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Our readers submit stories about their lives and we publish them. A story should be between 1200 and 1500 words, set in Vancouver, and based on real events. We pay for any story that ends up in print. If interested, email a draft of your story to info@elective.ca. We are hiring writers for other elements of the magazine. If you’d like to write for Archive, True Stories is a good way to introduce us to your writing.
My name and phone number were at the bottom of the advertisement. I clicked the “report ad” link at the bottom of the posting and I called my friend. When he picked up the phone I began yelling, “You fucking fuck, fuck you, you fucker.” My vocabulary had deteriorated to two words. “I fucking got you,” said my soon-to-be-erstwhile friend. “I’m not even going to Mexico, I’m in Port Moody visiting my parents for the day. I’ve been laughing all afternoon about the calls you must be getting. I wanted to let it go on longer but I couldn’t hold out. Was it a bunch of sexy dudes, or what?” “Actually they were quite polite,” I said. My call waiting beeped again. “Can you take the ad down now, I’m still getting calls.” “I’ll take it down in a while. I got you good this time, sucker.” I hung up the phone and terminated a few more unknown callers before inspiration struck me. I jumped into my car, raced to my friend’s house and tried the key in the front door. It worked. He had actually given me the keys to his house. Fucking massive tactical error on his part. The unwritten rules of a prank war obliged me to make my next move. I steeled myself to the prospect of the consequences and sent out a group text with his address to all the guys who had called me. My friend’s place was a bachelor’s paradise. The front door opened into a main room that was a cross between a Vegas casino floor and a Best Buy showroom. One entire wall was taken up by banquette seating for 12, with bar height tables. On the opposite wall was a bank of four large flat screen televisions. Many a football Sunday had been hosted there. The other side of the partitioned living room featured two full size, professional quality poker tables and a large back-lit wet bar. I took a seat on the banquette, poured myself a drink, turned on the TV and waited for the first guest. At 1:45 my cell phone buzzed with a message, “Here.” I opened the front door and found a large middle-aged man in a red Polo shirt with receding black hair. I invited him in and introduced myself. After a moment of chit chat I told him that I didn’t think it was right to ask for money, and that we should wait for the other guys to arrive before we started the party. I barely had time to offer him a drink before the doorbell rang and I welcomed the next guest inside. He was younger than the first and bulky but smartly put together
in khaki shorts and a Burberry dress shirt. I could see tufts of dark, curly chest hair beneath his unbuttoned collar. He seemed nervous so I showed him to the wet bar and introduced him to the first guest. The doorbell rang again. The next guest was an outgoing lothario who introduced himself as Bobby. He was broad shouldered, had a head of salt and pepper, and immediately told me he thought I was adorable. The fourth man arrived shortly thereafter. He was dressed in athletic wear, had a strong build with muscular arms, and the jaw of a star quarterback. Now that I had everyone gathered in the living room, I busied myself making sure everyone’s drinks were refreshed. We sat and made small talk for a few minutes before Bobby put his hand on my leg. I thought that would be a good time to make up an excuse to leave so I explained that I was having second thoughts about the tryst and would not be able to go through with it. None of the guys seemed too surprised that I was leaving but they were astonished when I invited them to stay and enjoy themselves for the afternoon without me. I told them they were welcome to the contents of the liquor cabinet and asked them not to trash the place as I wandered out the front door. I sat in my car across the street watching the front door. It remained closed. I ran through the scenarios of what exactly could be happening in my friend’s living room and came to the conclusion that Bobby was probably calling the shots. About an hour later all four men emerged from the house. One of them was carrying a bottle of liquor and Bobby had his arm around the athletic-looking guy. They retreated to their cars and left separately. I walked back across the street and entered my friend’s living room unsure of what I would find. The only markers of carnal pleasure were three used condoms in the bathroom wastebasket, a collection of dirty towels, a musk in the air, and a perfect ass-shaped depression in the vinyl upholstery of the banquette. I smiled and left everything as it was. Before locking up, I put some deep house music on the stereo and turned up the volume. Later that evening I received this text message from my friend, “Why are there used condoms in my bathroom and where is my Belvedere? Did you have a party?” “Me?,” I replied. “I didn’t have a party. You posted the ad. I just let the guys into your place. They sure wanted to party. Did it seem like they had a good time?” He never replied to that text message. In fact, we didn’t speak for two years.
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