Alone on Thanksgiving? Mad at your family?
I am a 28-year-old felon with no high school degree, and a dirty old van one year younger than me painted like Eddie Van Halen’s guitar. I can play anywhere between the ages of 20 and 29, and very gay. I’m a line cook and work late nights at a bar. If you’d like to have me as your strictly platonic date for Thanksgiving, but have me pretend to be in a very long or serious relationship with you, to torment your family, I’m game.
I can do these things, at your request:
-openly hit on other female guests while you act like you don’t notice
-start instigative discussions about politics, gay rights, and/or religion.
-propose to you in front of everyone.
-pretend to be really drunk as the evening goes on (sorry, I don’t drink, but i used to. a lot. too much in fact. I know the drill.)
-start an actual, physical fight with a family member, either inside or on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see.
I require no pay but the free meal I will receive as a guest!
-do NOT contact me with unsolicited services or offers.
“I’d like to just state for the record that this is a bad idea,” Raven declares, peering over Clarke’s shoulder at the message she’s composing to the Craigslist poster. “She’s a felon.”
“Ex-felon. And I Googled her, it was some vandalism charge when she was like 19, not murder.”
“Still. She isn’t the most savory of characters.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of the point. Can you just picture my mom’s face when she meets this girl? Or Uncle Thelonious’s?” the blonde says with an almost vicious glee.
“You know, most normal adults either talk about conflicts with their parents, or just stuff it down and repress it for the holidays,” her friend points out dryly.
“I’ve tried that, Raven. Both of those approaches. They both suck.”
“…You misspelled ‘rendezvous’.”
Clarke squints at her laptop and backspaces.
Raven sighs and gives it one last go. “Look, I’m just worried about you meeting up with this total stranger and driving three hours with her alone to your mom’s house.”
“I’ll be careful. I’ll bring my mace and I’ll text you every time we stop.”
There’s silence for a moment, punctuated by the sounds of typing.
“Done!” Clarke rereads the email, then hits send.
“Okay, now come keep me company while I pack. I gotta look up the weather in Texas…”
They get up from the couch, heading towards Raven’s room, but before they get too far a ding! sounds from the computer on the coffee table.
“She replied? Wow, that was fast,” Clarke says as she picks up the laptop and opens the email.
It’s brief: ok, see you then, followed by a phone number. And there’s an attached image titled so you know it’s me, which she opens.
“Wow,” Raven comments.
“Hnngh,” notes Clarke, less articulately.
“Like, really hot.”
They both stare at the photo of a dark-haired woman in her late twenties, her big, expressive eyes rimmed with a heavy application of eyeliner, pouty lips pursed in a smirk, an industrial piercing in one ear and a ring in one arched eyebrow. Her shoulders are bared by a muscle tank, showing off intricate sleeve tattoos trailing all the way up from her slim but well-muscled forearms. And that jawline…
“She have any siblings?” asks Raven.