Rick and Other Rick

One of my friends and I call each other Rick. It started when we met, which was when we were working in Property Management, supposedly managing Class A office buildings on a street in Glendale. But really, we were becoming bonded for life over being inducted into the corporate workforce for the first time, or where sensitive people go to be misunderstood, unless you happen to meet a Rick.

So much time has passed since then that neither of us can remember why we started calling each other Rick. But we have committed to it for so long that when it comes time for one of us, whoever outlives the other, to give a touching eulogy at our funeral, we will probably use Rick instead of our real name.

Rick and I are both water signs, which means we are both too sensitive for this world. Rick can be brought to tears. When I found out I was pregnant, Rick cried. His eyes welled up and spilled over with tears, which he wiped away, embarrassed, while I hugged him, murmuring, “Awww, other Rick, my God,” my own eyes getting watery.

Besides crying, we enjoy the beach, unsolved murder, and the drug cartel. Other than that, we are complete opposites. If we were high school versions of ourselves, he would be the popular football player and I would be the loner nerd, our differences both intriguing and sickening to one another.

Born in San Diego and living there now, Rick is a bro. He has bro friends that he does bro things with, like go to Idaho for bachelor parties.

“Idaho?” I say. “Sounds wild. I hope you find some bonnet-headed women to mash potatoes with.”

“They will take off their bonnets for other Rick. It will not be potatoes they will be mashing,” he replies.

Rick is the friend you can text at 3 am because they are also awake.

When I’m staring at the ceiling before dawn thinking about the P. Diddy documentary I knew I should not have watched, but I watched, I reach for my phone.

In the golden ages of yesteryear, this would have been impossible. A 3 a.m. conversation would be reserved for emergencies. The I am in labor call. The call you make when you are locked in your bathroom with mace after a psychologically unsound man breaks in and is trying to strangle you with pantyhose.

Today at Trader Joes, I bought these really creepy flowers.

I imagine the text popping up on Ricks phone. In real life, it would be the equivalent of me opening the door to his bedroom (enter the psychologically unsound woman) and announcing my story. Or, if magically I appeared, lying next to him, my head propped up by my hand, waking him up about something so uninteresting and unimportant, especially to him.

Jenn, this is a tomorrow story. Why are you awake?

It is tomorrow. I watched the P. Diddy doc. Why are you awake?

I have to finish Love Island. It is never going to end. Not the Diddy doc. I told you not to watch that.

I sigh. I had already finished Love Island and am not allowed to spoil the ending for him so I can’t tell him his favorite girl with the BBL gets kicked off after fans unearthed her using racial slurs on her MySpace when she was fifteen. I proceed to send unsolicited photos of the flowers.

Rick, they look like saggy balls. Depressing.

Saggy balls can be beautiful.

You love depressing flowers.

Chris at Trader Joes said they looked dead but alive, and I said, just like me.

I got hit on at Trader Joes the other day too.

Chris was hitting on me?

No, I think you were hitting on him.

By telling him I am dead?

Yes.

I hate men.

Lesbo 2026!!!

The conversation has ended.

I roll over in bed and gaze at my creepy flowers. Rick has probably started episode 43 of Love Island. He only has 25 more to go.

Outside, a cloud slowly moves across the moon.

Rick and I give each other dating advice, and by that I mean I call him a whore and he calls me a hopeless romantic, and very rarely is advice administered or taken.

“Whoever told the other one they loved them ruined it,” he schools me. “Rick, who said I love you first?” he asks me, his know-it-all tone alluding to the fact that he already knows the answer.

“I did,” I say flatly, ashamed.

“Yeah… you ruined it,” he says.

“Rick, you are not going to meet your soulmate if you never go out,” he yells at me, him being the sage one with wisdom because he went to a Lil Wayne concert and came back with a dozen girls numbers.

“False. I am a witch, remember? I am going to manifest my soulmate while never leaving my apartment,” I say back. “Watch,” I tell him, my voice rising three octaves. “Just watch!” I shriek as I light a Virgin de Guadalupe Mexican prayer candle on the other end of the phone.

I will try to take his advice, and on a night I do not have Noah, I will take myself out. My phone will light up with a text from Rick:

Are you reading alone at the Gopher?

I send back a picture of a book next to an empty tumbler of whiskey.

Rick, you have to talk to people.

I look up and around the bar, my back curled up like a cat, hissing.

Is anyone looking at you? he texts.

I look around and see that, across the room, an old leathery woman perched on a stool and wearing a sailors hat and a backpack has zeroed in on me, her eyes burning a hole in my soul. In front of her is a shot and a Pacifico.

Just future old lady me, I text back.

Meanwhile, Rick is busy juggling a roster of girls that he cannot keep up with.

“I am down one, but up two,” he reports to me, like he is playing pickleball.

“Have you contracted the clap yet?” I ask.

“Not yet,” he confirms.

“Inside of you is a useless romantic too,” I expose him, and he does not disagree.

“I know, but Rick, this is not the time to be romantic. I just got out of a relationship. This is the time for other Rick to be a butterfly,” he says.

“Who are you fluttering over to tonight?” I ask.

“The one with the king bed and air-conditioning.”

“Rick, I am too old. It is over for me,” I say dramatically, like my age and position in life is sending me away to be a prisoner of war.

“Rick, you look twenty-five and you are only 31. It is not over!” he says enthusiastically.

“Rick, I am thirty-six,” I tell him, deadpan.

“Rick, you are THIRTY-SIX?”

Denouncing bars, I have ventured to the beach to put myself back into the world. Back where I belong, in a bathing suit, hair a mess, and frequently sending my body into shock every few hours by submerging myself in the freezing water of the Pacific Ocean, I pepped up enough that I did get hit on.

Feeling accomplished, when I got home that evening I consulted Rick.

“But they were twenty-four,” I told him.

“That is great, Rick!”

“No, it is absolutely not!” I yell back.

“Age is just a number, Rick,” he says.

“Tell that to child brides. Also, how have you not known how old I actually am this entire time? You are a terrible friend.”

“I could have sworn you were only two years older than me.”

“Rick! All these years?!”

“Rick, you know me. I cannot remember things. I have autism.”

“And do not get down on yourself, Rick. You will not die alone. I would date you! Just not now. I am in my hoe energy.”

“Well, see if I am around!” I say, cueing “Loser” by Beck to play. “Also, what kind of deranged love story involves two people who call each other Rick?” I sigh, exasperated.

“Are you lighting your candle?” he asks.

I look into the eyes of Virgin de Guadalupe and strike a match.