JOY RIDE - LIVE at Chuck Palahniuk's Midwest Story Night

Feb. 15, 2023 -- YOUNGSTOWN, Ohio - Cedars West End

Behold! My second reading

¹

for Chuck Palahniuk’s Midwest Story Night, hosted by

Kerri Rickard

at Cedars West End.

Midwest Story Night #15

The next Midwest Story Night is March 22nd! I’ve been cooking up a brand new story to read for it. Fingers crossed it’ll be done in time!

Thank you for taking the time to watch/read my work.

For those of you who would like to follow along, below is the text. Edited from the original using feedback from you, FRESH MEATers. So thank you very much for all your help.

Without further ado, here’s JOY RIDE.

---

JOY RIDE

By Maegan Heil

“Come on, Stace.” Kiki was yanking her by the wrist. “And don’t give me that, but I feel guilty, bull.” Kiki was marching her across the parking lot, their white sashes flapping in the wind, heels click-clacking to the entrance where the neon letters glowed against the night: 

JOY RIDE.

Kiki was opening the door. “You want me to give the speech?” Shoving Stacy into the lobby. “Fine, I’ll give the speech. It’s your last hoorah, your last shebang, your last night single.” 

Kiki was trotting to the front desk where a thread of smoke trickled from an incense burner. Sage, was it? 

“And besides,” Kiki was saying, "You know damn well Brock is gonna.”

Was he? Was Brock gonna shimmy into the new and improved pareX 4000 full bodysuit with integrated headset for a virtual screw session with one or four of his former lovers the night before they said I do for all eternity, for the rest of their lives, ‘till death do them part?

Forever was a long time… 

And Kiki had a point. Technically, it wouldn’t be cheating, not for her, not for said hypothetical partner. (Joey?) Once more with whoever. (Joey????!!!) With whoever might happen to be on her list. (Joey!!!!!!!!!!!) You know, for old times. 

God, what a concept. This really was the future, wasn’t it?

Ohh but…what if he declined?

Stop. Don’t do that. Don’t be doubty. And remember? There’d been that “update to terms” in the headlines. She’d scrolled right past, all, Whatever, N/A, seeing how Kiki, that Beotch of Honor had promised (pinky promised! crossed her heart, hoped to die, stick a wiener in her eye!) she would not hijack the limousine Brock had so kindly rented them for a night of cocktails sipped through penis straws. 

Now look. Her against the counter, picking hairspray off a curl. Kiki, that Backstabber of Honor dinging the bell next to the Ring for Service sign. 

Where was she going with this? Ah yes—that Kiki had betrayed her vow was not the point. The point was that presently, thanks to the “update to terms,” that thing that Joey had done to her in the past—where he wouldn’t answer her calls or respond to her texts—they had a name for that now…Shadowing? Spiriting? Ghosting. Right. Ghosting. Hmm. 

The point was, with this new update, Joey (hypothetically speaking) couldn’t ghost her. Not like that.

Ding...Ding...Kiki was tickling the ringer. 

God, what a concept. A decade ago it would have been some guy (Joey) on a drunk dial, asking point-blank to bang, once more for old times, before the old lady tied him down.

Her and Joey’s first time, they’d been what, nineteen? Pre-pareX 4000. Pre-saggy tits (Semi-saggy, thank you!). 

Fresh outta high school, and there Joey was, pulling her from the passenger seat of his Silverado and onto his lap (God, was that thing thick!).

Ding...

Where was she going with this? Ah right—Joey had drunk dialed all breathless, like, “Once more, for old times?” 

Tempting…

But she’d sat herself down, phone wedged between her neck and cheek, and told him, “Sorry, I have a boyfriend.” 

And had it felt good to say that! After that decade-long run of what were they, non-boyfriends? Like, how many blowjobs did a girl have to give to get an official relationship status?

Ding…

And thank god those didn’t count toward her list. No, this was the future, where advanced technology had rules. 

Rules like, it had to have been more than just kissing; you had to have like, made it to home base, and that list of Stacy’s was much, much smaller. Not like Brock with his, “I stopped counting after a hundred.” Hmm. 

Ding…

Where was she going with this? Ah yes—that she had declined Joey’s invitation because she'd been Brock’s girlfriend at the time wasn’t the point. The point was that thanks to the update, Joey couldn’t like, decline her back. 

Ding…

Jesus, Stacy, was that the point?

Brock had gotten down on one knee…

Ding… (Okay, actually he’d hidden the ring inside a Flamin’ Onion, but hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?).

Ding…

Brock’d said those magic words in front of the entire Humdingerz staff…

Ding…(Okay, maybe, “Let’s do this” wasn’t the most romantic proposal, but hey, a proposal’s a proposal, right?).

Ding…

And yet here she was. Dinging this Ring for Service bell in the lobby of JOEY RIDE—ahem—JOY RIDE (ding!), while her mind replayed scenes from The Camping Trip, a.k.a. The Very Untimely Bleach Botch.

Oh god, that weekend…. That hair! Joey had pretended not to notice…

He’d plopped her on the back of his motorcycle (Always rode that thing too fast. No helmet!) and pretended not to notice that her long raven locks had become baby-duck yellow. 

Ding…

He’d snuck them off to the cabin shower, stripped them both down naked, and pretended not to notice the snapped strands of hair gathering in the drain. 

Ding…

Joey had pretended not to notice as steam from the shower dewed up the windows…As he’d stood behind, parting her legs with his, and leaned her forward until her palms pressed against the tiles (while his mom! and his dad! and his uncle! and his grandma! melted s’mores outside). 

Ding…

Where was she going with this? Ah right—that all good camping trips must come to an end was not the point. 

The point was, it was with Brock whom tomorrow she’d be tying the knot, and yet—

Ding…

And yet, she couldn’t erase The Party from her mind, couldn’t shake the thought that she should’ve known…Oh, but how could she have known? It wasn’t like her and Joey ever said any actual words to each other, they’d always been all:

Eyes lock.

Heads nod.

Here’s a futon.

Oh god, oh god! 

Oh, god, what if he was different now? Well of course he was different, but…

No, she couldn’t start with him. 

She’d have to, you know, build up her confidence with someone lesser. 

Not too lesser, not guy with the gauges and the funky cartilage stink. Kept calling, all, “I forgot my earrings on your nightstand.” 

Poor dude got his digits blocked–‘cause that had also been The Night of the Half-Waxed Crotch (Not for DIY!).

Ding! Ding—there, finally. Guy with nametag. Lars. Jesus, Lars, about time. No, sorry to keep you waiting, just, “System’s running a little slow today.”

Then it’s Lars with the fingerprint scanner. Lars with the tablet. Kiki with the tablet and Bride-to-Be’s index finger unlocking the tablet. 

Kiki with, “Damn girl! Choices…”

On the main menu, the official body count: 

26 - L

2 - D

4 - P

Sad, really.

A deep breath, then Detailed List. 

Sort by Date. 

Eyes automatically to the bottom, to the beginning, to the First, to He Whose Name Can Never Again Be Spoken Even to This Day. Hoping in some twisted way for a D or P next to it.

He who would send emails like, Call me at exactly 4:57, and then at exactly 4:57, “Hi, you’ve reached He Whose Name Can Never Again Be Spoken Even to This Day, leave a message.” And the next day, Call me at exactly 3:32, and at exactly 3:32, voicemail. Breadcrumbs to nowhere, for what, six years?

He whose mother had once popped up in the same checkout line. And when she, Stacy had gone over to say hi, had only stared back blankly, head cocked to the side, and said, “Who are you again?” After all those years…

He Whose Name Can Never Again Be Spoken Even to This Day was marked L. 

Fine then, alive and well, now she knew. Call it a blessing in disguise or whatever. No, the last thing she needed was to leave Brock waiting at the altar. 

Up a few names, her finger on Joey, on the P she knew would be next to it. 

Then it’s Kiki bouncing. “Joey?” 

Kiki jumping. “Omigod, you wanna do Joey?”

Do. Not. Jump or bounce or—don’t even move. Be all nonchalant, like, Forgot contacts, have to squint to see. “Is that a P? Seriously? His wife, she didn’t take care of things with the funeral director?”

Kiki with a shrug. “Heard the service was really nice too. Maybe Wifey couldn’t scratch the cash. Maybe she was like, Eff that cheater! Hahaha!”

Back at The Party, a.k.a. The Night of the Futon Incident, Owner of said futon walked in.

And Joey, pauses mid-thrust (don’t stop!) and goes, “Shut the friggin’ door!” 

Owner of said futon shuts door. 

Owner of said futon tells his girlfriend, who tells Joey’s girlfriend…Joey’s wife…

Ding, Ding… “Earth to Stacy???”

Twisting the ring on her left hand. “What if he doesn’t want to?”

Kiki’s eyebrows dancing, “He has to.”

(Sigh) 

Kiki’s fist to her shoulder. “Jesus, Stacy, really? Wasn’t he like a sex addict? This is like effing heaven for him. And look at you.”

White bodycon. Red stilettos. Bride-to-Be sash.

Whoa there! Wedding tomorrow! Ding, ding! Hellooooooo??!! Click-clacking toward the exit. 

Kiki reaching into her purse, whipping out her cell. “Wait!” 

On the screen: Martell–Brock’s Best Man—ahem, their best man, who tomorrow, will walk with Kiki before Sam (the assistant manager at Humdingerz) and What’s-Her-Name (Humdingerz’ head waitress). Followed by Brock’s college roommate and Brock’s college roommate’s girlfriend. Followed by Coco (Wow! A dog in a wedding! Where the hell was that thing gonna pee?).

Kiki with, “She’s having reservations.”

Martell with, “I got you.” 

And the camera flips to show what Martell (and hey wait, there’s Sam… and The Roommate… and Coco too??!) can see.

Brock.

Brock in a room.

Brock in a room in a chair. 

Leaning back, leaning wayyyyy back with his legs spread, pelvis thrusting the air.

Then it’s Kiki with the phone out of reach. Martell with a wink before the screen goes black.

“What the eff, Kiki!? Brock is virtual-freaking someone? He’s actually doing it?”

Kiki buttoning her purse, “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Where was that cocktail Kiki had promised? “Wait—and everyone is…watching?” 

Kiki with, “You know how guys are…”

Ring off. Game on. ‘Sup, Lars.

Kiki following, all, “Yesssssss…Time for dessert!!”

Umm…BrICK WALL!

Kiki smoothing her Team Bride sash, cozying up on the couch in the lobby. 

Then it’s:

User Agreement. 

Blah, blah. 

Initial here. Initial there. 

Do you consent for the session to be viewed by others? NO. 

Do you consent for the session to be fully private (no outside interruptions, no matter WHAT) for the full duration? YES.

Fine Print. Blah, blah.

Signature: Alsdfjk

Printed Name: Stacy Morrow.

#

No windows. No cameras. Good. 

Goosebumps. Excited? Nervous? Cold. (Has to be, maybe?)

Dress around ankles, pareX 4000 full bodysuit with integrated headset on. 

Inside the visor, Please select a participant.

Joey.

Joey, Joey! Oh god…

Thank you for your selection. Verifying status……………(beep-boop-beep-boop)…

Pending Status CONFIRMED with {Dignity Funeral Services}. Debt in repayment. This transaction to deduct {two hundred ninety-six dollars and thirty cents}. Remaining balance {eleven thousand dollars and fifty-eight cents}. 

Please select a memory.

Oh, the little icons!—cute. Hmm. Truck. Motorcycle. Shower. Futon. 

Motorcycle.

Oh god, oh god!!!

Thank you for your selection. Working……………(beep-boop-beep-boop)…

An engine revs, kerput-put-put-putters…

Ooh, a mist!—Kiki, out there splurging on upgrades—that little slut (kisses, Kiki!).

From the dark, Joey’s silhouette. Legs straddled around his Super Chief. No shirt, no shoes, no nothin’. Already breathing heavy. “Stace? Is that you?”

Joey rolls closer, out of the shadow–and—Op–lights out—Where’d we go? Adjust headset…there we are and—

Wrong. Oh god! Wrong! 

Where’s the red button on this thing? “Attendant? Excuse me? Mister Lars?”

Asphalt sprinkles scatter as Joey dismounts the twisted mangle. Joey, with his waffle-cone chin, single scoop of Rocky Road where his nose should go. “Stacy?” 

Joey with an eyeball dangling; maggots sliming down the chewed up cherry to nest in his pot holed cheek. “Stacy, baby?”

Joey with his outstretched arms, shreds of skin hanging like grated mozzerella as he staggers within reach. “Gimme some sugar, baby.”

Joey with his mincemeat ballsack—wait, was that his dick? 

Ground beef tongue. 

Bloated bologna breath. 

Joey all, “Once more? For old times? Before the old man ties you down?”

“End session! Abort! Abort! Oh god! Kikiiiiiiiiiii—”

#

(Ding!)

A blood-pressure cuff. A beeping monitor. 

Scribbled on a whiteboard: You are in Room # {203} with Nurse {Heidi}

On the sleeper chair, Kiki with a phone to her ear. “No, Brock, nothing yet, just moaning in her sleep, Pay his debt, Pay his debt! …Yeah, well seeing how Cancun is eighty-sixed, it’s like, the least you could do…Duh, it’s the future, like, who doesn’t take credit card?... Oh, I know what you were thinking…I told you, Brock, there was a glitch, a mal-freaking-function—bound to happen when you’re literally like, fucking dead people…No, she didn’t want me to come with, effing sickos. No, you’re sick, haha. Hey—does Humdingerz still have that soup-sandwich special for lunch? I’m effing starving.”

1. A.K.A. My Second Entry in Chuck Palahniuk’s Story Night Contest!! (View my First Entry Here: SPLIT LIP.) With the winner being the person with the most likes on their Video; winners announced in May.