Trying the Knot by Todd Erickson

Nick’s
beautiful sister, Nanette Paull. She was dressed in an all-black,
body clinging dress. She ran her fingers through her flowing, henna
dyed hair, and she feigned wanton surprise by placing a hand over
her augmented breasts. Her dagger-like fingernails were painted the
same blood red as her full, pouting lips.
    Ben flashed a look of confusion. He did not
recall her having a silver nose ring, and her chest seemed larger.
Nanette lived life in designer limbo, scrambling after whatever
upscale thrift store items crossed her path.
    “Is Nick here?”
    She shook her head and flashed him one of her
perfectly deviant smiles that made him forget his own name. “No,
but if you happen to run into him, tell him his big sister is in
town for the nuptial festivities.” She leaned back against the
counter and inspected her long nails as if waiting for someone in
particular. “Thad’s upstairs. He’s a little drunk.”
    Benjamin nodded and backed away.
    “The stairs are to the left,” she called
after him.
    Ben found Thad poring over clippings laid out
onto an illuminated glass newspaper page. With a cigarette dangling
from his lips, he cut and pasted the newspaper columns while
muttering to himself. When he became aware of Ben’s presence, Thad
motioned him to sit down and pour himself a drink.
    “Vodka, man, isn’t that a job hazard?” Ben
asked. “What’s up with Nanette’s funeral garb?”
    “It’s a new Goth look to match her trendy new
name.”
    “Morticia?”
    “Tristana,” Thad corrected, lighting a
cigarette. Ben’s arrival was as good of an excuse as any to take a
break from working.
    “What’s she doing here?”
    “She’s waiting for the illustrious editor and
chief – Seth Poole – while he explains to the wife and kiddies why
he has to work late again. You know newspapers, it is one
late-night deadline after another,” Thad ranted.
    “No way.”
    “Way. Eventually, they’ll end up back here
snorting white powdery stuff and engaging in sordid sex acts until
dawn.”
    Ben laughed, “What a twisted imagination you
have.”
    “Who said anything about make believe?” Thad
asked, and he took a sip from his vodka pint. “Don’t look so
shocked.”
    Thad knew the intimate details of everyone’s
life, and Ben hoped Thad was oblivious to his own secrets. “You
know too much.”
    “Yeah, well, maybe that’s what happens when
you don’t have a life.”
    “Portnorth’s very own Kitty Kelly,” Ben said,
referring to slash and burn celebrity biographer. “Plan on writing
a small town tell-all anytime soon?”
    “Nope, but I can probably tell you a thing or
two about yourself.”
    “Real comforting. What’s up with the
lunchtime cocktail?”
    “I dragged Chelsea up here and poured a drink
down her throat, to calm her down after she exploded all over
breakfast. Actually, you just missed her,” Thad said, and Ben
sighed with relief. Thad continued working on the newspaper layout
as he nodded facetiously to the beat of some pre-Mellencamp, John
Cougar song.
    “What’s her deal? I couldn’t believe how bad
she lost it,” Ben said as he fished a foreign object from a shot
glass.
    “I guess the tighter you’re wound, the more
likely you are to go berserk.”
    “Yikes, don’t go postal on us,” boomed a loud
voice. “Coastal postal, get it?”
    A man who could only be described as an oaf
clomped down the steps as he descended from the third floor attic.
He wore a short-sleeved pink dress shirt with gray slacks, and a
cheap tie was flung over his hulking shoulder. Everything he said
was a proclamation. Typically, he flaunted his less than in-depth
knowledge of every conceivable topic.
    Running his fingers over his graying blond
beard, Seth Poole cleared his throat and instructed, “Go ahead and
grab lunch, Thad.”
    Ben picked up a pair of scissors and twirled
them around his index finger. He put the shears to his shirt and
snipped away at the remaining Polo horse he had begun