Joey&Chandler

you get me

Chandler knew he was in a closet. He knew he was in a closet, in a room, in a building. He knew he had engulfed all of Monica's special Jell-O shots, was completely wasted, and was fooling around with a girl whose name definitely began with Mary, Mary Something, and whose definite relation to Joey would get his ass kicked twice over. But it was okay, completely okay, because Janice was out of his life forever, she was never coming back, and that was a reason to celebrate, even if it did feel like a knife twisting in his gut. Hadn't everyone said to him, 'Chandler, get over it'? Hadn't they? Hadn't they? Hadn't they managed to tattoo that onto his mentality, so that he wouldn't mope around in his sweatpants, eating dried fruit and camping out at Monica and Rachel's, just because it maintained a strong sense of structure he lacked in every other nook and cranny of his life?

There was something wrong with him, or maybe it was her, because whenever he came up for air it was like a tangled mass of hair just appeared out of the blue and, amazingly – swallowed up her head; the hair, he managed to inhale, by no fault of his own, and he was now retching up as she waited patiently by the old dustpan and broom he and Joey joked had been there for so long it had begun to take on its own personality. God, did she have big hair. It was like the eighties all over again, but without all the hyped-up high school pizzazz, and without his Flock-of-Seagulls hairdo and turquoise track suit he truly believed was his color. Her makeup was everywhere – on her, on him, on her clothing, on his – and it all just felt like it wasn't worth it, because, let's face it, he was planning on wearing this shirt tomorrow, and he didn't want to waste a rinse cycle on a small, but very noticeable, lipstick stain on his collar.

There was a loud knocking noise at the closet door, and Mary Something giggled and hid behind him, clutching at the sleeve of his t-shirt. Her hair tickled the back of his neck. Maybe it was the eighties, after all. Hadn't he gone through this all before?

Chandler laughed at his confusion. If only it was high school again, so he could figure out what he'd done to drive away the sane women and attract the big-haired, makeup-wielding, nasal-y-voiced ones with too much love too quickly. They were all Janices, with their high-pitched laughter and long, fake fingernails that clicked on tables impatiently; clothing galore, with shoes to match; expectation, expectation, when there was no more to give; and that baffling telepathic language of theirs that they expected men to understand, but men never did, because it was all just pursed lips and 'tsk-ing' and the dreaded cold shoulder that signaled the beginning of the end for every kind of relationship.

The knocking continued and he shuddered, repulsed, as Mary Something seductively trailed her finger up his arm. There was a voice from outside. "Dude, I know you're in there, now get out!"

Chandler obediently opened the door; Mary Something giggled madly. "Hey, it's Joey!" he slurred. "It's my pal, Joe Trib, the ac-ttor-er, who can play both man . . . and woman!"

"How hammered are you?" Joey asked him in disgust. Chandler simply shrugged in response.

"I'm hammered like a nail, if that's whatcha mean," he replied. "I'm like one of thos-e n-nails that are hammered li-ke a nail."

"What the hell are you doing with my sister?" Joey asked him fiercely. Mary Something ducked out of harm's way and dispersed into the crowd. Chandler tried to focus.

"I k-know what you're thinkin', Joe, and I don't think the idea is good to be talking about it now."

Joey glared at him and crossed his arms.

"List-en." Chandler leaned forward secretively. "We're bestest buds, man, we're tight, you know, a-nnd I really, really don't wanna get in trouble, so please don't tell Joey, okay, bec-aause that would m-make him super – duper – super pissed."