeking from behind the holes. Her hair, a dark blonde tangled mess of braids, dreads and streaks of purple, was held in place on the top of her head by a chunk of plastic, making her look like a deranged genie. Her name tag read: “Zöe.”
“What did they do to him?” I asked.
“It’s this place in
“Wow.” I pulled the DVD from the shelf. “Thanks.”
“No prob.”
Zöe moved to the other side of the aisle, but I could feel her eyes still on me as I made my way through the aisles, El Mariachi tucked under one arm.
I became distracted by a Sandra Bullock movie, something I hadn’t seen before. I have a soft spot in my heart for her films. I always root for her, no matter how dumb the predicament. That girl could get herself into trouble trying to put on her clothes in the morning. I thought about a scene she was in where she was wearing a raincoat.
I was giggling when Zöe ripped the Sandra Bullock movie out of my hand.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Nothing!” I said, sounding like a kid caught with a stolen cookie. “I was just looking.”
Zöe looked back at Eric. He was helping an elderly woman with her purchases. Giddy grandchildren jumped at her knees, cheering about a Japanese comic-turned-videogame she had rented for them. “He didn’t see,” Zöe said.
“Eric?”
“You’re lucky.” Zöe gave me a look, one that I had been dreading from Eric, one that said she knew I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t the kind of person who got to date Movie Geek Boys. I didn’t have a skinny frame or purple streaks in my hair or know random facts about filmmakers’ private lives. I didn’t grow up watching everything I could get my hands on. We didn’t even have cable. I went to the movies on weekends with friends, which meant I was usually limited to the early works of Keanu Reeves.
Once I met Eric, everything changed. Foreign movies, old movies, actors I’d never heard of, films that were hidden, beautiful gems. He turned my television set into a nightly gift, this box that told me the most beautiful stories Eric always knew what I’d love, and aside from one Vincent Gallo movie, he never made a bad suggestion.
Doing it on my own was different. I didn’t want to do this without Eric, just as I didn’t want to run out of popcorn without him. I didn’t want to impress him; I wanted to experience things with him. He was my guide into this weird, wonderful celluloid world of DVD commentaries and extras and The Criterion Collection. If Zöe thought I didn’t have the right to be his girlfriend, it was her problem, not mine.
“I’m sorry,” I said, like a reflex, like it was what I was supposed to say. Zöe hadn’t earned any kind of apology from me, but I had to say something.
“Wait here,” she said before running off. Her belt made jangling sounds. A long chain that snaked from her back pocket to her knees bounded against her leg.
She tapped Eric’s shoulder, beckoning him into a back room. An older man took Eric’s place behind the register. The line had died down considerably.
So.
There I was, standing next to the collected words of John Landis, when I realized Zöe was tattling on me, telling Eric I was a
But so what if I was? There was nothing wrong with letting a film take over my brain, letting my life fade away to become a blurry murmur. A movie didn’t always have to make me cry, or wish I’d joined the Peace Corps. Why did everything have to be so serious all the time with people like Zöe? Since when should taste in movies prove a person’s worth? Sometimes movies should be silly, or even predictable. If my life could be as predictable as a Sandra Bullock movie, I could have walked in here tonight, delivered a perfect speech to Eric in front of all those people, executed a flawless pratfall on my exit and still found myself kissing Eric in the rain, living happily ever after.
Zöe and Eric were probably watching me on the security camera. I bet they were pointing and laughing their superior laughs, wondering what lame-ass movie choice I’d make next. I didn’t need humiliation. I just wanted a sweet love story. Zöe could have Eric. She was probably in love with him. Why wouldn’t she be? He’s perfect for her, with his sense of humor and his sweet demeanor. He’s the perfect Movie Geek Boy. If I stormed back there right now, stopped their laughter by pulling the Sandra Bullock card, if I acted like these were the last ten minutes of my romantic comedy, I’d tell Eric I thought I had a chance with him. “A real chance between two people who just wanted to sit still and watch movies together,” I’d say, because women always repeat themselves at the end of those films. Then I’d get serious, like they do, hurt with a hint of tears. “But I guess I was wrong,” I’d say, because that’s what they all say. And then the music would turn sad, or if it were an indie romantic comedy it’d be something like The Postal Service, all bleeps and blips and a man crooning something about spaceships and love affairs. But this is my big-budget romantic comedy, so if would have to be something more predictable, like the Counting Crows. I’d wipe the one tear from my eye and ask, “You know what?” because that always precedes the really profound statement, the zinger, the punch to the mouth. I’d look Eric right in the eye and say, “I’m gonna go find my own happy ending.” Then I’d walk out, grabbing a box of Pop Secret in Light Butter on my way out. Nah, fuck it: Kettle Corn. I was a new woman.
I wasn’t going to put myself through this, in this garishly lit room where I wasn’t cool enough. There was someone out there who loved me no matter what I wanted to watch on a big screen, no matter what preposition I ended my sentences with. Maybe he was outside that door right now. That’s how some movies end. He’d be right outside, and I’d bump into him the second I grew a spine and the audience knew I was going to be find on my own. I’d run out of the store, knocking into The One in my predictable, clumsy-but-cute-aw-shucks Sandra Bullock way. He’d drop his manuscript; I’d drop my popcorn box. We’d bend down together, catch each other’s eyes, the music would start, we’d run to his place and the next time we saw daylight would be three days later when our bones were aching from how hot our lovemaking had been. That’s how I would fall in love forever. I wanted a man who didn’t giggle when I said “lovemaking.”
Accepting my fate, I put El Mariachi on the nearest shelf, covering a Julie Andrews film. I pushed past a kid trying to sneak into the porno section. I reached the door. My hands gripped the bar and I pushed. Wind hit my face as I left behind the pressure, the anxiety, and Eric.
I immediately bumped into someone. A man. But he wasn’t holding a manuscript. He was holding a yellow, plastic vest. Eric.
So.
“What took you so damn long?” he asked, shivering in the wind. He was in just a white T-shirt and slacks. He stamped his feet against the concrete, trying to kick warmth into his muscles.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked.
“I’ve been waiting for you to leave. I didn’t want to do this in this stupid vest.”
“Do what?”
“Did you get the Rodriguez movie?”
“No.” I looked behind Eric, wondering if The One was over there, arms crossed at his chest, patiently waiting for his cue.
“Why not? Zöe said you were going to get it.”
“She thinks I’m not cool enough.”
Eric pointed over my shoulder. Zöe was standing behind the glass, inside the store. She was staring at us, biting her lower lip. Her hands were clasped under her chin. “She’s been trying to get me to do this for three weeks,” Eric said. He then pushed a hand through his hair and sighed. Breath curled in a pretty stream around his face. “I was hoping you like to eat food.”
I was already smiling when he tried to explain. “My words get mixed up around you,” he said.
Inside my head, music was swelling. I didn’t feel like Sandra Bullock; I felt like me.
“I know what you mean,” I said.
“I’m asking about Friday. For dinner.”
“Eric, I would love to eat food with you.”
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