The Story Slice: Maureen: Part I

by Brian Hughes

The air was muggy at Complex as the who’s who lined up twenty deep at the open bar. Everyone was celebrating the opening of Alberto St. Croix’s new exhibit “Tampon” at The Whitney Museum. Hordes of “beautiful” people ascended through the large wooden freight elevators. Rain, Alberto’s assistant, was seeing to all of them. Rain’s favorite color of the week was fuchsia: everything he had on him was fuchsia color, whether it was his suit to his jeans to his tie to his hair and socks. Rain made eye contact with Cahil and threw wide his arms out to embrace him; Cahil reluctantly gave in.

“There’s my boy scribe! How are you?” Rain screamed over the thumping dance music.
Cahil was an “on-the-town” beat writer for The City Savior – an upscale, expensive, ten-pound magazine that let everyone in on what was cool.
“Terrific, and yourself.”
“I’m at the best party in town, how can I be anything but marvelous? Let me ask you something right off: I’m coming to the tenth anniversary party for The Savior – right?”
“Of course.” Apparently everyone called the magazine “The Savior.”
“What are you up to? You look terrific! I love the blue blazer and the shirt – very Banana. Covering any big stories other than this one?”
Cahil was looking at all the eye candy before him. He always kept a memo pad and a digital tape recorder in his pocket. “I’m leaving for California next week.”
“What are you going to be covering in Hollyweird? Any scoops you want to tell me – any dirt?”
“I’m going to California to find three girls I should have fucked, but didn’t,” Cahil tossed casually off his chest.
“Really? I thought you were engaged.”
“Happily.”
“How deviant! Good luck with that.”
“Some people have bachelor parties, I have this.”
“Fabuloso! I want to dance! Here I go! I’m dancing!” Rain broke from his conversation with Cahil and started getting down.
“When can I expect to get some words with Alberto.”
“I don’t know … he’s with Dominick Dunne right now.”
“And have you seen Maureen Shea?”
“I haven’t, and I invited that bitch! She better be here.”

Maureen was Cahil’s first target.

A mutual friend introduced Maureen to Cahil on a warm November evening at The Hungarian Pastry Shop of the Upper West Side. He was warned of her uproarious laughter: a laugh that would make your contacts tremble. But instead of it confounding him, he was lassoed and saddled by her infectious inner joy. They’d hook up just a few days later and swap stories at the Eggshell in Central Park: Cahil stupidly confessing about his psychotic French girlfriend, talking to Maureen as if she were a confidant and not a possible suitor. Cahil mistakenly thought he was in love, but he wasn’t – and in the process, he lost Maureen – who would then find a young man she’d settle down with for three years.

“Why do I do these things?” he would think over and over. “They sit before me, dipped in gold, on a pedestal, awaiting my courage to take them home. First it was Maureen, then the colossal California trio of Heather, Alex and Colleen! Why? Fuck!” And as with Maureen, they shared common characteristics: college graduates, literary, big breasted, and funny. He lost out on the conquest, but most importantly, he suffered the loss of the experience - of living. And before he set off on that great journey of life, love, progeny and learning, he wanted to stand before them one more time. Tell them that he was sorry and that they will always live in a nice cozy tree house somewhere in his heart. Make peace with it and get the hell out. That’s all he wanted.

But first, he’d have to locate Maureen.