“Oh, it’s different.”
Still, I play along.
My number is 560.
“There aren’t that many people here,” I whisper to Annabeth as the woman with the clipboard writes down my name and number.
“They just do that to keep it more random, I guess,” she says. “Ooh, check this out.”
She pulls out her phone and pulls up the internet.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve got a gematria calculator,” she says. “We’re going to find out what your number means.”
I roll my eyes.
“560,” she says. “It means a few different things, but the one I like most is butterfly.”
“Butterfly?” I ask. “How does the number 560 mean butterfly?”
“In Hebrew, every letter is also a number. I guess the Hebrew word for butterfly adds up to 560.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I tell her. “How long do we have to stay?”
“Oh, we just got here,” she says. “Let’s get a drink and keep an eye on that wall.”
As we walk over, I watch the wall. Picture after picture of men and women, holding up bagged shirts with numbers flash across it, and I don’t know if there’s enough alcohol in this place to make that not seem a little creepy to me.
I guess we’re going to find out.
“So,” Annabeth says, “it’s not as bad as you thought it would be, is it?”
I’m not listening.
“Lei-Lei?”
I’m watching an older gentleman burying his face in the bag marked 560, and there’s a weird dichotomy going through my head at the moment.
One part of me feels kind of violated having a stranger sniff my very-worn, very unwashed shirt. The other part of me hopes he goes over and takes his picture with it. I know it sounds weird, but I really don’t want to have to go through that kind of rejection.
I smell good, damn it.
The man puts my shirt back on the table where he got it, and I’m about ready to walk over there and ask him just what’s so unattractive about the way I smell when Annabeth puts a hand on my shoulder.
“You all right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “He didn’t get his picture taken.”
She giggles.
“I told you you’d have a fun time,” she says. “Freak.”
“Why wouldn’t he want to get his picture taken with my shirt?” I ask. “I’ve got a good smell.”
“Don’t take it personally,” she says. “Different people look for different things. Sometimes, it’s just an instinct thing. What are you drinking?”
“Tequila,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” she says to the bartender, “can I get a tequila sunrise—”
“No sunrise,” I tell her, “just the tequila.”
If I’m going to make it through this night and all the weird rejection issues it’s bringing up, I’m going to want to get pretty buzzed.
“What number were you?” I ask after she finishes ordering our drinks.
“68,” she says. “Don’t even ask me what that one means.”
“That guy’s holding up your bag,” I tell her and point at the wall.
She cringes.
“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.
“He’s got the stalker eyes,” she says. “Notice how his eyelids are a little too open and he’s just got that blank expression on his face? Yeah, I’m not going through that shit again.”
“Again?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “Not really something I want to talk about right now, though. Hey, look at that,” she says, nudging me. “560! Go up and introduce yourself.”
I look at the wall, and there’s a tall guy with long blond hair holding my bag and giving the camera a thumbs-up.
“He’s way too excited about my dirty laundry,” I tell her.
She shrugs.
Our drinks arrive and, before the bartender can walk away, I order another one.
“You ready to go sniff out some hotties?”
“I’m nowhere near drunk enough to even handle that idea,” I tell her.
“Come on,” she says, “it’ll be fun. Let’s find someone who smokes weed and see if there’s a party to go to.”
“I didn’t know you’re a pothead,” I tell her.
“I’m not,” she says. “Stoners just seem to like the best music. Come on.”
I laugh and drink my second shot.
“Hold on,” I tell her. “I’ve got one more coming, then we can go.”
She waits—I can’t say patiently—while the bartender hands me my shot and I drink it down. When she’s not looking, I ask for one more and drink that down before I’m ready to go partake in something that I can’t claim to understand.
“How much B.O. should I be expecting here?” I ask. “On a scale from one to vomiting, what are we looking at here?”
“Well,” she says, “I’ve only been to one of these before, but most guys seem to take pretty good care of themselves hygiene-wise. You will get the occasional stink bag, but they’re not as common as you’d think. But hey, some chicks go for that.”
“Some women go for guys that smell bad?” I ask.
“It’s an evolutionary thing,” she says. “I don’t know. You’re supposed to be able to tell whether a prospective mate is healthy by the way they smell.”
“Well, thanks for bringing me to the Discovery Channel,” I titter.
“Just be cool, will you?”
We get to the table and Annabeth tosses me a bag with a blue number card on it.
“What am I supposed to do here?” I ask.
“It’s not brain surgery,” she says. “Open the bag and take a whiff. If you like what you smell, go up there and get your picture taken with it. If not, move on to something else.”
“This is too weird,” I tell her.
“It’s really not that bad,” she says. “Did you know that in Japan, they have vending machines that dispense used women’s underwear?”
“Actually, most places don’t do that anymore,” I tell her.
It’s a mistake.
“How would you know that?” she asks as she opens a new bag and gives it a deep inhale. “Ooh, this one’s nice.”
She hands it over to me and, before I even think about what I’m doing, I give it a sniff.
It’s heavy on the drakkar noir, but it’s mellowing out the lingering taste of the tequila, so I keep it there for a couple extra seconds.
“Not bad, right?” she asks.
“Meh.”
“What does yours smell like?” she asks.
I hand her back the one dripping with cologne and open the bag I’ve been holding. Yeah, this is still pretty weird, but it’s not nearly as creepy as I thought it would—“Okay,” I tell her. “This is one of the bad ones.”
I hand it to her, thinking she’s going to just put it back on the table, but even with my warning, she opens the bag back up.
“Shit, you weren’t joking.”
“I have no idea why you would think I was,” I tell her. “All right, this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, but the novelty’s starting to wear off. How much longer are we going to stay here and smell people’s clothes?”
“As long as it takes,” she says. “We are not going home alone tonight.”
“Is that what this is about?” I ask.
“What?” she asks, looking for another blue-tagged shirt to smell. She grabs one and hands it to me.
“Dane,” I say.
“Of course it’s about Dane,” she says. “You haven’t talked about anything else since you left.”
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
“That’s good then,” she says. “So you should be open to meeting someone tonight.”
“Yeah,” I snicker. “Kids, did I ever tell you the story about how I met your dad? Well, I was at this shirt-smelling party and your dad’s sweat just got me right between the legs. It was love at first scent.”
“Hey, you never know,” she says. “People meet in some pretty strange ways sometimes.”
“You’re actually serious about getting me to hook up with someone here, aren’t you?”
She opens a bag.
“This one smells like beer and corn chips,” she says, putting it back on the table.
“You’re not answering my question.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m not saying you’re going to meet Mr. Right by smelling his sweaty shirt, but you might just find someone who can take you for a nice tumble and remind you that there are other fish to fuck.”