Suddenly, everyone wanted to be his new best friend and for all of the wrong reasons. Imagining myself as him, I think I would have flipped out a bit too. Culture shock can cause a man to reevaluate his life in a heartbeat.
I feel that in trying to figure out who his real friends were, trying to come to terms with the reality around him, he lost sight of what was important - his condo, his work, his family - and he fell into the superficially-charged, pseudo-beatnik society that hung around downtown and sucked him dry like leeches after torrential rain. They clung to him and to life. He relished in his hanger-on-ers like a narcissistic God would of his followers. But all the while, I think he realized that most of the relationships he had with people in this town weren't true. And to know, in the back of your mind, that your friends aren't really your friends, but pretending that they are on the surface to get what they want, has got to hurt like hell.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
"I can read your mind."
Last night a man showed up at the front door in nothing but his underwear and as I stood there gaping at him in the doorway, we both realized that I was intimidated by his beauty and I quickly looked away.
It was too late though. I had already been caught. And then he winked at me. Winking is weird.
It was too late though. I had already been caught. And then he winked at me. Winking is weird.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
A World at Large
When I hung up the phone my stomach lurched. What had I just done? Why did I just call him? We haven't seen each other in four months, let alone spoken. Things didn't exactly end on good terms, but they didn't end on bad ones either. Our relationship just ended abruptly, without explanation, and that's why I knew we weren't finished. I suppose that is why I called...
I was so distracted by our conversation that I missed my bus stop by thirty blocks. It was the last run of the day and the bus wasn't going back to where I needed to go, so I had no choice but to get off and walk. My mind wandered away from him for a moment and I was just filled with resentment toward the county bus system, as if my error was somehow their fault.
As I stepped off the bus into the sweltering heat, the air was moist because it had been raining all afternoon. I was wearing a long trench coat that was too heavy for the weather but I didn't feel like carrying it, so I suffered and tried not to think about the stream of sweat already trickling down my back underneath the nylon material. A song I just put on my iPod that afternoon came on shuffle. I didn't know the words and I was happy for that. When I'm listening to music and the lyrics are familiar, I can't think clearly because I'm so distracted by the lyrics themselves. With this song, it was just like white noise, a soundtrack to my life that everyone but me could decipher. My mind wandered back to the phone call, to four months ago, to him.
It all started back in January with the restaurant, Zak's. I had somehow attained this pseudo-glamourous job that I wasn't exactly qualified for, but any monkey could do. My official title isn't important but my job description is: I was basically geisha of this premier restaurant. I was hired to be ogled at and I knew it. When I went for my "interview", it consisted of me eating filet mignon and crab cakes out on the patio of this fine establishment, overlooking the sunset and the twinkling lights of the Ritz Carlton. All I did was talk about myself and scathe off half-attempts at flirting from the owner. All around me people were laughing, drinking, and dressed like they were about to attend an opera, when really, they would probably just go home after they finished their meals, or perhaps, out to some fancy place that I wasn't aware existed for a night cap.
I was completely transfixed.
After my first shift, a Saturday evening, I sat around the bar drinking wine with the waiters as they counted their tips. We recounted the events of the evening, talking about snooty customers and their ridiculous requests, recalling a woman with seven face lifts who, sadly, resembled a cat. At around midnight, in he walked, dressed in tuxedo wear, looking devilishly handsome and dignified. I knew he was too old for me but couldn't help myself from glancing at him as he spoke to the owner. He gestured toward me.
"This is the Hostess with the Most-ess!", the owner said.
"My name is Janel," I said as I shyly stuck out my hand.
Me - Shy? What was going on? I couldn't believe I had turned into such a school girl in front of this man, but at the same time, I suppose that's all I was - just a school girl. I wasn't exactly sure how old he was, but I assumed the gap was far larger than one that I had ever encountered for an attraction.
But as he sat down next to me at the bartop, he didn't seem old. He exuberated a warmth not often found in men my age. He was strong, yes, but he also felt comfortable. I talked with him briefly, I know, but I can't remember what was said. That first conversation never stood out to me; only the feeling I got by being around him did. I now recount this experience as the first time I ever felt anything for, not a boy, but a man. It was the first time I ever really felt like a woman.
I later found out from my co-worker that this man worked at the Ritz Carlton, in the bar. Immediately, I felt betrayed. He seemed so wealthy, so cultured! He carried himself with this haughty aire that screamed, "I AM IMPORTANT! LOOK AT ME!", but really, he was in the service industry, just like us. But this was just my introduction to high society. I later learned that class and wealth do not come hand in hand and that a cultured and wealthy person doesn't necessarily have to have a six figure income. When I discovered this news I wasn't disappointed that this man didn't hold the profession that I imagined he had, something ridiculously typical but lucrative, like an investment banker. In fact, I was even more intrigued, because he unknowingly tricked me into believing he was more than he actually was. He made me want more. I believe that is the moral of the story.
Our second interaction happened a few weeks later. It was during the day at the restaurant, a Wednesday. When he walked up I didn't recognize him, partially because he was dressed down in khaki pants and a collard shirt, but also because he had a woman on his arm. The owner immediately went out to greet the couple and when he said the man's name I realized who it was, and again, because of the demonstrative greeting he received, I felt like he was more important than he actually was. Again, I was transfixed.
Rather than paying attention to my work that evening, I kept sneaking peeks out the front window at the table he was seated at on the patio. I walked, zombie-like, around the restaurant, seating patrons at their table, saying goodnight with a fake, plastic smile on my face as they left after their meal. I was repeating the same lines I said every night, completely disengaged from my surroundings but faking enthusiasm. I just wanted to get rid of whoever I was dealing with so I could get back to pretending I wasn't spying on the man and his lady-friend.
Throughout the evening I did, occasionally, check the reservation book to see when the next party was coming in. One of these times I was looking at the map of the restaurant laid out before me when I felt a presence from behind. I spun around and was face-to-face with him and he starring down at me with an almost amused expression on his face.
"Bathroom." was the only word I was able to sputter out.
Here, his mild expression of amusement turned into an all-out grin and I felt myself reddening.
I cleared my throat. "Do you need to use the restroom?", I asked.
He nodded, still smiling, and I signaled for him to follow me. It was part of my job description to show, even our most regular customers, to the restroom. I always found it rather degrading, the way I had to present the bathroom door to the customer like it was a grand entrance way to a tomb where their golden thrown awaited them at the end of their meal. Afterward, on his way back out to the patio, he thanked me and I just wished that the night would be over.
But it seemed endless. They stayed all night, until well after closing. The woman he came with got very drunk and he appeared drunk, as well, but also, irritated. She was practically hanging on my arm as we sat at the bar after hours.We had discovered that we were both from Connecticut, a bonding point, apparently, and she proceeded to tell me, three times, about her family's typical Christmas.
"It's so nice to be able to share this story with someone. I love talking about my family, but with him I feel guilty because..." and this is where she lowered her voice into an almost condescending whisper, as if what she were about to say were a disgusting crime against humanity, "because he's adopted."
She gestured toward him with her elbow as she said this and then added, as if it mattered, "But don't tell him I told you."
And I never did tell him. I let him tell me on his own after our relationship escalated to that point. When he told me I acted as if I had been hearing it for the first time, but my mind flashed back to that night. The awkwardness of it all. Here I was engaging in a conversation with the woman who belonged to the man I was secretly attracted to and here she was divulging private information about his childhood to a complete stranger. At the time, I'd thought I'd never do this if I were his. I still believe that.
She continued to babble on throughout the evening saying shallow, gutless things to me like, "You should be a model." and "I could get you a job in PR." It was almost like she sensed the attraction between us but knew that because it was unspoken, she could make these comments and get away with them, securing her role as the dominant female. A few times I caught him glancing at me across the room. He and the owner had, by this point, isolated themselves to the far corner of the bar and were talking about, I don't know, man things. The looks he gave me were unreadable and I chose for them to be meaningless because he was here with her and I was going home in an hour and none of it would matter in the morning.
I later learned that this woman was his long-term girlfriend of forever-and-a-day, and that I had met him at the death rattle of their relationship. They broke up a couple of weeks after that and then the expressions on his face that evening made more sense. When he later spoke of her though, I could tell that he still loved her but wished he didn't. This was hardest for me.
*****
At Zak's, Friday night was Ritz night. I had been invited by the owner and his crony, several times, but always declined because I thought that I had somewhere better to be. One night though, my girlfriend met me at the restaurant after I got off and we were both invited. I warded off making any sort of commitment at the time but later, brought her into the bathroom with me to talk in private about the prospect of going.
"They'll probably pay for our drinks," she said.
I laughed at her naivety. "Of course they will."
We both smiled at each other, downed our wine, and the next thing I knew we were walking into the Ritz Carlton like we owned the place. Big band music was blaring from the far corner of the room, older couples were dancing, and he was behind the bar. I wasn't worried about being underage, even though I was clearly the youngest person in the room, but I was worried about being nervous. Without even waiting to be asked for a drink by a server, I scurried up to the bar to order my standard Cape Cod. I just needed something in my hand. I needed to feel like I had a reason to be there. The men from the restaurant had not yet come in with us because they were parking the car and I felt vulnerable. With the owner there, I knew that I was protected, and without him hovering, the only other connection I had to the place was him.
So I sat at the bar toying with a napkin while he made my drink and I strained to think of something to say. When I reached into my purse to pay he waved his hand and wouldn't let me. I smiled and thanked him for his generosity but secretly, I always thought that was such a cop out for bartenders. Of course they weren't actually paying for the drink even though they acted like they were; they'd just sneaked it to you without their boss looking. Still, I felt flattered that he took the risk, however small.
With my nervousness starting to dissipate with each over-priced cocktail I drank, I wished that time would slow. It was approaching 1:30 and I knew it would be time to leave soon. What would happen then? Probably, I would get into the car with my girlfriend and she would drunkenly drive us home. I didn't have any other choice. But I still had time to make my move.
At this point we were sitting outside on the balcony overlooking the fancy retention pond at the edge of the hotel grounds and I excused myself to the restroom. When I came back my girlfriend and one of the guys I worked with were off canoodling somewhere in the darkness and I was left alone with the owner feeling slightly uncomfortable. Thanks a lot, best friend. I sat there and made small talk about things I didn't care about when he excused himself and went inside.
And there I was with a full ash trey before me, sitting alone outside the Ritz Carlton lounge. I texted my girlfriend and - surprise, surprise - no response. I finished my drink and decided to use this opportunity to seal my own fate. When I walked inside, I immediately spotted the owner talking to an older woman on the dance floor, flirting, in the way that old people flirt. I felt slightly betrayed but also relieved that he was, at least, talking to someone around his own age. Then I realized the ridiculousness of my thought. I was on my way to see someone twice my age. But he's different.
I approached the bar more confidently this time, mostly because I was drunk, but also because the people I had come with were preoccupied and I didn't feel like I was being watched. Our tone was flirtatious and again, I can't remember what we talked about, but this time it was more significant. We had things in common, by this point, and they weren't just the people we associated with him. Mostly, I just liked watching him work. I realized then that it took skill to do what he did. Not only did he seem to have memorized every drink that he made, but the patrons at the bar seemed to genuinely like him and want to associate with him. He wasn't just there to serve, he was there to entertain. He wasn't in the service industry - he was in the people industry. He held every one of them in the palm of his hand and he knew it.
Sooner or later the group all gathered around me at the bar where I sat eating hot wasabi nuts and salted cashews. I was eating them like I hadn't eaten in days, ordering coffee (which was not on the menu), and pocketing matches when I thought no one was looking. I still laugh out loud thinking about this scene. I was being completely silly at the bar of this five star establishment. I wasn't belligerent or even obnoxious, just a precious, drunk, young girl. I remember saying to the head bartender, "You look like a tired Ken Doll." and having everyone at the bar laugh and my absurd and truthful statement.
When it was time to leave the bar, you knew it. The band had long since stopped playing and packed up and now even the smooth jazz playing on the overhead sound system had come to an end. The lights brightened, and as I looked around I realized that life among the rich held no more glamour than a dive bar at this time of night. People still looked haggard, only they looked this way while wearing Armani.
Our goodbyes were quick and as I stumbled gracefully out of the lounge I stopped in the foyer to watch the owner of the restaurant playing a piano that was clearly off-limits to anyone who wasn't hired to be playing it. It was then that I realized I had left my coat inside on the back of the chair. I went back to the doors of the lounge but already they were locked and the place was empty. I peered through the large glass windows to see him and the others counting their tips. I rapped on the glass and he looked up and smiled that affectionate smile that had won me over to begin with.
"Hi. Sorry. I forgot my coat on that chair," I said as I pointed behind him.
"One sec," he said.
He came back with it in his arms and draped it around my shoulders like a man was supposed to.
"Well.... thanks. Goodnight..."
And then he pulled my face towards his and he kissed me. It wasn't aggressive. He didn't kiss me in the way that teenage boys did. He didn't kiss me for his benefit, only for mine. It was soft and just on the mouth. He didn't even try to stick his tongue down my throat. It was the best kiss I've ever had. And when it was over I just started at him, grinning like an idiot. I couldn't speak.
"Goodnight, you."
And finally, I whispered: "Goodnight."
*****
The following Friday I wanted a repeat of the previous. The same scenario happened: We sat around for an hour after work, pretended to flirt with the idea of going out afterward, and then my girlfriend and I discussed it in the bathroom at the restaurant with our wine in hand. I was more giddy than nervous this time and my girlfriend, though she disapproved, couldn't say anything about my situation because she was in a similar one herself with one of my coworkers - and he was - gasp - married! Her disgruntled and inappropriate relationship trumped mine and she knew it, so she kept her mouth shut about the trouble I was about to get myself in.
This time, the owner was more territorial with me while we sat at the bar. I sensed that he sensed the attraction between me and him and was jealous of the attention that he wasn't receiving. I suppose my sexuality tricked the owner into thinking that something might happen between us even though I found him repulsing, but generous. I had made myself clear on this point dozens of times but I think he felt that I was just saying this to seem modest when, in fact, I was just being honest about my intentions.
Sure you can buy me drinks but you'll only be doing so in exchange for my company.
I was a horrid little girl and I knew exactly what I was doing.
I went outside for a cigarette and the owner followed me.
"He's a schmuck, you know?"
I knew who he meant.
"He just broke up with her," he said, digging at me.
"We're just friends," I lied.
"Sure, sure."
He was so smug. You're the schmuck. In actuality, he was probably right all along. We both were.
As the evening at the Ritz came to a close, to my surprise, the owner said we were all going to a late-night bar downtown and he invited him. When I think back on it now, I wonder if the owner knew that by inviting him, it would be extending an invitation to us to further our relationship, and that by doing this, it would trigger everything that led to this point. It was like the owner wanted things to begin so they could end.
We arrived at the bar earlier than he did and I can't remember if we proceeded to drink or not. When he arrived, which seemed shortly after we did though it couldn't possibly have been, he already seemed drunk. He sat down next to me and took my hand. The group was already engaged in a conversation about who would win the Democratic nomination, and when he joined in it added an air of excitement to the conversation. He knew what he was talking about and had opinions that differed slightly from my own. Perfect.
We talked about everything you'd expect two people who were just getting to know each other would. We started back to the car ahead of the others. When we got back to the restaurant where it was parked he kissed my hand gently and then aggressively pulled me toward him. A fear started creeping up inside of me. Who was this man that made me feel so delicate, so lady-like, but also made me want to rip off my clothes and fuck him right there in the road? What if we got caught? I truly felt like I was doing something wrong, but really, what I felt was fear of what others would think. What I was doing felt right, felt natural. Despite this man's age and despite all of the social implications of a "May-December Romance", I felt like I belonged in this moment and that I was there for all the right reasons - the one right reason - the only reason that truly mattered. I liked him.
From this point on we started talking regularly, mostly through email, but we spoke, none-the-less. I never really felt comfortable on the phone with anyone anyway. I always feel distracted on the phone because I never know what to look at. I express myself better in written word or with my facial expressions, so I relished the time we got to speak on the computer and when I got to see him in person. The phone, for us, did not exist. This is why our interaction today was so strange. Our conversation was so blunt, so unaffected by our true emotions. If it had happened over text or email (and it probably wouldn't have because he wouldn't have responded) it would have been more dramatic. On the telephone, we just got to the point and hung up, and for today, that sort of interaction worked.
Our conversations though, were like conversations that played out on movie screens. We were always discussing the meaning of something. Things never got boring, but looking back, there was a falseness to it all. It was like we were acting out the way we thought the relationship should be. We both were too uncomfortable with the reality of our situation to actually allow ourselves to be happy with one another.
*****
The night we slept together was fun, but not magical. I was at a karaoke bar with my friends and had run down to a bar down the way to say hello to a friend. When I walked in, he was there. He was sitting with his back toward me talking to another man who I didn't recognize. At first, I walked past him, but then I thought better, and walked right up to him to say hello. I was feeling pretty and had just gotten my hair cut. I was tanner than usual and I wanted him to notice. He did. He offered to buy me a drink but I told him that I wasn't staying because I was with friends at the karaoke place but I half-heartedly invited him to join. Since the night of our aggressive make-out session outside the restaurant we hadn't seen much of each other and nothing more had escalated physically between us since then.
I went back to join my friends at the other bar and fifteen minutes later he walked in the door. I was astonished that he actually showed up and realized that I was more concerned with what people thought of our relationship than I actually realized. But he looked confident. He sat down the corner of the smaller, quieter bar, and he was the only one there. I understood that he wanted me to approach him and I was thankful for this because I can't imagine the awkwardness of what would have ensued had he approached me surrounded by all of my friends.
I had let everyone know what was going on before I disembarked from the group and then I went to join him. He ordered a Cape Cod for me without even asking what I wanted and I liked that he remembered, but then again, that was his job. He made me feel like I was the only thing that mattered in the moment and we sat for hours in those seats and I began to forget or not care about the stares from those who knew me well and looked on. Even the bartender, who I was familiar with, gave me a strange look but I just smiled because I was happy to be with him.
I think it was my idea to go back to his place. I never knew quite how to end things and with lack of a better thing to do, I just decided why not? His apartment was a nice one-bedroom in the Laurel Park district. It had wood floors and didn't smell like a boy's house. He had a collection of books displayed along the walls of his living room and a dining room table that made his kitchen homey and not sterile, like many men's kitchens I'd been in before. We sat down and I drank water while he drank beer and we sat there chain-smoking and talking for another couple of hours putting off the inevitable.
I think that we were both nervous for different reasons. I was thinking, Am I experienced enough? And I wasn't. And he was probably thinking, I hope she doesn't think that because we do this we're a couple. And also, I bet her pussy is tight. I remember bleeding because of the harshness of it all and the size of his penis. It didn't hurt during, but I knew I'd be sore in the morning. I fell asleep soon after and didn't think much about what I had just done. Instead, I just wished I had a toothbrush and eye make-up remover and how I'd look and smell horrible in the morning.
I awoke before him and snuck into the bathroom to use his toothbrush and wash the crust from beneath my eyes. I crawled back into bed and kissed him until he awoke and then he went to the store to get me cream for my coffee. While he was gone I went to set up the coffee pot and discovered it had molded because, just like a man, he hadn't emptied the grounds from coffee that looked like they'd been there for months. Everything else in his apartment was clean, but by this I was so repulsed. But he had gone to get me cream, and if I had decided that I didn't want coffee, he would have insisted and then he would have attempted to make it himself and would have discovered the mold and been embarrassed. So I cleaned it. I scrubbed. Hard. And looking at it after I had finished, you never would have known there were tiny black ants crawling inside of the old filter and that it smelled, faintly, of stale cat piss.
He arrived back with the cream and the paper and we sat at the table like two civil adults and discussed the world's events. With him I didn't feel like an "adult", I just felt like myself, whatever that was. He showed me pictures of his family and friends in his photo albums and he actually seemed excited when he did this, like a five year old showing you a picture they drew of the house they lived in. He seemed proud. This is when he told me he was adopted and this was when I pretended not to know, all the while looking at the pictures of his family trying to decide whether or not he resembled them.
*****
At one point during the morning he said, "You were born old, Janel."
I still regard this as the highest compliment I have ever received and think of it often.
*****
I wished that the morning would drag on forever, but we both had responsibilities, though I'm not sure what mine were at the time - perhaps - just to go home? When we got into the car I fought not to ask him when the next time I'd see him again would be. And that's when he asked me if I would get dinner with him that coming Sunday.
"We could have dinner wherever you'd like, get a nice bottle of wine, and then fuck all night."
It was vulgar but sweet and exactly what I wanted. I felt he knew me.
Of course, I agreed and I got out of his car and spent the rest of the week soaring above the clouds. I anticipated Sunday and obsessed about it constantly with my friend Erica, who thought the whole thing was a horrible idea. But I took her disapproval as a sign of her lack of experience. She didn't necessarily try to talk me out of anything, she just cautioned me to not get my hopes up like I always do.
Sunday afternoon, when I called her crying because I had not heard from him to finalize our plans, she was oddly optimistic.
"Janel, calm down. It's only two o'clock. He probably works until the early evening and will call you when he gets off. There's still time."
"I just have this feeling, Erica. Everyone I've ever known has let me down and why should he be any different?"
"If you think negatively about it, then it will probably turn out negatively, Janel."
"No," I said to her defiantly. "It will turn out how its supposed to. What will happen has already been decided by whatever Gods are up there and now it's just up to Father Time to catch up with the deities decisions."
"You're retarded."
And then I laughed because I didn't know what else to do. I knew he wouldn't call and he didn't. It stung. I called a few times that evening to see if he'd answer. Perhaps his cell phone fell into the toilet? I doubted it. So I called one, last, final time to tell him what I thought of him on his voice mail. I wasn't angry and I didn't cry. I was eerily calm, like in the movies, right before the woman goes insane and kills her entire family. Except, I didn't want to kill anyone. I just wanted to forget everything that had happened.
I cannot even remember what I said on that message but I wish I had recorded myself because I remember it being well-articulated and sounding triumphant, even though I had just been blown off. He never called later in the evening to apologize for forgetting and he didn't call the next day or the day after that. I knew that I didn't mean more to him than what had happened between us and I wondered what the point of it all was. Why put someone through all of that just to purposely let them down?
And then the next four months happened, which were a blur. I went from being perched upon my high horse to being no longer employed at Zak's (by my own choice), no longer attending karaoke, and no longer going to any of the late night haunts I used to frequent, especially the Ritz Carlton. I spent time living on a school bus converted into an RV, living with a bunch of hippies, not showering, eating beets. "Getting back to the earth" is what I called it, and now I feel like it was a form of escapism, rather than an existential crisis, which is what I had, at the time, viewed it as. But it helped me get through it all. It helped me mourn the loss of a world I had once held dear to me and then watched fall apart.
Of course I cried. Everyone knows that it hurts to feel like you're worthless. It hurts to know that I, as a human being, can be disposed of so easily. And I didn't think about it much over the next four months, but when I did, I wondered if I were really thrown out or just put into storage. Recently, I've been so preoccupied by other things that I haven't thought about this part of my life in weeks. But all at once, as I was approaching the bus station this afternoon, it came flooding back for no particular reason. So I picked up the phone and called him.
"Hello?"
"Hi. How are you?"
My voice was warn and when I asked how he was, I actually was interested in the answer.
"Who is this?"
Wow. He had deleted my number from his phone. That's the only explanation for that question. And I smiled because I knew I had him.
"It's Janel Blessing."
"Wow. Hi. How have you been? I.... How are you?"
Me talking to the bus driver: "Excuse me, does this bus go to Beneva and Webber?"
"Janel, are you telling the bus driver where to take you? That's just like you."
"No, of course not. I was asking, but I did do that once and it worked."
He laughed.
"So, Darby, what happened?"
"What happened.... I..."
"I'd love to hear about what happened."
"And I would love to tell you, Janel, but you know I go into work at six and I can't now. But I'd like to tell you tomorrow at lunch, if you'll have it with me."
"What time?"
"Whatever time you want. I work at six."
"One. You realize you are taking me to lunch too, right?"
"Of course. I'll call you at noon tomorrow."
"I'll hold you to it, Darby. Goodbye."
"Bye, Janel."
And I will hold him to it.
I was so distracted by our conversation that I missed my bus stop by thirty blocks. It was the last run of the day and the bus wasn't going back to where I needed to go, so I had no choice but to get off and walk. My mind wandered away from him for a moment and I was just filled with resentment toward the county bus system, as if my error was somehow their fault.
As I stepped off the bus into the sweltering heat, the air was moist because it had been raining all afternoon. I was wearing a long trench coat that was too heavy for the weather but I didn't feel like carrying it, so I suffered and tried not to think about the stream of sweat already trickling down my back underneath the nylon material. A song I just put on my iPod that afternoon came on shuffle. I didn't know the words and I was happy for that. When I'm listening to music and the lyrics are familiar, I can't think clearly because I'm so distracted by the lyrics themselves. With this song, it was just like white noise, a soundtrack to my life that everyone but me could decipher. My mind wandered back to the phone call, to four months ago, to him.
It all started back in January with the restaurant, Zak's. I had somehow attained this pseudo-glamourous job that I wasn't exactly qualified for, but any monkey could do. My official title isn't important but my job description is: I was basically geisha of this premier restaurant. I was hired to be ogled at and I knew it. When I went for my "interview", it consisted of me eating filet mignon and crab cakes out on the patio of this fine establishment, overlooking the sunset and the twinkling lights of the Ritz Carlton. All I did was talk about myself and scathe off half-attempts at flirting from the owner. All around me people were laughing, drinking, and dressed like they were about to attend an opera, when really, they would probably just go home after they finished their meals, or perhaps, out to some fancy place that I wasn't aware existed for a night cap.
I was completely transfixed.
After my first shift, a Saturday evening, I sat around the bar drinking wine with the waiters as they counted their tips. We recounted the events of the evening, talking about snooty customers and their ridiculous requests, recalling a woman with seven face lifts who, sadly, resembled a cat. At around midnight, in he walked, dressed in tuxedo wear, looking devilishly handsome and dignified. I knew he was too old for me but couldn't help myself from glancing at him as he spoke to the owner. He gestured toward me.
"This is the Hostess with the Most-ess!", the owner said.
"My name is Janel," I said as I shyly stuck out my hand.
Me - Shy? What was going on? I couldn't believe I had turned into such a school girl in front of this man, but at the same time, I suppose that's all I was - just a school girl. I wasn't exactly sure how old he was, but I assumed the gap was far larger than one that I had ever encountered for an attraction.
But as he sat down next to me at the bartop, he didn't seem old. He exuberated a warmth not often found in men my age. He was strong, yes, but he also felt comfortable. I talked with him briefly, I know, but I can't remember what was said. That first conversation never stood out to me; only the feeling I got by being around him did. I now recount this experience as the first time I ever felt anything for, not a boy, but a man. It was the first time I ever really felt like a woman.
I later found out from my co-worker that this man worked at the Ritz Carlton, in the bar. Immediately, I felt betrayed. He seemed so wealthy, so cultured! He carried himself with this haughty aire that screamed, "I AM IMPORTANT! LOOK AT ME!", but really, he was in the service industry, just like us. But this was just my introduction to high society. I later learned that class and wealth do not come hand in hand and that a cultured and wealthy person doesn't necessarily have to have a six figure income. When I discovered this news I wasn't disappointed that this man didn't hold the profession that I imagined he had, something ridiculously typical but lucrative, like an investment banker. In fact, I was even more intrigued, because he unknowingly tricked me into believing he was more than he actually was. He made me want more. I believe that is the moral of the story.
Our second interaction happened a few weeks later. It was during the day at the restaurant, a Wednesday. When he walked up I didn't recognize him, partially because he was dressed down in khaki pants and a collard shirt, but also because he had a woman on his arm. The owner immediately went out to greet the couple and when he said the man's name I realized who it was, and again, because of the demonstrative greeting he received, I felt like he was more important than he actually was. Again, I was transfixed.
Rather than paying attention to my work that evening, I kept sneaking peeks out the front window at the table he was seated at on the patio. I walked, zombie-like, around the restaurant, seating patrons at their table, saying goodnight with a fake, plastic smile on my face as they left after their meal. I was repeating the same lines I said every night, completely disengaged from my surroundings but faking enthusiasm. I just wanted to get rid of whoever I was dealing with so I could get back to pretending I wasn't spying on the man and his lady-friend.
Throughout the evening I did, occasionally, check the reservation book to see when the next party was coming in. One of these times I was looking at the map of the restaurant laid out before me when I felt a presence from behind. I spun around and was face-to-face with him and he starring down at me with an almost amused expression on his face.
"Bathroom." was the only word I was able to sputter out.
Here, his mild expression of amusement turned into an all-out grin and I felt myself reddening.
I cleared my throat. "Do you need to use the restroom?", I asked.
He nodded, still smiling, and I signaled for him to follow me. It was part of my job description to show, even our most regular customers, to the restroom. I always found it rather degrading, the way I had to present the bathroom door to the customer like it was a grand entrance way to a tomb where their golden thrown awaited them at the end of their meal. Afterward, on his way back out to the patio, he thanked me and I just wished that the night would be over.
But it seemed endless. They stayed all night, until well after closing. The woman he came with got very drunk and he appeared drunk, as well, but also, irritated. She was practically hanging on my arm as we sat at the bar after hours.We had discovered that we were both from Connecticut, a bonding point, apparently, and she proceeded to tell me, three times, about her family's typical Christmas.
"It's so nice to be able to share this story with someone. I love talking about my family, but with him I feel guilty because..." and this is where she lowered her voice into an almost condescending whisper, as if what she were about to say were a disgusting crime against humanity, "because he's adopted."
She gestured toward him with her elbow as she said this and then added, as if it mattered, "But don't tell him I told you."
And I never did tell him. I let him tell me on his own after our relationship escalated to that point. When he told me I acted as if I had been hearing it for the first time, but my mind flashed back to that night. The awkwardness of it all. Here I was engaging in a conversation with the woman who belonged to the man I was secretly attracted to and here she was divulging private information about his childhood to a complete stranger. At the time, I'd thought I'd never do this if I were his. I still believe that.
She continued to babble on throughout the evening saying shallow, gutless things to me like, "You should be a model." and "I could get you a job in PR." It was almost like she sensed the attraction between us but knew that because it was unspoken, she could make these comments and get away with them, securing her role as the dominant female. A few times I caught him glancing at me across the room. He and the owner had, by this point, isolated themselves to the far corner of the bar and were talking about, I don't know, man things. The looks he gave me were unreadable and I chose for them to be meaningless because he was here with her and I was going home in an hour and none of it would matter in the morning.
I later learned that this woman was his long-term girlfriend of forever-and-a-day, and that I had met him at the death rattle of their relationship. They broke up a couple of weeks after that and then the expressions on his face that evening made more sense. When he later spoke of her though, I could tell that he still loved her but wished he didn't. This was hardest for me.
At Zak's, Friday night was Ritz night. I had been invited by the owner and his crony, several times, but always declined because I thought that I had somewhere better to be. One night though, my girlfriend met me at the restaurant after I got off and we were both invited. I warded off making any sort of commitment at the time but later, brought her into the bathroom with me to talk in private about the prospect of going.
"They'll probably pay for our drinks," she said.
I laughed at her naivety. "Of course they will."
We both smiled at each other, downed our wine, and the next thing I knew we were walking into the Ritz Carlton like we owned the place. Big band music was blaring from the far corner of the room, older couples were dancing, and he was behind the bar. I wasn't worried about being underage, even though I was clearly the youngest person in the room, but I was worried about being nervous. Without even waiting to be asked for a drink by a server, I scurried up to the bar to order my standard Cape Cod. I just needed something in my hand. I needed to feel like I had a reason to be there. The men from the restaurant had not yet come in with us because they were parking the car and I felt vulnerable. With the owner there, I knew that I was protected, and without him hovering, the only other connection I had to the place was him.
So I sat at the bar toying with a napkin while he made my drink and I strained to think of something to say. When I reached into my purse to pay he waved his hand and wouldn't let me. I smiled and thanked him for his generosity but secretly, I always thought that was such a cop out for bartenders. Of course they weren't actually paying for the drink even though they acted like they were; they'd just sneaked it to you without their boss looking. Still, I felt flattered that he took the risk, however small.
With my nervousness starting to dissipate with each over-priced cocktail I drank, I wished that time would slow. It was approaching 1:30 and I knew it would be time to leave soon. What would happen then? Probably, I would get into the car with my girlfriend and she would drunkenly drive us home. I didn't have any other choice. But I still had time to make my move.
At this point we were sitting outside on the balcony overlooking the fancy retention pond at the edge of the hotel grounds and I excused myself to the restroom. When I came back my girlfriend and one of the guys I worked with were off canoodling somewhere in the darkness and I was left alone with the owner feeling slightly uncomfortable. Thanks a lot, best friend. I sat there and made small talk about things I didn't care about when he excused himself and went inside.
And there I was with a full ash trey before me, sitting alone outside the Ritz Carlton lounge. I texted my girlfriend and - surprise, surprise - no response. I finished my drink and decided to use this opportunity to seal my own fate. When I walked inside, I immediately spotted the owner talking to an older woman on the dance floor, flirting, in the way that old people flirt. I felt slightly betrayed but also relieved that he was, at least, talking to someone around his own age. Then I realized the ridiculousness of my thought. I was on my way to see someone twice my age. But he's different.
I approached the bar more confidently this time, mostly because I was drunk, but also because the people I had come with were preoccupied and I didn't feel like I was being watched. Our tone was flirtatious and again, I can't remember what we talked about, but this time it was more significant. We had things in common, by this point, and they weren't just the people we associated with him. Mostly, I just liked watching him work. I realized then that it took skill to do what he did. Not only did he seem to have memorized every drink that he made, but the patrons at the bar seemed to genuinely like him and want to associate with him. He wasn't just there to serve, he was there to entertain. He wasn't in the service industry - he was in the people industry. He held every one of them in the palm of his hand and he knew it.
Sooner or later the group all gathered around me at the bar where I sat eating hot wasabi nuts and salted cashews. I was eating them like I hadn't eaten in days, ordering coffee (which was not on the menu), and pocketing matches when I thought no one was looking. I still laugh out loud thinking about this scene. I was being completely silly at the bar of this five star establishment. I wasn't belligerent or even obnoxious, just a precious, drunk, young girl. I remember saying to the head bartender, "You look like a tired Ken Doll." and having everyone at the bar laugh and my absurd and truthful statement.
When it was time to leave the bar, you knew it. The band had long since stopped playing and packed up and now even the smooth jazz playing on the overhead sound system had come to an end. The lights brightened, and as I looked around I realized that life among the rich held no more glamour than a dive bar at this time of night. People still looked haggard, only they looked this way while wearing Armani.
Our goodbyes were quick and as I stumbled gracefully out of the lounge I stopped in the foyer to watch the owner of the restaurant playing a piano that was clearly off-limits to anyone who wasn't hired to be playing it. It was then that I realized I had left my coat inside on the back of the chair. I went back to the doors of the lounge but already they were locked and the place was empty. I peered through the large glass windows to see him and the others counting their tips. I rapped on the glass and he looked up and smiled that affectionate smile that had won me over to begin with.
"Hi. Sorry. I forgot my coat on that chair," I said as I pointed behind him.
"One sec," he said.
He came back with it in his arms and draped it around my shoulders like a man was supposed to.
"Well.... thanks. Goodnight..."
And then he pulled my face towards his and he kissed me. It wasn't aggressive. He didn't kiss me in the way that teenage boys did. He didn't kiss me for his benefit, only for mine. It was soft and just on the mouth. He didn't even try to stick his tongue down my throat. It was the best kiss I've ever had. And when it was over I just started at him, grinning like an idiot. I couldn't speak.
"Goodnight, you."
And finally, I whispered: "Goodnight."
The following Friday I wanted a repeat of the previous. The same scenario happened: We sat around for an hour after work, pretended to flirt with the idea of going out afterward, and then my girlfriend and I discussed it in the bathroom at the restaurant with our wine in hand. I was more giddy than nervous this time and my girlfriend, though she disapproved, couldn't say anything about my situation because she was in a similar one herself with one of my coworkers - and he was - gasp - married! Her disgruntled and inappropriate relationship trumped mine and she knew it, so she kept her mouth shut about the trouble I was about to get myself in.
This time, the owner was more territorial with me while we sat at the bar. I sensed that he sensed the attraction between me and him and was jealous of the attention that he wasn't receiving. I suppose my sexuality tricked the owner into thinking that something might happen between us even though I found him repulsing, but generous. I had made myself clear on this point dozens of times but I think he felt that I was just saying this to seem modest when, in fact, I was just being honest about my intentions.
Sure you can buy me drinks but you'll only be doing so in exchange for my company.
I was a horrid little girl and I knew exactly what I was doing.
I went outside for a cigarette and the owner followed me.
"He's a schmuck, you know?"
I knew who he meant.
"He just broke up with her," he said, digging at me.
"We're just friends," I lied.
"Sure, sure."
He was so smug. You're the schmuck. In actuality, he was probably right all along. We both were.
As the evening at the Ritz came to a close, to my surprise, the owner said we were all going to a late-night bar downtown and he invited him. When I think back on it now, I wonder if the owner knew that by inviting him, it would be extending an invitation to us to further our relationship, and that by doing this, it would trigger everything that led to this point. It was like the owner wanted things to begin so they could end.
We arrived at the bar earlier than he did and I can't remember if we proceeded to drink or not. When he arrived, which seemed shortly after we did though it couldn't possibly have been, he already seemed drunk. He sat down next to me and took my hand. The group was already engaged in a conversation about who would win the Democratic nomination, and when he joined in it added an air of excitement to the conversation. He knew what he was talking about and had opinions that differed slightly from my own. Perfect.
We talked about everything you'd expect two people who were just getting to know each other would. We started back to the car ahead of the others. When we got back to the restaurant where it was parked he kissed my hand gently and then aggressively pulled me toward him. A fear started creeping up inside of me. Who was this man that made me feel so delicate, so lady-like, but also made me want to rip off my clothes and fuck him right there in the road? What if we got caught? I truly felt like I was doing something wrong, but really, what I felt was fear of what others would think. What I was doing felt right, felt natural. Despite this man's age and despite all of the social implications of a "May-December Romance", I felt like I belonged in this moment and that I was there for all the right reasons - the one right reason - the only reason that truly mattered. I liked him.
From this point on we started talking regularly, mostly through email, but we spoke, none-the-less. I never really felt comfortable on the phone with anyone anyway. I always feel distracted on the phone because I never know what to look at. I express myself better in written word or with my facial expressions, so I relished the time we got to speak on the computer and when I got to see him in person. The phone, for us, did not exist. This is why our interaction today was so strange. Our conversation was so blunt, so unaffected by our true emotions. If it had happened over text or email (and it probably wouldn't have because he wouldn't have responded) it would have been more dramatic. On the telephone, we just got to the point and hung up, and for today, that sort of interaction worked.
Our conversations though, were like conversations that played out on movie screens. We were always discussing the meaning of something. Things never got boring, but looking back, there was a falseness to it all. It was like we were acting out the way we thought the relationship should be. We both were too uncomfortable with the reality of our situation to actually allow ourselves to be happy with one another.
The night we slept together was fun, but not magical. I was at a karaoke bar with my friends and had run down to a bar down the way to say hello to a friend. When I walked in, he was there. He was sitting with his back toward me talking to another man who I didn't recognize. At first, I walked past him, but then I thought better, and walked right up to him to say hello. I was feeling pretty and had just gotten my hair cut. I was tanner than usual and I wanted him to notice. He did. He offered to buy me a drink but I told him that I wasn't staying because I was with friends at the karaoke place but I half-heartedly invited him to join. Since the night of our aggressive make-out session outside the restaurant we hadn't seen much of each other and nothing more had escalated physically between us since then.
I went back to join my friends at the other bar and fifteen minutes later he walked in the door. I was astonished that he actually showed up and realized that I was more concerned with what people thought of our relationship than I actually realized. But he looked confident. He sat down the corner of the smaller, quieter bar, and he was the only one there. I understood that he wanted me to approach him and I was thankful for this because I can't imagine the awkwardness of what would have ensued had he approached me surrounded by all of my friends.
I had let everyone know what was going on before I disembarked from the group and then I went to join him. He ordered a Cape Cod for me without even asking what I wanted and I liked that he remembered, but then again, that was his job. He made me feel like I was the only thing that mattered in the moment and we sat for hours in those seats and I began to forget or not care about the stares from those who knew me well and looked on. Even the bartender, who I was familiar with, gave me a strange look but I just smiled because I was happy to be with him.
I think it was my idea to go back to his place. I never knew quite how to end things and with lack of a better thing to do, I just decided why not? His apartment was a nice one-bedroom in the Laurel Park district. It had wood floors and didn't smell like a boy's house. He had a collection of books displayed along the walls of his living room and a dining room table that made his kitchen homey and not sterile, like many men's kitchens I'd been in before. We sat down and I drank water while he drank beer and we sat there chain-smoking and talking for another couple of hours putting off the inevitable.
I think that we were both nervous for different reasons. I was thinking, Am I experienced enough? And I wasn't. And he was probably thinking, I hope she doesn't think that because we do this we're a couple. And also, I bet her pussy is tight. I remember bleeding because of the harshness of it all and the size of his penis. It didn't hurt during, but I knew I'd be sore in the morning. I fell asleep soon after and didn't think much about what I had just done. Instead, I just wished I had a toothbrush and eye make-up remover and how I'd look and smell horrible in the morning.
I awoke before him and snuck into the bathroom to use his toothbrush and wash the crust from beneath my eyes. I crawled back into bed and kissed him until he awoke and then he went to the store to get me cream for my coffee. While he was gone I went to set up the coffee pot and discovered it had molded because, just like a man, he hadn't emptied the grounds from coffee that looked like they'd been there for months. Everything else in his apartment was clean, but by this I was so repulsed. But he had gone to get me cream, and if I had decided that I didn't want coffee, he would have insisted and then he would have attempted to make it himself and would have discovered the mold and been embarrassed. So I cleaned it. I scrubbed. Hard. And looking at it after I had finished, you never would have known there were tiny black ants crawling inside of the old filter and that it smelled, faintly, of stale cat piss.
He arrived back with the cream and the paper and we sat at the table like two civil adults and discussed the world's events. With him I didn't feel like an "adult", I just felt like myself, whatever that was. He showed me pictures of his family and friends in his photo albums and he actually seemed excited when he did this, like a five year old showing you a picture they drew of the house they lived in. He seemed proud. This is when he told me he was adopted and this was when I pretended not to know, all the while looking at the pictures of his family trying to decide whether or not he resembled them.
At one point during the morning he said, "You were born old, Janel."
I still regard this as the highest compliment I have ever received and think of it often.
I wished that the morning would drag on forever, but we both had responsibilities, though I'm not sure what mine were at the time - perhaps - just to go home? When we got into the car I fought not to ask him when the next time I'd see him again would be. And that's when he asked me if I would get dinner with him that coming Sunday.
"We could have dinner wherever you'd like, get a nice bottle of wine, and then fuck all night."
It was vulgar but sweet and exactly what I wanted. I felt he knew me.
Of course, I agreed and I got out of his car and spent the rest of the week soaring above the clouds. I anticipated Sunday and obsessed about it constantly with my friend Erica, who thought the whole thing was a horrible idea. But I took her disapproval as a sign of her lack of experience. She didn't necessarily try to talk me out of anything, she just cautioned me to not get my hopes up like I always do.
Sunday afternoon, when I called her crying because I had not heard from him to finalize our plans, she was oddly optimistic.
"Janel, calm down. It's only two o'clock. He probably works until the early evening and will call you when he gets off. There's still time."
"I just have this feeling, Erica. Everyone I've ever known has let me down and why should he be any different?"
"If you think negatively about it, then it will probably turn out negatively, Janel."
"No," I said to her defiantly. "It will turn out how its supposed to. What will happen has already been decided by whatever Gods are up there and now it's just up to Father Time to catch up with the deities decisions."
"You're retarded."
And then I laughed because I didn't know what else to do. I knew he wouldn't call and he didn't. It stung. I called a few times that evening to see if he'd answer. Perhaps his cell phone fell into the toilet? I doubted it. So I called one, last, final time to tell him what I thought of him on his voice mail. I wasn't angry and I didn't cry. I was eerily calm, like in the movies, right before the woman goes insane and kills her entire family. Except, I didn't want to kill anyone. I just wanted to forget everything that had happened.
I cannot even remember what I said on that message but I wish I had recorded myself because I remember it being well-articulated and sounding triumphant, even though I had just been blown off. He never called later in the evening to apologize for forgetting and he didn't call the next day or the day after that. I knew that I didn't mean more to him than what had happened between us and I wondered what the point of it all was. Why put someone through all of that just to purposely let them down?
And then the next four months happened, which were a blur. I went from being perched upon my high horse to being no longer employed at Zak's (by my own choice), no longer attending karaoke, and no longer going to any of the late night haunts I used to frequent, especially the Ritz Carlton. I spent time living on a school bus converted into an RV, living with a bunch of hippies, not showering, eating beets. "Getting back to the earth" is what I called it, and now I feel like it was a form of escapism, rather than an existential crisis, which is what I had, at the time, viewed it as. But it helped me get through it all. It helped me mourn the loss of a world I had once held dear to me and then watched fall apart.
Of course I cried. Everyone knows that it hurts to feel like you're worthless. It hurts to know that I, as a human being, can be disposed of so easily. And I didn't think about it much over the next four months, but when I did, I wondered if I were really thrown out or just put into storage. Recently, I've been so preoccupied by other things that I haven't thought about this part of my life in weeks. But all at once, as I was approaching the bus station this afternoon, it came flooding back for no particular reason. So I picked up the phone and called him.
"Hello?"
"Hi. How are you?"
My voice was warn and when I asked how he was, I actually was interested in the answer.
"Who is this?"
Wow. He had deleted my number from his phone. That's the only explanation for that question. And I smiled because I knew I had him.
"It's Janel Blessing."
"Wow. Hi. How have you been? I.... How are you?"
Me talking to the bus driver: "Excuse me, does this bus go to Beneva and Webber?"
"Janel, are you telling the bus driver where to take you? That's just like you."
"No, of course not. I was asking, but I did do that once and it worked."
He laughed.
"So, Darby, what happened?"
"What happened.... I..."
"I'd love to hear about what happened."
"And I would love to tell you, Janel, but you know I go into work at six and I can't now. But I'd like to tell you tomorrow at lunch, if you'll have it with me."
"What time?"
"Whatever time you want. I work at six."
"One. You realize you are taking me to lunch too, right?"
"Of course. I'll call you at noon tomorrow."
"I'll hold you to it, Darby. Goodbye."
"Bye, Janel."
And I will hold him to it.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
News and Books - Part One
There is a place where we all would gather on the corner of Palm and Main. We're all addicts, but no matter our vice: we went because we needed to be. Personally, I've probably wasted several hundred dollars there just in the past few months - others even exceed that.
Whoever arrived first had the task to wrangle up "our table." If it wasn't available, we would curse silently to ourselves but construct something similar to it in the blistering sun, all the while praying that whoever was occupying our space would soon leave. It was the best table because it was right by the front window, in the shade, in a hollow space between two vine-covered walls. It was usually just the four of us in the beginning, but almost always other friends or even complete strangers would join us during the course of our seating. Someone would gather chairs, another would wipe the table, empty the ash treys - all mundane tasks that made our experience at this little cafe all the more pleasant. Just thinking about it now makes my stomach feel hollow and my eyes water.
Sitting down for the first sip and cigarette for the day we would discuss whatever was on our minds and exhaust the topic of conversation until we ended up fighting about it or forgetting what even started us on the topic in the first place. Someone was always singing, someone was always fighting for the lime light while he and I would talk about common place ideas and the problems in our lives. We truly listened to what the other had to say, even if we hated what they were --
Being interrupted in mid-conversation was not uncommon.
"Can I get a cigarette?"
You have to remember to not set this pack on the table top or else by the time it's time to leave you won't have any left. But you never say no. You can't. If anything, you'll just lie.
"Sure," you say as you take one out of the pack and pass it over to the hand that asks for it. And as you do this, you will be thinking, trying to remember how much change you have in the bottom of your bag and wondering if you'll be able to make the rest of this pack last you through the day. Holding in a sigh, you take one out for yourself, as well, then place the pack inside your bag preparing to tell the next vagabond that the one you're smoking is your last. You can't say no and it is this fault that leads to the eventual crumbling of the coffee crowd.
Things got the most intimate when it was just us four. We would say things to each other that we wouldn't dare discuss in front of a larger group. We had secrets, still do. There was a strong bond that was formed and that could possibly only be the result of spending so much time together in a span of a few weeks. Whatever the reason for our closeness, it was there, and because of that, we could talk about our fears and our resentments and the problems that we had with the nature of ourselves as humans - our downfalls. We often asked each other for advice and through gritted teeth we took it because we knew that whoever was offering us the harsh truth to our reality was probably right, as much as it hurt to hear it.
"Just say no if you don't want to do something!" was the answer one of the three told me when I came to him with a problem. The other two fervently agreed and felt that without achieving this ability, the ability to refuse someone something despite how it might make them feel, I would not grow.
"You are the most important person in your life. If you don't do what's best for you, you will never be happy."
So this is what I did. I began to stop giving everyone what they wanted and started giving myself the things I needed. That's when everything went to shit.
Monday, July 21, 2008
There's a lot of things that can kill a man, Hope for the Future.
We spoke today for the first time in ages. But this is our relationship. I believe we relish on rekindling it. Without our fights, we might run out of things to talk about. At least half of what we say consists of why we acted so fucked up the last time we were together, apologizing, and saying things would be different the next time around. And usually things are different, but it doesn't mean they're better.
.
Your increased alcohol intake is starting to worry me. When we met you were clear and bright and shiny and full of hope. Now, when you stumble into the light around noon, your eyes are decorated with dark circles and the lines around your mouth are starting to crease from frowning. You are looking older in these past few months and the light in your eyes is dim. You no longer talk about new ideas nor do you dream about saving the world from it's self. All you talk about is where you're going to get your next drink and tell lies about what you're going to do tomorrow.
.
You get off on manipulating younger women. You make them believe that you'll give them the world when all you do is give them a good dicking and then leave them alone with their thoughts, wondering where they went wrong. You thrive on needy girls, you feed off of what little self-esteem they have left, and digest it so fast that they don't even realize they're left with nothing until it's too late. And you are in love with me because for once in your life you aren't in control. You find yourself in rapture with me because I have walked a mile in your shoes and stomped on the weaker people along the way, just like you. You have found your match and this battle to the death will be a bloody one.
.
Your increased alcohol intake is starting to worry me. When we met you were clear and bright and shiny and full of hope. Now, when you stumble into the light around noon, your eyes are decorated with dark circles and the lines around your mouth are starting to crease from frowning. You are looking older in these past few months and the light in your eyes is dim. You no longer talk about new ideas nor do you dream about saving the world from it's self. All you talk about is where you're going to get your next drink and tell lies about what you're going to do tomorrow.
.
You get off on manipulating younger women. You make them believe that you'll give them the world when all you do is give them a good dicking and then leave them alone with their thoughts, wondering where they went wrong. You thrive on needy girls, you feed off of what little self-esteem they have left, and digest it so fast that they don't even realize they're left with nothing until it's too late. And you are in love with me because for once in your life you aren't in control. You find yourself in rapture with me because I have walked a mile in your shoes and stomped on the weaker people along the way, just like you. You have found your match and this battle to the death will be a bloody one.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
I hate titles.
PART ONE
Usually when a man approaches me in a bar that I’ve never spoken to before, I give him a fake name and brush him off after five seconds. I can’t stand men hitting on women in bars because with the way they always approach you, you just know all they want to do is take you home and fuck you and never call you again. I’ve always been very bitter about this aspect of bar life and probably come off as a bitch to a lot of people because of it. Quite honestly though, I don’t want some sweaty guy’s arm around my shoulder while he asks me what my occupation is for the seventh time.
Last night though, something clicked. In a sea of drunken soilders trudging mercilessly away with their mission (picking up women), I met someone who went against the sterotype and gave all men out there a better name. He approached me while my girlfriend was off talking to Douchebag 58. The first thing I noticed was that he didn’t smell. His suit was clean and his eyes were focused right on me. They were playful but instense and I can’t even remember who introduced themselves first, but as soon as we started speaking, I felt comfortable. I didn’t feel persecuted or feel a sense of impending doom that this man was a predator looking for something at the end of the evening. He just wanted to talk to me because he "noticed the cute redheaded girl sitting alone and didn’t think that she should be."
Usually when people talk to me in bars I’m distracted because of the music or the bartenders or the dozen other conversations going on around me, but when we spoke last night, it was like everything around me melted. He made me laugh and he made me feel smart and pretty and never once tried to touch me except when he left and offered me his cheek, which I kissed. And then, the unimaginable happened. Rather than asking me if I wanted to go back to his hotel with him, he asked me out for the next evening. Far few men ask women on dates these days. I just wish that you men would read this and take something from it. Anything. -----
And get this, as I was writing this my phone rang and it was him calling. You men should also try calling the next day. All a woman wants is someone to court her, to do little things that make her feel special. I promise you, if you treat her with respect, if you make her feel wanted, you will get pretty much anything you want. So instead of making out with your object of attraction in the corner of some bar while on-lookers gawk at you and her slutty behavior, ask her on a date and leave before things even get to the point where the two of you could end up out back sucking each other’s face. I guess what I’m saying is try being a gentleman, and you’ll get yourself a lady.
**********
EDIT: This guy ended up being kind of a douchebag. Smart and funny he was, and I still compliment his initial approach because it DEFINITELY worked. So men, I still reccomend taking this advice. But if your intentions aren’t sincere in the beginning, just know that a smart girl will see your true colors eventually.
PART TWO
Isn’t in funny how music molds our lives and we are forever influenced by the sounds coming from the stereo? More so, I’ve noticed, is that I’m easily influenced by people who recommend the music. When I was a freshman in high school being courted by Ian Sinclair on Siesta Key Beach, you better BELIEVE that I fell in love with the Stone Temple Pilots. Arguably, they are a good band regardless of whether or not Mr. Guitar Man played their songs nightly or not - but I don’t think I would love them AS MUCH, if they had not been pushed onto me by Ian and those days of adolescence.
There is another moment I recall when I fell in love with a band and this took place two and a half years ago in Josh Harrold’s car. Me, Josh, and Polish Dan were coming back from APPLEBEE’S on University Parkway and for whatever reason we took Osprey to get back to our central location of Beneva and Bee Ridge (anyone who’s ever been in the car with me in the past two and a half years now knows that I use this road religiously and get mad if people decide to take Route 41 instead.) ANYWAY, the little car is bumping along the road when this song comes on that’s tempo is perfectly in sync with the speed we were passing by the streetlights. The high energy of the piano in the song seemed to fit every one’s mood perfectly, and even though I’d never heard the song before, I felt like I instantly knew it and could sing along with the rest of them.
The next day, I made Josh go through the disc he had on the night before so I could find out the name of the song. It is called Several Arrows Later by Matt Pond P.A. With it’s bubblegum sweetness, on an average day, I’m not sure if I would have enjoyed it had I heard it sitting in traffic waiting turn left onto Webber, but on that cool night going down Osprey with all of the streetlights washing everything in an orange glow, just like the song sang of, it was the perfect moment to fall in love.
And now I’m sitting here at my kitchen table listening to Wolfmother - a band I would never have otherwise heard of had it not been for Joshua MacClure. Josh is the boy I wrote about earlier who actually impressed me in a bar. Josh probably has no idea how much our short relationship actually influenced my life.
The night we went out, we headed down to the Key where we proceeded to get high and the boys drank beer. We sat around on the uncomfortable hotel furniture getting to know one another and talked about absolutely nothing. But we were happy and the boys were pumped so we headed out to 15 South on St. Armand’s Circle. There, I was the whitest person in the building for Salsa Night. And this wasn’t your typical, everyone-let’s-dance, salsa night. This was serious salsa and the dance floor was not intended for armatures. Immediately, I felt overwhelmed because I knew that Josh was going to ask me to dance and I knew that I was going to have to say no, not only because of the super-amazing status of the other dancers, but because I had just met Josh and knew nothing of his body or the way he moved. Plus, we would have left his friend Eric all by himself at the bar, which I thought would have been completely rude. So when the moment came that Josh asked me, I politely declined and continued on with the conversation we were all having. Later in the evening, he asked again and the same scenario played out except this time he suggested we just leave. It was fine with me, because although we were having a great time talking with each other, we weren’t in the right type of place for that sort of night out.
When we got downstairs I asked Josh if he was mad at me because I didn’t dance with him and he say, "No, I’m not mad at you... but I think we’re in different frame of minds for the evening and I’m going to take you home." I was shocked. I have never been in such an awkward situation on a night out like this. What was I supposed to do? I agreed with him that we were on different pages and left it at that. I wasn’t going to give them an out by saying I’d just take a taxi home because they were the one’s that dragged me all the way out to St. Armands. They were the one’s who wanted to ditch me because I wouldn’t dance salsa with Josh. They were the one’s who would be bringing me home.
In the car ride home, Eric was obviously trying to make me feel less uncomfortable so he started talking to me about music and asked me if I’d ever heard of a band called Wolfmother. I hadn’t. So he played it for me and their semi-psychedelic sound agreed with me right then. The music screamed angst and anger but still portrayed a collective sound as a whole. The singer was also reminiscent of Lennon with a little bit of Plant mixed in for show. Eric was kind enough to turn the music up loud enough so no one could speak to each other and it was like this all the way until we got back to my condo. Josh jumped out of the car to say goodbye before we even parked and as I was getting out of the car, Eric gave me the CD. "I’ll just burn another one..." and then he held my gaze long. I smiled and thanked him and realized that was his way of saying, "Sorry my friend embarrassed you in such a way and here’s something happier to remember the evening by."
Or maybe he just gives his CDs away to people all the time. I have no fucking idea.
Regardless, I’m recalling all of these random memories to emphasize the fact that the people and things surrounding you when you hear a song or an artist for the first time matters in your initial impression on the music. If I had just heard Wolfmother in some dark bar somewhere in Tampa, I probably would have thought they were just a bunch of noise who sort-of-pretty girls liked to listen to. But because of the mood that Josh cast, they just fit, which is why I’m listening to them right now.
Usually when a man approaches me in a bar that I’ve never spoken to before, I give him a fake name and brush him off after five seconds. I can’t stand men hitting on women in bars because with the way they always approach you, you just know all they want to do is take you home and fuck you and never call you again. I’ve always been very bitter about this aspect of bar life and probably come off as a bitch to a lot of people because of it. Quite honestly though, I don’t want some sweaty guy’s arm around my shoulder while he asks me what my occupation is for the seventh time.
Last night though, something clicked. In a sea of drunken soilders trudging mercilessly away with their mission (picking up women), I met someone who went against the sterotype and gave all men out there a better name. He approached me while my girlfriend was off talking to Douchebag 58. The first thing I noticed was that he didn’t smell. His suit was clean and his eyes were focused right on me. They were playful but instense and I can’t even remember who introduced themselves first, but as soon as we started speaking, I felt comfortable. I didn’t feel persecuted or feel a sense of impending doom that this man was a predator looking for something at the end of the evening. He just wanted to talk to me because he "noticed the cute redheaded girl sitting alone and didn’t think that she should be."
Usually when people talk to me in bars I’m distracted because of the music or the bartenders or the dozen other conversations going on around me, but when we spoke last night, it was like everything around me melted. He made me laugh and he made me feel smart and pretty and never once tried to touch me except when he left and offered me his cheek, which I kissed. And then, the unimaginable happened. Rather than asking me if I wanted to go back to his hotel with him, he asked me out for the next evening. Far few men ask women on dates these days. I just wish that you men would read this and take something from it. Anything. -----
And get this, as I was writing this my phone rang and it was him calling. You men should also try calling the next day. All a woman wants is someone to court her, to do little things that make her feel special. I promise you, if you treat her with respect, if you make her feel wanted, you will get pretty much anything you want. So instead of making out with your object of attraction in the corner of some bar while on-lookers gawk at you and her slutty behavior, ask her on a date and leave before things even get to the point where the two of you could end up out back sucking each other’s face. I guess what I’m saying is try being a gentleman, and you’ll get yourself a lady.
**********
EDIT: This guy ended up being kind of a douchebag. Smart and funny he was, and I still compliment his initial approach because it DEFINITELY worked. So men, I still reccomend taking this advice. But if your intentions aren’t sincere in the beginning, just know that a smart girl will see your true colors eventually.
PART TWO
Isn’t in funny how music molds our lives and we are forever influenced by the sounds coming from the stereo? More so, I’ve noticed, is that I’m easily influenced by people who recommend the music. When I was a freshman in high school being courted by Ian Sinclair on Siesta Key Beach, you better BELIEVE that I fell in love with the Stone Temple Pilots. Arguably, they are a good band regardless of whether or not Mr. Guitar Man played their songs nightly or not - but I don’t think I would love them AS MUCH, if they had not been pushed onto me by Ian and those days of adolescence.
There is another moment I recall when I fell in love with a band and this took place two and a half years ago in Josh Harrold’s car. Me, Josh, and Polish Dan were coming back from APPLEBEE’S on University Parkway and for whatever reason we took Osprey to get back to our central location of Beneva and Bee Ridge (anyone who’s ever been in the car with me in the past two and a half years now knows that I use this road religiously and get mad if people decide to take Route 41 instead.) ANYWAY, the little car is bumping along the road when this song comes on that’s tempo is perfectly in sync with the speed we were passing by the streetlights. The high energy of the piano in the song seemed to fit every one’s mood perfectly, and even though I’d never heard the song before, I felt like I instantly knew it and could sing along with the rest of them.
The next day, I made Josh go through the disc he had on the night before so I could find out the name of the song. It is called Several Arrows Later by Matt Pond P.A. With it’s bubblegum sweetness, on an average day, I’m not sure if I would have enjoyed it had I heard it sitting in traffic waiting turn left onto Webber, but on that cool night going down Osprey with all of the streetlights washing everything in an orange glow, just like the song sang of, it was the perfect moment to fall in love.
And now I’m sitting here at my kitchen table listening to Wolfmother - a band I would never have otherwise heard of had it not been for Joshua MacClure. Josh is the boy I wrote about earlier who actually impressed me in a bar. Josh probably has no idea how much our short relationship actually influenced my life.
The night we went out, we headed down to the Key where we proceeded to get high and the boys drank beer. We sat around on the uncomfortable hotel furniture getting to know one another and talked about absolutely nothing. But we were happy and the boys were pumped so we headed out to 15 South on St. Armand’s Circle. There, I was the whitest person in the building for Salsa Night. And this wasn’t your typical, everyone-let’s-dance, salsa night. This was serious salsa and the dance floor was not intended for armatures. Immediately, I felt overwhelmed because I knew that Josh was going to ask me to dance and I knew that I was going to have to say no, not only because of the super-amazing status of the other dancers, but because I had just met Josh and knew nothing of his body or the way he moved. Plus, we would have left his friend Eric all by himself at the bar, which I thought would have been completely rude. So when the moment came that Josh asked me, I politely declined and continued on with the conversation we were all having. Later in the evening, he asked again and the same scenario played out except this time he suggested we just leave. It was fine with me, because although we were having a great time talking with each other, we weren’t in the right type of place for that sort of night out.
When we got downstairs I asked Josh if he was mad at me because I didn’t dance with him and he say, "No, I’m not mad at you... but I think we’re in different frame of minds for the evening and I’m going to take you home." I was shocked. I have never been in such an awkward situation on a night out like this. What was I supposed to do? I agreed with him that we were on different pages and left it at that. I wasn’t going to give them an out by saying I’d just take a taxi home because they were the one’s that dragged me all the way out to St. Armands. They were the one’s who wanted to ditch me because I wouldn’t dance salsa with Josh. They were the one’s who would be bringing me home.
In the car ride home, Eric was obviously trying to make me feel less uncomfortable so he started talking to me about music and asked me if I’d ever heard of a band called Wolfmother. I hadn’t. So he played it for me and their semi-psychedelic sound agreed with me right then. The music screamed angst and anger but still portrayed a collective sound as a whole. The singer was also reminiscent of Lennon with a little bit of Plant mixed in for show. Eric was kind enough to turn the music up loud enough so no one could speak to each other and it was like this all the way until we got back to my condo. Josh jumped out of the car to say goodbye before we even parked and as I was getting out of the car, Eric gave me the CD. "I’ll just burn another one..." and then he held my gaze long. I smiled and thanked him and realized that was his way of saying, "Sorry my friend embarrassed you in such a way and here’s something happier to remember the evening by."
Or maybe he just gives his CDs away to people all the time. I have no fucking idea.
Regardless, I’m recalling all of these random memories to emphasize the fact that the people and things surrounding you when you hear a song or an artist for the first time matters in your initial impression on the music. If I had just heard Wolfmother in some dark bar somewhere in Tampa, I probably would have thought they were just a bunch of noise who sort-of-pretty girls liked to listen to. But because of the mood that Josh cast, they just fit, which is why I’m listening to them right now.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Are these men or boys?
I wonder how he can keep such a good body without playing a sport, just going to art school, drinking lots, sculpting, and singing in a band. I've wondered this about many men.
I like what the city has done to you.
My jeans were cuffed and so were hers. It was one of those cool but overly-humid nights on the beach. We hadn't seen each other in two years, yet when we were reunited it was as if not even a day had passed. In our continuously drugged out states we would forever remain friends.
As we approached the path leading up to the hotel, I saw it before she did. I started out into a jog around the pool, my flip flops thumping loudly on the pavement. She let out a shriek and started running too. We threw our designer purses down into the dirt and the thought didn't even cross our minds that these were things of value. We only thought about the hammock we were running to. I pounced on it and told her to wait before she got on. I didn't want to be tipped. It took us five minutes before we were both settled into the hammock. I was not comfortable.
I said aloud, "I don't understand why hammocks are associated with paradise. You have to work to get in them. They are not comfortable."
We both burst out into laughter when we realized that I was bitching about hammocks. This is our friendship.
As we approached the path leading up to the hotel, I saw it before she did. I started out into a jog around the pool, my flip flops thumping loudly on the pavement. She let out a shriek and started running too. We threw our designer purses down into the dirt and the thought didn't even cross our minds that these were things of value. We only thought about the hammock we were running to. I pounced on it and told her to wait before she got on. I didn't want to be tipped. It took us five minutes before we were both settled into the hammock. I was not comfortable.
I said aloud, "I don't understand why hammocks are associated with paradise. You have to work to get in them. They are not comfortable."
We both burst out into laughter when we realized that I was bitching about hammocks. This is our friendship.
Black Flag
I've decided we should all get a "do-over" in life. Just one chance to change one minute of time in the past. If the series of events of our lives continually hinge on one another, each decision or action being a new turn in an infinite maze of possibilities but with no rewind, no way to go back, then I think we should all get a do-over.
A confession from my past.
It's raining outside and you find him behind the shed, crouched down, with a look of desperation in his eyes. This is the only clear image you remember. A slide show of real life photographs plays through your mind. You remember that he kissed you but you don't remember why or how long. You remember his fingers tangled in yours throughout the night. You remember him blushing when the boys around you were showing you more attention that you were giving him. You crouch down next to him in the soft, wet dirt and you run your fingers through his hair. Your eyes meet and with that you are telling each other that you're both okay. It could have been so easy then to lean in for a kiss but something was holding you back. And then the sun came up.
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