Earlier that night... 

Holding Troy’s hand as his back pinned the door open, feeding his date for the evening welcome spoonfuls of chivalry, Joey Melton removes the fleeting pedestal by biting below her left thumb. 

“Ow!” 

Lindsay drew her hand back as she fully entered the Sunset Grill. The Hallmark elevator speech, the ride over the threshold, and the multiple doors opened for her, like she was Cinderella being shown her giant pumpkin on wheels. The clock had apparently struck midnight. The fairy tale ***** had most of the evening to play dress-up, and shower in attention. Lindsay had ten minutes. It didn’t seem fair. Either children’s parables are really destructive to a girl’s self-image, or Troy needed better writers. 

She’d read recently in “Cosmo” that ninety-three percent of all communication is non-verbal. An astounding stat that main evented Troy’s conversations for the next two weeks, but for once tonight, Joey wasn’t communicating through sexual smoke signals. And she was basking in the warmth of the tried-and-true direct approach. 

So much for having a good lay spelled out for you. Melton was biting now, as the clock chimed a twelfth time, sending the Queen back to the equivalent of her wicked stepmother: The normal oddity of her day-to-day life. 

Lindsay showed constraint in not striking Melton’s million-dollar face. But who’s million? For much of the past year his famed artifact has run a tab on the head of her enormous Tampa Estate. Strike Melton’s lone asset, and in the end Troy only hurts herself. 

His aggression is reluctantly given a free pass, if only because the man’s advances were never weak. Joey’s chemically whitened chops nearly broke skin, and though Lindsay’s questioning what the hell is going through Melton’s mind, the hair at attention on the back of her neck respects the range of his command. 

He’s not one to read Dickinson to a woman, and hold a long-stemmed red rose between his lips in bed. Though his Christmas cards say otherwise. Joey’s a blue-collar sex addict. Brings his lunch pale, and with no questions asked, works himself to death. 

Primal, chauvinistic, utterly out-of-touch, pick your poison; Melton’s undoing was in his sexual education at the hands of certified, public teachers. The release form’s framed on his mother’s wall somewhere: A piece of paper sentencing Joey to an hour of “National Geographic Animal Mating Rituals” circa 1982. 

See a male lion mount a female from behind, and when of age, good luck doing the same. Kids his age were sent off to prepare for college, but many (the lucky ones) came back with anal fetishes. 

There’s no monogamy in the animal kingdom, and when you’re ready to plant your seed in the Garden of 36-24-36, you bite the hell out of the nearest female. 

He’s ready to work in the Garden. It’s been far too long. Melton gnawing on Troy’s left hand was a warning shot to her sense of decency. Run now, or be reduced to the type of material Nancy Wilson sew top ten hits with. 

A Magic Man, indeed. 

“Hi, welcome to the Sunset Grill. Two?” 

Troy and Melton eye one another; apparently the bus full of sci-fi convention goers they came with, were mercifully swallowed whole by willing women. 

“Yes, two. Thanks.” 

“Non-smoking, or smoking?” 

“Non-smoking, please.” 

“Great. Follow me.” 

With a hand on the small of her back, Melton guided Troy to the honor of chasing their hostess to a table. There’s no temptation to look around. Just after midnight, Joey and his dream are promised a meal in peace: A welcome change. In this part of the country, they worship their wrestling stars. Towel under knees; wish God himself could turn a hip toss like that, adulation. 

Joey may not be able to inspire mutated freaks to slash four rented tires anymore, but the legends never die. If the younger generations aren’t hip to what the man did, the older crowds, the ones who have wasted their lives trying to obtain a measure of Melton’s greatness, willingly fill the kids in. 

“The greatest.” 

“All night long.” 

“Nader’s ideal running mate.” 

“He once moved heaven and earth in the old coliseum.” 

And with as hot as Troy has been over the last two years, every base is covered. Together they stop traffic, much the way Sonny and Cher, or Cousin Larry and Balki used to. 

Their late dinner however, will be peaceful. The commoners have returned home, poorer, to dream, while the very stars that light up the sky, eat and play their last hour of flirtation out to determine if they possess the strength not to give in. 

“I wonder if they have Prince Albert in a can,” Melton asked, extending a desperate line. 

“Joey, no.” 

“Sorry. It’s—“ 

“Late, and past your bedtime. Most men your age were asleep by eight.” 

Melton angrily shuts his laminated menu. 

“Cute. See if I apologize now for setting your bathroom scale five pounds heavier.” 

“WHAT!” 

“Lower your voice, the irritant will be back soon to take our order. Focus.” 

Troy lunged across the table for Melton’s throat. “I haven’t eaten in three days because of that Joey! You ass, I was bulimic in college.” 

The color drained from his face. He was charming, but could Melton get out of this? 

“Really?” 

A smile crept over Troy’s face, “Just messin’ with ya, man.” Lindsay shook her head shamefully, “You’re too easy. How many times have I been able to lock you out of your room in the last year?” 

“You’re a cold-hearted wench, I think that was established early on.” 

“Awww, poor baby.” Troy playfully kicked under the table as their waitress slumped over, pad in hand to pen the order. 

The two ordered light, and when sat opposite each other for the first time all night in silence, choked. Joey turned a full ketchup bottle on end to lessen the wait once his dinner was set in front of him. It’s imperative on a date, not to look like an idiot trying to feed yourself. Serving a billion women worldwide may sound easy, but it’s not. Much like water coloring, it’s an art form. Every brush stroke yields the potential for disaster. And as Melton’s aged, his reputation grown, the margin for error narrowed significantly. Women expect to be charmed, swept off the feet by the blinding difference Joey presents to the history of men in their sad, hollow lives. He’s a sexual beacon of light, but with one misstep the myth waits to be chopped down like George Washington’s Cherry tree. 

The man has to consume his meal eloquently, shoveling bites in while nodding his head with utter interest to whatever bull****’s stacking up between them. 

Not quite personality ticks, but Melton’s reflexes set the stage for a successful evening in this situation. Napkin in a prime spot, away for eyesight, constantly hidden in the palm of his hand like a street magician performing a trick for two-dollar whores and bemused senior citizens out being walked by their dogs. And ketchup...ketchup... 

He’s never taken a date to a diner. What self-respecting man would? Yet, the EPW tag champion ran through this scenario a million times in his head. Often, two years ago, when he still held out hope of parting Poison Ivy’s legs like watery pillars of the Red Sea, and following the trail to freedom. 

This is Ivy’s sort of dive: A small price to pay for tasting one of the sweetest fruits in the business. Ivy and Melton: essentially in Joey’s eyes, an interracial relationship. A man of complete class, and honor chasing a gym rate with tits and the prettiest emerald green eyes you’d ever see. 

Joey worships Rod Stewart, Ivy flocks to greasy-haired men who finished less high school than she did. By all rights, they shouldn’t mix, but Melton’s wanted her nonetheless. And involuntarily he reacts as if she was in front of him; the impossible dream an erection away from reality. 

“That’s a good point, I agree entirely.” 

“Huh?” 

“Only jackasses say huh Joey.” 

Melton pushed the bottle away. It hit him, suddenly. The last year of his life summed up in a nice pretty package, like the last two minutes of an “Andy Griffith Show” episode. 

He didn’t want Ivy anymore. Never did. She was a bookmark, until his tin pelvis was granted its wish to become real. Lindsay Troy’s not a figment of his imagination, or the catch of the century. She’s genuine. And he’s never felt more alive, than when he’s inside an eight hundred foot radius of her presence. 

“Joey, hello? I was joking. You’re awfully quiet.” 

What’s left of the mask of Joey Melton crumbles mercifully to the ground, and the assembly line of sexual production shuts down. For the first time in his life, he’s comfortable and free. At Troy’s mercy, there are no dating check marks to follow, and pressure to be the myth. Lindsay’s quiet campaign has always been: to teach Joey it’s okay to be himself. 

She wants that. 

Troy needs it, because it’s past the point of denial. She’s in love with the man. Not the legend, or promise of a great ****. She loves Joseph Curtis Melton, and if she never got anything more than the time of her life, she had it all. 

“Sorry. Just thinking about you,” Joey reached across the table to grab Lindsay’s left hand. Gently rubbing his fingers over her soft, white skin. 

“Uh huh. I may be crazy enough to put you up under my roof, but I’m not that easy, hun.” 

And she’s not. But, it wouldn’t take much more. 

“I’m not joking. Troy,” Melton’s faced deadened, and his blue eyes found hers on memory. “I’m in love with you.” 

“Aw thanks. And in the same weird way, I love you too. And...” 

“No...” 

She tried to shut him up, but he didn’t take the hint. Does he ever listen? The man works tirelessly to be annoying. Beats all she’s ever seen. 

“I’m in love with you.” 

Lindsay stops playfully trying to win her hand back. 

“As in, I want to be with you night and day. In my arms when we pass out drunk every night, and in’em in the morning when we wake, hung over and as horny as a pair of jack wabbits.” 

“What?” She accidentally knocked over the complimentary glass of water, sending a river of ice into Melton’s lap. It had minimal effect. Nothing could extinguish the flame between them now. Not on his end, anyway. 

“I love you Lindsay,” he was smiling from the latter of his last declaration. It sounded good at the time. “And I don’t want anyone else in my life. Ever.” 

“What?” Troy was feverishly cleaning the mess, albeit blindly. She hadn’t moved her look off Melton since they sat down, and she wouldn’t now. 

“Troy, will you marry me?” 

“WHAT?!” 

From across the dining room, hearty laughter reached to break their concentration. Denying Melton an answer. Christian Sands, arms over three underdressed women, struts over to their table. 

The girls are locals, the cutest of the three showcasing the posture of a runway veteran, and a smile of a woman who wants out of town. A career pageant contestant, she’s wasting in an abusive relationship: the real world and her life expectations. 

Regrettably she found her ceiling after winning the 2001 Miss Hawaiian Tropic contest. When your mother has painted you since you were four years old, and taught you to believe you’re the next great Southern Belle, there’s disappointment to digest when the job market welcomes you by the hand. She feels ten years older than she is, but when her hair does right, and she laughs at whatever a man says, there’s hope of getting the hell out. 

She and her friends dressed to the nines for the show, hoping Sands, or another able-bodied man who didn’t drive a pickup or manage a Southern chicken fast-food chain would move heaven or earth to arrange an introduction before continuing with the tour. Sands was the winner tonight. Has the girls, and also, kissed Troy tonight. Touché. 

“There he is girls. That’s the chump I was telling you about. The MVP of cruise line entertainment himself.” 

Sands put his foot on the middle of the table, as his dates eyed Melton and laughed as if he was the only one in the room who was sober. 

“Sleeps with midgets on these adventure too, I might add. And he wants no pay. Just the right to hit the shores for a couple hours and search for coins buried in sand.” 

Melton calmly stands from the table. 

“Joey, sit, what did you say?” The moment was lost, but Lindsay was holding on for dear life. She heard it wrong, had to have. 

“Easy girls, captain ‘tis out of his chair now. Somebody might get shuffleboarded across the room. Hello Lindsay, putting in charity work again. Humoring our seas finest senior citizens...” 

“Christian...” 

“I don’t know what this is about, kid, but we’re having dinner here...” 

“You probably wouldn’t know what it’s about, Melton. Take a look at him girls. The President of the ‘don’t let this happen to you’ crowd.” 

“Christian,” Troy shot out of the booth with a look to kill. 

“Sands, tell me something...” 

“What captain?” 

“How’s that penis pump your mother let you borrow working out?” 

“Potty humor. How predictable. Now how's about I rearrange your f**king face, old man.” 

Sands skillfully lifts his arms off his dates’ shoulders and readies to deck Melton. Joey does the same. 

“Enough!” Troy puts herself between them. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but...c’mere...” She grabs Sands by the shirtsleeve and forcefully leads him out of the dining room. 

“Just what the hell did you think you were doing in there?” Troy aggressively asks Christian in the solitude of Sunset Grill’s lounge area. 

“I should be asking you the same question, Lindsay.” 

“Well I WAS going to eat dinner...people generally eat when they're hungry.” 

“I wasn't talking about the damn food!” the rise in his voice, clearing out the remaining drunk. “I was talking about you hanging off that f**king geriatric like some swooning teenager! I thought you were better than that.” 

“SWOONING?!” Troy’s head spun on a dime. Is there anything she can’t do? “HANGING OFF?! Where the hell do you come UP with these ideas?!” 

A hostess toes eggshells and approaches the scene. She starts to say something, but waves her hand dismissively. This late, who cares? 

“Look, Melton decided to not be a prick for once and asked me out to dinner. Big friggin deal; you're blowing this WAY out of proportion, Christian.” 

Sands is unmoved. He folds his arms and sniffs. “You don't even realize what he's doing, do you? He's buttering you up, Lindsay. All Melton cares about is getting into your panties. Do you want to be a piece of meat? Do you want to be a piece of meat for a senior citizen? You're not Anna Nicole Smith, dammit.” 

“I think I know Joey's motives a little bit better than you do, but your concern is touching. Really.” 

She rolls her eyes and is about to storm off, when Sands grabs her firmly by the arm. He squeezes it tightly. For the first time since they've known each other, his face is sincere and concerned. 

“Lindsay... I know you're a grown woman and all... but please. Don't let yourself get swept along by his bullsh*t.” 

Troy smiles, softly. 

“It's dinner after a hard night's work of putting on a hell of a show. That's it. Nothing more.” 

She looks up at him. 

“And even if it was something more...why would you care what I do with my life?” 

There is a brief flicker of something deep in Christian's eyes, but he pushes it away, his expression hardening again. 

“That's what partners do.” 

He gives her arm another squeeze, softer this time. 

“Just do me a favor. Be smart. Alright?” 

One of the women in Sands's entourage walks through the foyer in the direction of the bathrooms. She gives Sands a little wave as she passes by. 

“Looks like you'll be stuck with a big bill tonight, hmm?” 

He sniffs a bit disdainfully. “Pocket change.” 

“So why allow her into your company?” Troy slyly smirks. “I thought you better than that.” 

Sands doesn't answer immediately. He then shrugs slowly. 

“I love stringing 'em along and breaking their hearts.” 

“The chivalry is just oozing from your pores.” 

“Chivalrous is not part of the job description for the evil.” 

“You don't have to be evil all the time, y'know,” she whispers. 

Again there is a flicker in Sands' eyes. It lasts a little longer this time. 

“It all depends on the circumstance, I suppose...” Sands quietly mouths. 

She looks over at him, reading his face...or at least trying to. When all else fails, go for humor. 

“How long have I known you? 7 months? You've gone from a pain in my ass to one of my partners in crime...and a Matrix-quoting one at that. And never, in 7 months, have you been this quiet. Now I know that the bevy of woman that you were sitting with aren't leaving you speechless because...well let's face it, instead of buying them dinner you should be buying them facial reconstructive surgery.” 

Christian shrugs lightly. 

“Like I said... I'm evil.“ 

“Well I don't know about you, but I'm starving. And you've got to play the good host and pretend you're interested in the female company you were sitting with.” 

“Ah, the joys of tormenting the weak-minded.” 

“Of course I didn’t like killing the lion, but I couldn’t very well have let it eat the sickly, orphaned, six-month old baby either.” Joey pleaded his case, sandwiched between Sands’ remaining dates. 

There’s a stronger glimmer in their eyes, now that Melton has his arms draped over their shoulders, lightly fingering their arms. Five minutes ago, Joey was tired and desperate: A man at the end of his rope, and too damn happy about it. But, he’s radiant as he woos the women, a master in his element. 

“No, I guess not,” reckons Lisa, a hairdresser for the last four weeks. Before that she trained nightly to be an Olympic torch runner, a victim of a morning show radio prank, who took the long way around in understanding. 

“How’d the beast get on the cruise ship anyway,” Lisa’s friend wisely asked. 

“Well, people will smuggle anything these days. Crystal meth, sheep balls, pirated movies. What matters is, I was able to wrestle the hell-raiser off the ship.” 

And Sands made Melton’s cruise work sound so funny. He was a hero, and pen pal to thankful Koreans. Why didn’t Christian mention that? 

“Wanna see what I shot it with?” Joey winked, and pulled his hands under the table. 

The girls collectively giggled, and readied themselves for a revelation of epic proportions. 

“Made yourself comfortable, I see,” Sands sarcastically shot, stopping Melton cold before he could do further damage. 

Joey threw his hands innocently on the table. “Back so soon? Sessions are usually fifty minutes, right?” 

He was reaching, but the tank was empty. Melton’s wrestled across the world, saved an orphaned baby from a charging lion, and charmed Kings and Queens, but Lindsay Troy’s cutting glare was the prison built to hold Joey in check. As she stepped around Sands to close the gap between she and her houseguest, Melton’s heart sank. He thought of defending himself, but knew better. 

“How dare you!” Sands laughed, as his dates leant back to allow Troy’s open right hand to slap Joey’s face freely. Melton’s head shot down, and he held it there, cringing. 

The hardest shot he’s taken all night. 

“Lindsay, please...” 

Troy has no intentions of hanging around for the bull**** explanation. As quick as Melton got popped, Troy’s out the door. And Joey has no one to blame but himself. 

“Gee,” he looked up, to the heavens or cream painted ceiling. “I really hope that wasn’t her answer.”