The Leftovers

“I’ve got fifty bucks that says you will not be able to get one of those Leftovers to slow dance with you before midnight.”

          ‘Leftovers’ is a term my colleague, Lee-Lee, invented to describe guys who are still single and in a pack after a televised sporting event.

          We’re forever making bets to keep us from dying on the vine from boredom between process-serving gigs. Tonight, Lee-Lee’s already down fifty bucks because I managed a coup second to none – one that will make me legend in the annals of process serving in our county.

          I love challenges. I live for them. And, as a newbie at process serving, I feel I need to prove my mettle. So, when our director, J.T. Ross, asks who is up for “trying to get this frickin Dennis Cleveland served once and for all,” I raise my hand.

          The jeers and guffaws from the guys in the unit just spur me on harder to be ‘The One.’ I am stoked.

          A month ago, I never would have imagined that I’d be doing this process-serving gig. I’ve been an aspiring actress for nearly a year and have managed to get hired for regular bit parts. But recently, they’ve been drying up, and whether I’m working or not, I still have bills to pay.

          I was talking to a friend of mine who’s a paralegal, and she was mentioning that they are always looking for process servers. She gave me the number for the firm they use, and that’s how I became affiliated with J.T. Ross and Associates.

          Turns out, process servers and aspiring actresses are two professions that aren’t that far removed from each other. Both require you to be quick-witted, convincing, understated, fit and fearless. Plus, you have to be adaptable and spontaneous enough to ad lib for as long as necessary. J.T. Ross – as well as all the directors I’ve ever had - refer to that as being “unflappable.” They also use the phrase “You’ve got to be able to read the room.”

Of course, the biggest difference between the two professions is that a mistake as an actor gets you a lousy review. A mistake as a process server can potentially get you killed.

          For that reason, I say to J.T, “I just need Diesel and Lee-Lee on hand, too,” Then I add, “but just for back-up because I hear those Cleveland boys are tough.”

          Diesel’s 6'7" with the face of a pitbull that’s been used as the bait dog at fighting pits. Lee-Lee’s tall, muscular, broad-shouldered and covered in tats. Look her in the eye if you dare, but you will turn to salt. She will never be the one who looks away. She’s also lightning-fast and black belt strong and flexible.

          We agree they’ll man their positions at Ronnie and Donnie’s favorite bar, The Shark Shack, early on, to establish themselves as a couple who’s just there to drink and catch the game. I’ll saunter in an hour or so later so no one suspects I’m part of their action.

          Before we split up, I tell them, “Keep an eye out for when Donnie shows me his driver’s license. Come over immediately after that.”

          They laugh uproariously. “Oh, yeah, Newbie!” They are all but doubled over now. “Yeah, we’ll be sure to come over the second he shows you his ID!”

          I just smile. “I’ve got fifty bucks for each of you if it doesn’t happen,” I say.

          “Oh, you are SO on!” they chorus immediately then high-five each other.

          Again, I smile.

          The Shark Shack is teeming with patrons. I’m in my tightest jeans and pale pink form-fitting tee. But, to hide the fact that I’m packing, I’m also wearing a well-worn jean jacket. My hair is glossy, mahogany and falls in thick planks to the middle of my back. I am giving off my best Ready for Action vibe as I head to the area where Lee-Lee has texted I will find Ronnie and Donnie.

          I belly up to the bar, nudging my way between them and give each one a challenging look.

          “Whoa!” says the one on my right.

          “Buy you bookends a drink?” I ask.

          They exchange looks of incredulity. “Sure thing!” they say like trained parrots.

          We order three shots, and I turn to the one on my right and ask, “What’s your name?”

          “I’m Donnie,” he replies with a lascivious little smile.

          “No, you’re RONNIE!” his twin says immediately. “I’M Donnie!”

          “Oh, I am?” asks the first. “Are you sure?” They laugh like ten-year-olds discovering their father’s Playboy magazine stash for the first time.

          I give them a disgusted look and say, “Here’s the deal, Boys. I’ve just been made a fool of by my cheating-ass husband, and I am looking for some revenge sex in the biggest freakin way. I’d like to indulge in that frolic with the two of you, but if you’re going to act like little asshole frat boys, I’ll head on down the bar. Now, tell me your names again –only this time, back it up with your damn ID’s.”

          They can’t extract them from their wallets fast enough.

          I give Donnie goo-goo eyes and say, “So you really ARE Donnie, then?”

          “I really am,” he says and leans down for a nuzzle.

          From the corner of my eye, I see it’s now Lee-Lee and Diesel who exchange looks of incredulity and high-tail it over.

          “Well,” I say to Donnie, “I really am a process server. And you really are hereby duly served.” I tuck the papers into the waistband of his jeans. As I see him and Ronnie become wild-eyed, I point over my shoulder to Diesel and Lee-Lee and add, “And these really are my team, and we really are going to leave now.”

          The Cleveland Boys pound the bar and duet a war-cry. We drive a good forty minutes away, checking constantly that we’re not being followed by a vengeance-fueled posse. We also call J.T. Ross en route to deliver the amazing news. His whoop of exultation fills the entire car.

          Before we head to the next bar to celebrate, Lee-Lee and Diesel each ante up their fifty dollars. I buy them a round, and that’s when Lee-Lee throws down the bet about The Leftovers.

          “Ain’t you learned nuthin’ ‘bout this woman?” Diesel asks her.

          “Nobody’s lucky like that twice,” Lee-Lee says with a confident little smirk. “Besides, Leftovers aren’t interested in anything but the game that’s on tv. They’d rather die than slow-dance.”

          I smile, down a shot, and belly up to the bar between the Leftovers.

          “I’ve just been made a fool of by my cheating-ass husband, and I’m looking for some revenge sex in the biggest freakin way. I’d like to indulge in that frolic with the four of you. But, first, will you slow-dance with me?”

          They cannot form a line fast enough.