Harry Styles Would Hate My Watermelon Sugar

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Max slammed her MacBook shut and let out a throaty, frustrated groan. Throwing her head back against the couch, she closed her eyes and willed the last 72 hours of her life to be erased.

“God, I know I stopped going to church when I was 12 and dissed you on countless occasions.  But, if you’re out there. Please. Please help a girl out.”

Lifting her heavy head upright and blinking a few times to get the salty tears out of her eyes, Max glanced around her pigsty of an apartment. Leftover Chinese takeout cartons were scattered across the coffee table, and a packet of low-sodium eel sauce had spilled and turned into a thick, black goo that would be impossible to scrape off the glass countertop. The Febreze she sprayed earlier had worn off and she was beginning to notice a waft of fried rice and stale pepperoni pizza recirculating through the cramped apartment. The blinds on the only window in the 520-square-foot studio were halfway drawn, and the room was nearly dark. On a good day, Max would’ve invited a bit of sunlight and crusty New York fresh air into the apartment, but her only goal today was to hibernate and avoid facing reality.

Four days ago, Max was at an all-time high. The day started with Max strolling down Second Avenue on her way to grab coffee and a toasted sesame bagel at Tompkins before heading to work. It was one of the first warm days in April, and she was sporting a floral mini dress and tall black Marc Jacobs boots. The shoes had cost half of her last paycheck, but Max liked the confidence they gave her when she strutted past the hordes of artsy students living in the East Village. Her long brown hair was slicked back in a tight bun, and she shielded her swollen, hungover face behind a pair of oversized cat-eye sunglasses. Midway through her trek uptown, she felt a series of buzzes in her purse.

“Hello?”

“Maxine. It’s John Sikes from the Comedy Garden.”

“Oh, um… hey, hi J-John! How are you?” Max asked while stepping to the side of the sidewalk for a brief pause. She pushed her sunglasses up to rest on top of her head, and leaned her lanky body against the glass window storefront of a dry cleaner’s office. She felt a slight twist in her stomach the second John’s voice came back through her phone.

“It’s great to talk to you again, Maxine,” John said. Max sensed a bit of urgency in his voice, and she prayed he wasn’t about to ask her out.

“Yeah, you too!” Despite being hidden under the awning of the laundromat where nobody could see her, Max still plastered a fake smile across her face. “Hope everything’s going well…” 

“For sure, for sure,” John said with a chuckle. “So, listen. I’ll be brief. Someone pulled out of their set at the club this week and we need a last-minute fill in.”

“Oh, that’s unfortunate. I can ask around and see if I know anyone—”

“No, no,” John said while talking over Max in the way that all macho men seemingly loved to do. “You told me that you used to do standup, right?”

“Yeah, I guess… back in college I did a few shows.”

“Well how about you help an old friend out and do a set on Wednesday night?”

Max cringed at John’s use of the word “friend.” Had they gone out on a date together? Yes. But friend was a bold word choice. Max supposed John remembered their date a bit differently than her. She wouldn’t classify most of her one-night-stands as friends.

“That’s a bit short notice, John,” Max said. “But—maybe I—”

“So that’s a yes?”

Max was caught off guard, to say the least, but a miniscule sense of happiness rushed through her as she hung up and slipped her phone back into her purse. It had been years since she practiced comedy, and although John was a pushy guy, he was giving her an opportunity to break out of her mundane life.

“Sure, yeah. Yeah… I guess I can figure something out.”

“Great. Thanks,” John said. “I’ve got a meeting in ten so I need to run, but my assistant will shoot you an email with the lineup. Talk soon Maxine!”

Three months ago, Max had gone out on a Hinge date with John Sikes, the owner of The New York Comedy Garden. She was originally drawn to John’s profile because he had a nice photo of him with his mother at a fourth of July party, and his information section said he was a 6’1” liberal. Max safely imagined that John was a tall, friendly guy with good family values and progressive social beliefs. Unfortunately, the John Sikes that picked her up thirty minutes late for their first date failed to live up to his Hinge profile. The real John Sikes was 5’9” at best and had slicked-back black hair that looked wet from the amount of pomade slathered in it. He wore baggy, ripped jeans with expensive Balenciaga sneakers, and a shiny silver Rolex watch poked out under his white button-down shirt. Max complimented John’s casual style, and he quickly told her that the watch was a Harvard graduation gift, and his leather jacket actually used to be a prop on an old biker-gang movie set. Although John was a bit self-obsessed and lied about his height, he seemed to be genuinely interested in getting to know Max. He asked about her childhood and parents, and he even wrote down all of the coffee shops Max recommended trying in the East Village.

John took her to a mediocre dive bar in the Lower East Side and they chatted about work, life, and standup comedy. The bar was a bit overcrowded with high-top tables and a few arcade games, and the DJ played slow, low-fi house beats, but it was a fun place for a first date. When they walked up to the bartender to order, John pulled out a chair for Max and stood slightly behind her with one of his arms rested on the bar top.

“Drinks are on me all night,” John said. He was hovering slightly above her, but he peered down and smirked when Max gave him a soft smile. Max appreciated John’s generosity, though truthfully, she would have been a bit turned-off if a Harvard man wearing a Rolex did not pick up the tab.

When the bartender came over to take their orders, Max kept it simple with a gin and tonic. The walls of alcohol behind the bar were fully stocked, but the bartenders seemed a bit stressed by the never-ending crowd of people trying to order shots at the end of the bar. So, when John ordered a stirred gin martini with top-shelf alcohol, Max cringed. Men who refused to “read the room” often had never-ending lists of red flags. 

“Do you want to go play pool?” Max asked John once the bartender had delivered their drinks. “I think a table just opened up back there.”

      “Hmm…maybe later,” John said, pulling out the barstool next to Max and sitting down. He took a gulp of his martini then rubbed the bit of scruffy facial hair on his chin. “The night is young.”

For someone who owned one of the city’s most iconic comedy clubs, John had a pretty mediocre sense of humor. Max tried teasing him a few times in hopes that he would loosen up, but their conversation continuously looped back to John’s glory years at Harvard. Most of his jokes revolved around Max being a Manhattan transplant, even after she told him that she had moved from Connecticut to New York over eight years ago. And despite the fact that Max proposed checking out the arcade games or pool tables multiple times throughout their date, John never showed any interest in leaving their spot at the bar. Max chalked this up to three possibilities. One, John was terrible at pool and did not want to embarrass himself. Max already assumed he had a fragile ego, so this seemed like a likely option. Two, maybe John was actually interested in Max and wanted to keep talking to her. But, his subtle judgement of her NYU alma mater and Connecticut upbringing made Max think that John was mostly unimpressed. And three, John was probably just trying to sleep with her. Max concluded that this was the most plausible scenario and would explain why John kept his hand rested on the back of her chair and kept his eyes focused on her lips whenever she spoke.

So, that night, John took Max back to his apartment in The Nathaniel—an overpriced luxury building on 12th and 3rd—and they had another round of drinks followed by meaningless sex. As John held the door open to his apartment and followed Max inside, she paused to take in the mid-century modem décor and open floor plan. She was ready to compliment John on shockingly nice taste in interior design, but he wasted no time in slamming his front door and pinning Max against it to kiss her lips, chin, and neck.

“Someone’s excited,” Max said as John’s head found its way to the crook between her neck and shoulders. She let out a small laugh at John’s eagerness, and he pulled away from her.

“Maybe another drink first then?” John asked while keeping his face about an inch away from hers. He did not seem offended by Max’s interruption, which surprised her. Based on John’s aggressive door-slamming a minute ago, she presumed he was in a rush to get her in and out of here.

“Sure.” Max slipped out of John’s grasp and began to unzip her boots. “Gin and tonic please.”

“Coming right up,” John said as he turned toward his kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable.”

            While John played pretend bartender in the kitchen, Max made herself comfortable on his plush couch. John had framed movie posters on either side of the flat screen TV in his living room. She looked closely at the image of Uma Thurman smoking a cigarette on a Pulp Fiction poster and noticed a few signatures scribbled across the paper. Only John Sikes would have a poster signed by Quentin Tarantino on display in his luxury apartment. Max was curious about how John came into possession of the poster, but she knew it would launch into a long-winded explanation of why Pulp Fiction was the greatest movie of all time, and she really wasn’t in the mood to be lectured. So instead, she scrolled through her phone until John appeared with a tray of two drinks and two shots.

            “Vodka,” he told her before handing her the small glass and clinking his own against hers. They both threw back the vile liquid, and John plopped down on the couch next to her. They talked for another twenty or thirty minutes, and Max felt the alcohol giving her a light buzz. Any hesitations she had about John seemed to slowly vanish, and she found herself leaning into him every time he told a mediocre joke. She liked that he asked about her marketing job and attempted to recall the names of all the friends she had mentioned throughout the night. Even if John wasn’t actually interested in Max’s life, he did a good job at faking it and making her feel comfortable.

            “Do you know what they call a quarter pounder with cheese in France?” Max asked when there was a lull in conversation. John simply started back at her.

            “What?”

            “In Paris. Do you know what they call a cheeseburger in Paris?” Max smirked and nodded her head toward John’s Pulp Fiction poster. She waited for John to answer, but he paused a beat before saying anything.

            “I think you’re drunk Max.”

            “No, it’s a joke.” She tilted her head toward the poster a second time. “It’s from Pulp Fiction. I thought you would know it.”

            “Oh.” John awkwardly chuckled. “I see. Okay. Ask me again.”

            “John, do you know what they call a quarter pounder with cheese in Paris?”

            “No, what do they call it?”

            “Well they have the metric system over there. So, they call it a Royale with cheese.”

            “Ha-ha. Very funny Max.” John gave her a tight-lipped smile and shook his head a bit while reaching for his drink.

            “Well, I thought so at least.” Max took a sip of her own drink. “You’re clearly a Tarantino fan.”

            “I am.” John nodded. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be one too, that’s all.”

            Max returned John’s soft smile with her own and decided to drop the Pulp Fiction conversation. She was slightly offended by the fact that John did not even take the time to lecture her about Tarantino or commend her on her film reference. Part of her wanted to call him out, but she knew that would kill the mood. Instead, she returned to mundane conversation about work and friends, and she let John tell her all about how he recently redecorated the Comedy Garden.

            When Max realized that John was probably waiting for her to initiate the next move, she grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him into her. John kissed with a bit too much tongue for Max’s liking, but he wasn’t the absolute worst kisser. She guided his mouth back down toward her neck instead.

            “Should we, um, move to the bedroom?”

            “Yeah,” John kissed her neck again. “It’s this way.” He pecked Max on the lips and pulled her up off the couch. He nodded his head to the left, and Max followed closely behind in pursuit of a more comfortable location.

            The feminist in Max wanted to believe that sex was something that both the man and woman should enjoy. In her junior year at NYU, Max dated a man who was in graduate school at the Grossman School of Medicine, and he always knew how to pleasure her. Max chalked it up to the fact that he had been studying female anatomy both in and outside of school for years. Unfortunately, Max couldn’t say the same about most men she went on Hinge dates with. They usually wanted to have casual sex that lasted a few minutes and ended with Max feeling halfway turned-on and deeply unsatisfied. At some point, Max gave up on her feminist pursuit and accepted that sex would be purely transactional until she found another long-term boyfriend.

            Max felt the same way about tonight’s sex as she did with most things related to John Sikes: mediocre. John made her orgasm, which was more than she could say about most Hinge men, but after one round he claimed he was tired and needed to sleep soon.

            “All that alcohol. It’s finally hitting me.” John chuckled and rolled off Max. “I’m going to shower. Join if you want.”

            Max nodded as John got off the bed and walked toward his en-suite bathroom. He left the door cracked open, but Max felt like his invitation to shower together was purely a formality. He had killed the mood the minute he left a kiss on Max’s forehead like she was his pet cat or something. She contemplated sneaking out and walking home once John got in the shower, but it was nearly two o’clock in the morning and frankly, she was also starting to feel tired. Besides, John had a comfortable king-sized bed with silky, 700-thread count sheets and an abundance of plush pillows. She was not in any rush to sprint home to her shitty studio apartment when John was clearly fine with her spending the night in his luxury palace. When John finally joined Max back in bed, he wrapped his lanky arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him. She was not a huge fan of spooning, but John had already switched off the light and made himself comfortable. Pulling away now would just make the situation more awkward.

            The east-facing windows that Max had initially loved when she entered John’s apartment pissed her off bright and early the following morning. Warm sunlight bathed Max’s body, and despite squinting her eyes tightly shut, the sun still burned them. Her head ached slightly from last night’s drinks. Thankfully, in the middle of the night she had subconsciously rolled out of John’s grasp and he was now sound asleep facing the opposite direction. Max quietly slipped out of the oversized bed and collected her undergarments and dress off the floor. At one point while Max was sneaking out, she thought she heard John move, so she hurried to get out of the building before he could realize she left. Max had a fun night with John, but the more she sobered up, the more she realized that she was simply not attracted to a man who laughs at his own jokes and uses his money and reputation to try and impress girls. On her short walk home, Max contemplated blocking his phone number.

When Max went on that Hinge date with John Sikes last month, she had mentioned her brief stint as a stand-up comedian as an attempt to find common ground with John. As an undergraduate student at NYU, Max attempted to try-out new activities and got roped into joining a comedy brigade in her junior year. Granted, their comedy shows often only had an audience of approximately 24 students who showed up simply because they were promised free booze, but the shows were still fun nonetheless. Max found that she was pretty good at doing crowd work, and she liked that comedy was an excuse to make fun of her classmates’ sad lives. And for two years after graduating from college, she continued to write stand-up sets and send them to her parents who hyped up her mediocre work. John seemed to like that Max respected his job and the world of comedy, so she lied and said that she was trying to get back into it. Never in a million years did Max think that John would take her drunken remarks seriously and call her up with an offer to perform.

Now, it was Tuesday and Max was starting to feel like she had bit off more than she could chew. She was just a 27-year-old corporate America sellout with a marketing job at a B-list agency. Sure, some of her co-workers said she was the funniest person on their team and that her sense of humor boosted all of their brand campaigns, but Max couldn’t equate that to Comedy Garden-level humor. In attempt to relax and focus on writing the greatest lineup of jokes for her first set in four-years, Max called in sick from work.

On her lunchbreak on Wednesday afternoon, Max decided she should message John with hopes that he could calm her growing nerves. It was almost two o’clock and she still had no information about the show. She scrolled through her contacts app and found the profile titled “John Sikes (Hinge)” and drafted a message to him.

am i still on for tonight’s show?

            She waited a few minutes before grey bubbles popped up on the right side of her iPhone screen. It took John nearly a minute to type, so Max grumbled at his curt reply.

Yes.

can you give me a bit more information?

im a little nervous. haha

You’re on at 10. I’ve got a few pros after you who are shooting for YouTube. Just warm-up the crowd for them.

            Max felt brown eyes bulge at the sight of the word “pros.” She knew the Comedy Garden occasionally got some big-name comedians on their sets, but John had framed this Wednesday night event as a casual one. The kid who pulled out of his performance had less than 10K followers on Instagram, and Max could only find one video of him doing crowd work on YouTube. She had assumed that filling-in for him would be low stakes.

pros??

wait will i be on YouTube too???

Stop asking me so many questions.

Max frowned at his last message. She knew that John wasn’t necessarily the friendliest man, but he didn’t need to be a total dick. When she started thinking about a video of her ending up on YouTube, her leg bounced and her eyes twitched. And, what did John mean by “pros” anyway? The only professional comedians Max knew wrote for Saturday Night Live or had stand-up specials on Netflix.

The Comedy Garden was located on the fourth floor of a converted brownstone building in the East Village. You had to walk up a set of narrow, creaky stairs to get to the fourth floor because the service elevator was reserved for guests or people with handicaps. But sometimes people would get too drunk at the shows and the staff would throw them in the elevator if they couldn’t make it down the flights of stairs at the end of the night. The reason the club was even called The Comedy Garden was because of the rooftop garden that opened up in the warmer months. John had converted the roof into a stage surrounded by a bar and lounge seating when he inherited the space from the previous club owner. When performers stood on the stage in the center of the roof, they could walk around and get a 360-degree view of the skyscrapers all around them, and when the sky was clear, you could even see boats zig-zagging down the Hudson river.

Despite the Comedy Garden’s breathtaking rooftop views, the first thing Max noticed when she arrived on Wednesday night was the smell of cheap beer and the way her Marc Jacobs boots clung to the sticky floor when she walked around. The “lounge seating” that John had bragged to her about on their Hinge date was really just a bunch of tattered, worn-in aquamarine velvet couches that looked like they had been found on the street. To distract her from her urge to get down and scrub the floors or straighten all the decorative pillows on the couches, Max went over to the bar and ordered a few tequila shots to settle her anxiety.

Max stayed put at the bar for about an hour while more guests and comedians filled up the audience. At 10:24 PM, John was still nowhere to be found, so Max flagged down the bartender for another round of drinks.

“Can I get two more shots of Casamigos please?” Max asked while fishing through her pockets for some cash to leave as a tip.

“Sure,” the bartender said as he pulled two small glasses up from behind the bar and reached for a bottle of tequila. “Are you here to see a friend perform?”

“No.” Max threw back the first shot. The familiar alcoholic burn felt weaker now that she was a few shots deep. “I’m actually performing tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. You going to laugh at my jokes?” Max took the second shot while she waited for the young bartender to answer her.

“If it makes you feel better, then yes.”

“Good.”

The bartender nodded at Max and turned toward another customer to take their order. She felt herself getting slightly flushed at his attractiveness. A clear outline of abs poked through his thin white t-shirt, and a red rag was tossed loosely over his shoulder. Max wanted to talk to him again, but maybe the confidence was coming from all the alcohol she had quickly consumed in the last hour. 

At 10:41 P.M., John found Max at the bar and guided her over to the side of the stage. Max stumbled a bit when she stood up, but John’s hand on the arch of her lower back steadied her. Max prayed he couldn’t tell how tipsy she was.

“Okay Maxine. Just do a quick ten- or fifteen-minute set,” he said while pointing to a shadowed area that appeared to be a sound booth. “I’ll be standing over there and will wave when it’s time to wrap up. Got it?” 

“Yessir boss” Max said, slurring the s sounds in her words.

“Break a leg up there. Or don’t.”

Max watched John weave through the maze of sofas and loveseats before settling in the back corner next to the bar. He turned and gave her a thumbs up. That was her cue to get up on stage.

“Alright, alright, alright!” she said in her best Matthew McConaughey voice. “Who’s ready for sssome jokess?”

The crowd mellowed out once they heard Max’s voice echoing through the speakers surrounding the circular stage. She heard a few voices whoop and cheers. A few people took out their phones and started recording.

“Before I begin my set, there are a few things I think you all should know about me.” Max circled around the stage a few times before continuing. A wooden stool with a glass of water on it was placed in the center of the stage. Max was tempted to sit down, but then she risked spilling the water when she moved it, and that would be embarrassing. So, she decided to remain standing for the duration of her set. Max crossed her right ankle over her left as she stepped, and the microphone in her hand wobbled as a result. She gripped the microphone tighter and temporarily re-steadied herself in one spot before continuing.

“The first thing is that I am an only child. I know—BO-ring…right? I mean that’s basically code for ‘my parents didn’t want kids but then they fucked up and had me.’”

Max hiccupped. Her stomach growled a bit, but she didn’t really think much of it. Glancing over at John, he slowly nodded his head and scratched his scruffy beard as if he was telling Max to get on with her set or get the hell off his precious stage. She pulled the cord attached to her microphone so that it pooled at her feet.

“The second thing you all need to know is that I am a One Direction super fan. Are there any One D fans in the house tonight?” Max looked around the room and locked eyes with a couch full of young girls wearing ripped jeans and graphic tee shirts. One of them had long fingernails painted with neon designs, and her hands were dressed with stacks of silver rings.

“I know YOU are a Harry girl, right?” Max pointed at the girl with the orange nails. “Ohh yeah. Harry Styles could taste my watermelon sugar ANY-day of the week baby.”

The girl with the funky fingernails wrinkled her forehead and gently smiled at Max. She subtly elbowed her friend sitting next to her on the velvet couch. The third girl held her phone up and started to record Max, even though they were all unamused by Max’s first lineup of jokes. Slightly offended by their obvious judgement, Max quickly turned on her heels to walk to the other side of the stage. But as she turned, her leg got caught in the wire attached to her microphone and she threw her hands out to catch herself before smacking her face on the dirty stage. A few gasps and chuckles sounded from the audience.

“Well shit,” Max said under her breath. She quickly pulled her knees under her chest to stand up, but just as she began to rise, her stomach growled again. Only this time, it was more of a gurgle than a growl. The acidic taste of lime and tequila burned the back of her throat, and before Max could run off the stage, the contents of her insides were all over the stage, the microphone, and her leather Marc Jacobs boots.

A chorus of “EWWWS” sounded out from the crowd. Max tried to suppress the second wave of vomit that was quickly approaching, but she had no choice but to continue hurling on that circular stage surrounded by an angry audience. If people weren’t recording Max before, they were surely recording her now. She groaned before using the back of her wrist to wipe the corners of her mouth. Using her long brown hair as a shield to cover her low-hung face, Max stood up and ran down the stage’s steps and toward the rooftop’s exit. Once she was inside, she ran into John Sikes’s office to grab all her belongings that she hid in there. Deciding that the elevator would take too long to come, Max went out the main exit and ran down four flights of stairs until she was out on the sidewalk in front of the building.

Immediately after stepping foot outside, Max scanned the street for a green wire trashcan and rushed over to it. She threw up one more time and coughed once she felt she had recovered from her bout of nausea. A couple passing by grimaced at Max, and the girl moved her hand up to her face to cover her mouth that was hanging open. Max frowned at the couple—she hated that they were probably strolling home after a cute date at a wholesome restaurant like Kotobuki Sushi or Love Mama. Meanwhile, she just spent the past twenty-minutes embarrassing herself in front of a greasy guy that she went on one mediocre date with. When the couple was far enough down the street, Max used the back of her hand to smell her breath. She sensed a mix of acid and hints of the burrito she had eaten earlier for dinner. Her stomach gurgled again, but she swallowed the rising bile in her throat and power walked home as fast as she could. On her short walk, she picked up a small pepperoni pizza from a hole-in-the-wall joint that she passed. If Max was going to mentally and physically recover from the embarrassment that just occurred, she was going to need some comfort food.

The only thing, though, was that Max couldn’t recover from publicly yakking at The Comedy Garden. Thanks to some commendable teamwork between the One Direction couch girls and John Sikes, a high-definition, graphic video of Max puking went up on the Comedy Garden’s YouTube channel less than 24-hours later. Max wouldn’t have known about the video at all except for the fact that her mom texted her a link to it the following morning. Max supposed it was her own fault for telling her parents that she was finally getting back into standup and giving them the exact name and location of the comedy club. Her poor mother woke up on Thursday morning and looked for her set on YouTube only to find a video titled “HARRY SYLES WOULD HATE HER WATERMELON SUGAR” with a thumbnail photo of Max kneeling in her own vomit.

She spent the rest of Thursday sobbing and googling ways to get a video removed on YouTube. But sadly, she had turned into an overnight viral sensation, and edits of her throwing up to the beat of the song “Watermelon Sugar” had already appeared on TikTok. The official TikTok account for The Comedy Garden had even reposted one video of Max tripping and vomiting on loop. When she finally decided that there was nothing she could do except call off from work and hibernate in her apartment until the end of time, Max ordered cheap Chinese food on Postmates and hoped that it would give her a jolt of temporary happiness.

By Friday morning, Max was still watching The Comedy Garden’s YouTube video of her. Every time she refreshed the page, the view count jumped up by another couple ten-thousand. By this point, she had gone through all stages of grief and her initial embarrassment had manifested into rage.

Max slammed her laptop shut and dug out her phone that was buried between her couch cushions. She scrolled through her recent text messages and found her conversation with John. He had left her on read last time they talked. Max cringed at their last few messages, and she feverishly started drafting an aggressive message.

HOW DARE YOU REPOST THAT VIDEO!?!??!!!!

Maxine you’re a viral sensation. It’s great publicity for the club.

            No matter how many times Max had corrected John and told him that only her parents used her full name, he refused to remember her nickname. Maybe he was doing it to spite her. Or maybe, Max thought, this was just part of John’s lame sense of humor.

my name is MAX you dumb fuck

Ouch.

delete it

Even bad press is press, Max. You could really capitalize on this.

Max threw her phone across the room and watched as it shattered on her refrigerator. Grabbing the nearest pillow on her couch, she held it up to her face and let out a shrill scream.

  “FUCK YOU John Sikes! I hope you ROT IN HELL!”