via Tumblr http://ift.tt/1fAfjb6
Monday, February 24, 2014
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
A Tale of Torries
I had a dream once.
In my dream, I opened my eyes to a place that I’ve been millions of times. I’m familiar with the staff. I’m familiar with the signatures that are carelessly crafted at the bottom of photographs of people in suits. Old black men in extravagant ties create a legion of soulful stares. As I stretch my legs beneath the plywood tables, they reach the booth across from me. I wish someone was there, but instead, I’m left alone. Eager looking waitresses walk by my table. They steal glances at me with no remorse. For good reason, I’d say. I’m by far the youngest person in the establishment. I’m too comfortable in this booth. I’m not bothered by the ripped pleather that I’m sitting on. Someone’s keys have ripped a hole in the seat, and a thick stuffing is exposed to the sunday sunlight. It was once a deep green, but the exposure to the window, and constant shifting of denim, wool, and polyester has faded the color to something much more ‘Granny Smith.’
There is no music playing. Instead the sound of clattering fills the space. Metal hits hard plastic as vicious and half-clean knives ravage the mixture of scrambled eggs, waffles, sausage, grits, or steak that rests on any plate at any given time. Beautiful women sit across from their husbands. They have distinguished looks on their faces. They don’t talk, aside from the casual comment on what the other doesn’t seem to care about. When they don’t receive a response, it seems expected. The women chatter sporadically about other people that the husband wouldn’t know without seeing their face. The men sometimes make unnecessary comments on the game football game playing behind the wife’s head. They hardly make eye contact, but it’s very clear that they all love the person sitting across from them. They would die without them. Some of them decide to hold hands while they eat- but make sure they don’t look at each other while they do it. I imagine this to be my future.
For now, however, the only thing touching my hands are a cup of coffee that I’ve let cool off for a little too long. It’s grown sour, but I know that if I don’t finish it I’ll feel undeserving of a third cup.I told myself I would switch to caffeinated tea instead, but my vice, once again, prevails. In my other hand is a copy of a book I’ve never read in real life, but have gotten through a few hundred pages by now. It’s a biography about a man of wealth. What his wealth consists of is uncertain- but he is in excess. I’m attempting to learn how to achieve what he has. Below my plate, coffee, and book is a spread out copy of The Wall Street Journal. I seem to be reading them both at the same time. It feels ridiculous, and I feel pretentious. That doesn’t stop me from continuing what I’ve been doing, however.
When I look down at myself, I’m dressed in the way that I usually dress. A wrinkled button down shirt, jeans that fit a bit too close to the leg (but are too comfortable to consider anything else), and a baseball cap. My watch, turned to the inside of my wrist, tells me that I’ve now been there for close to three hours. My plate once held a banana nut muffin. My plate now holds half of a banana nut muffin. The waitress has stopped asking me if I’m finished with my plate. She has stopped calling me ‘honey,’ or ‘hun,’ or ‘sweetie,’ or whatever else nice southern women who live in DC say to people like me. It’s not that she wants to turn the table, there are plenty of available tables in her section, she’s just tired of looking at me read. She’s sick of seeing it take me three hours to nibble on a pastry that usually takes people a few minutes to complete. She’s sick of my jeans, and my hat, and she wants to use me as an example to her kids as how not to walk out of the house. At the same time, she wants to engage me. She wants to ask what I’m reading, and have me explain it to her so that she could tell her friends and family how eerie I was when she’s done with her shift. I feel the same way about her.
Every time her hasty jaunt around the restaurant catches my right peripheral, I’m instantly intrigued by her. I want to ask her for her name. She told me when she first approached me, but I forgot it approximately three seconds later- about the time she pointed out their steak and egg special. I want to ask her if she’s married. The ring on her finger makes me wonder, but these days it’s not uncommon for unmarried women to wear rings on that finger. I’ve gotten to the age that I actually pay attention. I know it’s on the left hand instead of the right. I know the difference between an engagement ring and a wedding ring. I don’t talk to married women- but somehow am comfortable talking to the engaged. I can’t tell her marital status. I want to know, but don’t care what her answer is- as long as she tells me. I want to ask her where she’s from; her favorite NFL team; what color she wore to prom; her favorite television show growing up; what her favorite card game is; what her favorite thing on the menu really is.
We never make this connection with each other, however. She never expresses her interest, regardless of its direction, to me- and I never say anything to her. She walks by, and I nod at her to ensure her that I’m fine. I keep her at bay with this gesture of complacency. I tell her to leave me the fuck alone without lifting a finger, or uttering a word. I act like I don’t have time for her interaction. I’m too busy sitting at a diner by myself. I’m too busy reading two different things at once, drinking cold, sour coffee, nibbling on a now stale banana nut muffin. I’m too busy looking at love. I’m too busy imagining how I will look one day, in this same seat, with an old woman sitting across from me, mumbling things about other people, and recognizing how pointless my comments on the football games are.
At least she’s holding my hand.
I see myself on that wall one day. My signature is scribbled in the lower right hand side of my picture. I look exhausted- too exhausted to smile. I look fulfilled. I look as though I don’t want to be here- but have reached a level of undefinable prestige. I look distinguished.
In my dream, I opened my eyes to a place that I’ve been millions of times. I’m familiar with the staff. I’m familiar with the signatures that are carelessly crafted at the bottom of photographs of people in suits. Old black men in extravagant ties create a legion of soulful stares. As I stretch my legs beneath the plywood tables, they reach the booth across from me. I wish someone was there, but instead, I’m left alone. Eager looking waitresses walk by my table. They steal glances at me with no remorse. For good reason, I’d say. I’m by far the youngest person in the establishment. I’m too comfortable in this booth. I’m not bothered by the ripped pleather that I’m sitting on. Someone’s keys have ripped a hole in the seat, and a thick stuffing is exposed to the sunday sunlight. It was once a deep green, but the exposure to the window, and constant shifting of denim, wool, and polyester has faded the color to something much more ‘Granny Smith.’
There is no music playing. Instead the sound of clattering fills the space. Metal hits hard plastic as vicious and half-clean knives ravage the mixture of scrambled eggs, waffles, sausage, grits, or steak that rests on any plate at any given time. Beautiful women sit across from their husbands. They have distinguished looks on their faces. They don’t talk, aside from the casual comment on what the other doesn’t seem to care about. When they don’t receive a response, it seems expected. The women chatter sporadically about other people that the husband wouldn’t know without seeing their face. The men sometimes make unnecessary comments on the game football game playing behind the wife’s head. They hardly make eye contact, but it’s very clear that they all love the person sitting across from them. They would die without them. Some of them decide to hold hands while they eat- but make sure they don’t look at each other while they do it. I imagine this to be my future.
For now, however, the only thing touching my hands are a cup of coffee that I’ve let cool off for a little too long. It’s grown sour, but I know that if I don’t finish it I’ll feel undeserving of a third cup.I told myself I would switch to caffeinated tea instead, but my vice, once again, prevails. In my other hand is a copy of a book I’ve never read in real life, but have gotten through a few hundred pages by now. It’s a biography about a man of wealth. What his wealth consists of is uncertain- but he is in excess. I’m attempting to learn how to achieve what he has. Below my plate, coffee, and book is a spread out copy of The Wall Street Journal. I seem to be reading them both at the same time. It feels ridiculous, and I feel pretentious. That doesn’t stop me from continuing what I’ve been doing, however.
When I look down at myself, I’m dressed in the way that I usually dress. A wrinkled button down shirt, jeans that fit a bit too close to the leg (but are too comfortable to consider anything else), and a baseball cap. My watch, turned to the inside of my wrist, tells me that I’ve now been there for close to three hours. My plate once held a banana nut muffin. My plate now holds half of a banana nut muffin. The waitress has stopped asking me if I’m finished with my plate. She has stopped calling me ‘honey,’ or ‘hun,’ or ‘sweetie,’ or whatever else nice southern women who live in DC say to people like me. It’s not that she wants to turn the table, there are plenty of available tables in her section, she’s just tired of looking at me read. She’s sick of seeing it take me three hours to nibble on a pastry that usually takes people a few minutes to complete. She’s sick of my jeans, and my hat, and she wants to use me as an example to her kids as how not to walk out of the house. At the same time, she wants to engage me. She wants to ask what I’m reading, and have me explain it to her so that she could tell her friends and family how eerie I was when she’s done with her shift. I feel the same way about her.
Every time her hasty jaunt around the restaurant catches my right peripheral, I’m instantly intrigued by her. I want to ask her for her name. She told me when she first approached me, but I forgot it approximately three seconds later- about the time she pointed out their steak and egg special. I want to ask her if she’s married. The ring on her finger makes me wonder, but these days it’s not uncommon for unmarried women to wear rings on that finger. I’ve gotten to the age that I actually pay attention. I know it’s on the left hand instead of the right. I know the difference between an engagement ring and a wedding ring. I don’t talk to married women- but somehow am comfortable talking to the engaged. I can’t tell her marital status. I want to know, but don’t care what her answer is- as long as she tells me. I want to ask her where she’s from; her favorite NFL team; what color she wore to prom; her favorite television show growing up; what her favorite card game is; what her favorite thing on the menu really is.
We never make this connection with each other, however. She never expresses her interest, regardless of its direction, to me- and I never say anything to her. She walks by, and I nod at her to ensure her that I’m fine. I keep her at bay with this gesture of complacency. I tell her to leave me the fuck alone without lifting a finger, or uttering a word. I act like I don’t have time for her interaction. I’m too busy sitting at a diner by myself. I’m too busy reading two different things at once, drinking cold, sour coffee, nibbling on a now stale banana nut muffin. I’m too busy looking at love. I’m too busy imagining how I will look one day, in this same seat, with an old woman sitting across from me, mumbling things about other people, and recognizing how pointless my comments on the football games are.
At least she’s holding my hand.
I see myself on that wall one day. My signature is scribbled in the lower right hand side of my picture. I look exhausted- too exhausted to smile. I look fulfilled. I look as though I don’t want to be here- but have reached a level of undefinable prestige. I look distinguished.
Saturday, January 18, 2014
Upon Arrival
The evening that I arrived in New York City was eventful, to say the least. Sure, it had a slow start- the kind of start that you would imagine from friends who've been living in the city for a few months. They feel like they have a pretty heavy grasp on how the nightlife works, but in all honesty find it hard to make definitive moves. You sort of get stuck in this tango of where they want to take you- and end up missing out on a lot of opportunity to actually be there. The names of a lot of places were thrown out there that meant nothing to me. Thoughts of calling people whom I've never heard of before became frequent.
When I first arrived, I was greeted by an intoxicated form of my friend, Meredith. She was a thing of beauty. Draped in a long, unflattering, black coat- she had the air of an inconspicuous fly girl. Not the kind of fly girl that you remember from the early 00's. Not the ones with the short skirts and glittery tops- with hoop earrings to bring it all together. No, she was of the modern fly girl breed tonight. Hair long, dark, and apathetic. Her face was pensive and distracted- assisted by the large white headphones helping to cover her face. We greeted each other quickly before hopping into a cab that would take us across the bridge into Brooklyn.
Without hesitation she paid for the cab. We instantly filled our bellies with an odd Mexican/Korean fusion delivery service, and our lungs with some run of the mill sticky. Needless to say, we felt fucking good.
During the course of these festivities, we found ourselves in a constant inquiry of our friend, Joseph. Assumptions of his location became regular. Soho? Somewhere in Brooklyn? Bronx? No, we didn't bother to pick up the phone and ask him- instead we only asked how long before he'd arrive. As promised, he arrived thirty minutes after our inquiry.
He strode through the door with a form similar to how Meredith had been in when I first happened upon her outside of my bus. Doused in a combination of camel, black, and gray, he looked like he just stepped out of some sort of avant garde art festival for black kids in Harlem. He looked like one of those snazzy dudes the guys from Street Etiquette would invite for one of their fashion pieces. Well dressed and prepared, he quickly placed two Budweiser onto the counter; 40oz, of course. We inhale more, and drink more until we are all at the point that any more intoxication might find us unable to function properly outside of this Prospect Heights apartment.
Meredith taps out first. Giving us the excuse that she was too comfortable as it was- she would leave the fun left to be had to her boys. We reluctantly accepted, but accepted we did. We took her keys, walked out of the door and within a few blocks had reached a pizza place where Joseph would meet a friend from elementary school. It was a chance encounter from the two a few weeks ago, but now I could see they had attempted to establish some method of friendship with each other.
The process was pretty simple after that. Joseph and I relayed our want to hear, and possibly dance to, a mixture of African and Caribbean music. His friend, without really skipping a beat, suggested a place right across the street. 95 South was the name. Clearly both novice to the idea of the place, we embraced it without hesitation. A few shown driver's licenses next, we found ourselves in the dregs of Brooklyn's original population. A mixture of old and older surrounded our impressionable minds. While I can't deny the pretty enticing music, this was accompanied by full bodied women and baggy clothed men. Hoodies, baseball caps, and Timberland's were banned from this place- which didn't pose a problem to our party- but it was clear that the average crowd would have to actually think about what they would have to wear in order to spend all night at this place.
The bartender's breasts gave me a drink or two, and I grew tired of the environment. Our next stop was only a few blocks away. Franklin Park initially didn't seem to be much different than our previous location. We were routed from entering fairly quickly. Confronted by a bouncer thrice my size, we found ourselves “three girls short” from meeting the requirement needed for entering. We must have given convincing puppy dog faces, because soon after the proclamation of our lack of estrogen, we were soon let in regardless. I still wonder what made him change his mind- but I think it had to do with the fact that Joseph was wearing a boulder hat. That's like a pussy magnet.
It was a pretty cool bar, to say the least. An assortment of picnic tables would lead to two different bars connected by a nicely furnished courtyard. To the front was a very relaxed bar. It's speakers played a low tone jazz for couples who wanted some time off of their feet to enjoy some conversation and cocktails. We obviously didn't go through that door. Instead, we find ourselves veering left into the body heavy dance floor where we found many men that had apparently convinced the bouncer to forego the one man-one woman requirement for entering. In order words, there were lots of dudes there. It didn't really phase us, and that could have been due to how fucked up we were, but it didn't really kill our vibe.
It took about an hour of meandering before we did anything near productive. A bunch of standing, looking, talking to each other, and eventually sitting- before Joseph approaches me from the crowd. A swift backhand to the chest gets my attention and wakes me up from the daze that Kevin Lyttle's hit song Let me Hold You had put me into. I had been hypnotized by the crowd. The women that wanted to dance to the song, and the men that wanted women to see that they felt the same way. There's always such a weird disconnect for scenes like this. Women want to be wanted, and men want to show their wanting. Bridging that gap is a social phenomena, and it had encapsulated me to the point that I was simply standing on the dance floor thinking these thoughts to myself. I looked like an old man that had wandered in to tell the DJ to quiet down- but found myself enjoying the chance to be among the youth that populated the place.
Anyway, Joseph's aggressive method of getting my attention was appreciated. I snapped out of my daze just in time to hear him brief me on our next plan. Across the crowd his finger would point to a pair of women, both on their telephones, and more importantly, without company. He wanted the one on the left, so as his wing man, I would distract the one on the right- mission accepted.
In my attempt to make the first move- I soon discovered just what I was dealing with.
“Hey ther-”
“Hi, I'm Maria.”
It sort of took me by surprise. Given, she had been accosted by a number of men during her entire tenure within the bar. It only made sense that she would be short with me, but what I didn't get was how the response would effect me. It wouldn't have taken much for her to ignore me as much as she had ignored the fellow men before me. It wouldn't have been much for her to lie and tell me about her boyfriend who wasn't with them that night. No, without any hesitation she introduced herself to me. She introduced herself to me. I was confused, but tried my best to prevent it from showing on my face. From that moment on, the beginning, I didn't really think about the mission anymore. If Joseph wanted to talk to her friend, he was doing me a favor, as I had become quickly captivated by this wildewoman: Maria.
We spoke about our lives, and shared a few interests- the kind of shit you talk to a stranger at a bar about. I offered her a drink, and she followed me to get it. Gin and tonic for the lady, blood orange pale ale for the fella. Yes, it was inspired by Dev Hynes, and yes it was delicious. We spoke some more, and shared our drinks. We began to dance a bit, and I saw myself bridging the gap between the women that want to be wanted, and the men that want to want. I wanted her, and she wanted me to want her. My hands touched her thighs, and her sides. I made sure she was real, and her grasp of my hand tightened to ensure me that she was.
The song ended and she turned around to ask me if “[we] smoked..” Without hesitation I said yes and could only hope that Joseph had been asked the same question. She smiled and informed me that she wanted to take us to the place that she and her friend inhabited a few blocks away. She invited me to her home- only after this song, of course.
It was the longest Beyonce song that I had ever heard. We had another dance and as soon as the song ended they kept their word and instructed us to leave with them. A few blocks later, and a few shoulders covered by our coats, we soon walked through the door of an apartment building that would lead us to their place.
Once we arrived, and the lights were turned on- it was the first opportunity for us to actually see their faces. Usually when people meet other people at bars, the lighting is dim, and it's a lot easier to think that someone is attractive in the dark. This wasn't the case with Maria. Here, in this light- her features were accentuated.
She was short- about five feet tall, with hair that was so big that it made her appear about two inches taller. I would have pegged her for a Puerto Rican, but didn't want to make the assumption. Her skin was a weak comparison to caramel- but more milky. She had a small smile, and she played with her hair as though she was some sort of Pocahontas woman. I think what I liked the most about her was her laugh. It was a real laugh. She had the kind of laugh that made women realize how 'down to earth' she was, and made men realize how 'different' she was. Her laugh made her seem like the girl that would sit and play Madden on the couch with you for hours, while drinking something a tad bit more classy- like Stella or Dos Equis or something. Her laugh made her seem like the kind of girl that would fight you for the last slice of pizza- like, literally slap box you for it.
She told us about the stories of her day-to-day. A teacher somewhere in Manhattan, she clearly had a lot to deal with. Children fighting each other, or their scores not looking good enough to pass to the next grade. She dealt with the stress well, but not alone. She soon revealed her drug expeditions: Acid, Shrooms, Weed, Coke, Molly, Ecstasy- you name it. It was enticing. I felt a bit overwhelmed, but in the way that a man feels overwhelmed when diving into the ocean- you don't stop.
The night went on, the two girls rolled up and we all partook in some passing of the bud. The stories continued, and so did the laughter. I started to notice the girls making eyes at each other. Joseph was telling a story- and the next thing I knew they had both left the room in unison. This was something that all of my experiences with girls had indicated change in scenery. What was interesting about this moment was that we might have been far too high to know whether this meant a negative change, or a movie sequence where they leave the room to apply more makeup, take their clothes off, and beckon us to bed. I assumed the latter, obviously.
What actually happened was much different. A few minutes passed, and Maria comes back to the room with a smirk on her face. She addresses us as 'Gentleman,' and it's clear her assertive teacher voice is on. She tells us of their plans for bed, and again a movie sequence of us clearly being invited plays out in my mind. Again- this isn't the case. Joseph wishes his goodbyes to the lady that's held his attention while I attempt to steal a kiss from my wildewoman- with no success.
The door closed slowly. On one side stood two men, and on the other lay two women. I don't know how they felt, but Joseph and I looked at each other with a clear indicator of how alone we were, together. We wanted things to play out differently, and for whatever reason- it didn't happen. It's better that way, I suppose.
I saw her two days later on her way to brunch. She texted me, and I texted back. She told me to call her next time I was in NYC- but I don't see that happening. There's a certain allure in the mystery that she had that night. I don't want to ruin it. I want her to remain that woman, with that laugh, that I can imagine whatever I want about her. I don't want reality to change that.
When I first arrived, I was greeted by an intoxicated form of my friend, Meredith. She was a thing of beauty. Draped in a long, unflattering, black coat- she had the air of an inconspicuous fly girl. Not the kind of fly girl that you remember from the early 00's. Not the ones with the short skirts and glittery tops- with hoop earrings to bring it all together. No, she was of the modern fly girl breed tonight. Hair long, dark, and apathetic. Her face was pensive and distracted- assisted by the large white headphones helping to cover her face. We greeted each other quickly before hopping into a cab that would take us across the bridge into Brooklyn.
Without hesitation she paid for the cab. We instantly filled our bellies with an odd Mexican/Korean fusion delivery service, and our lungs with some run of the mill sticky. Needless to say, we felt fucking good.
During the course of these festivities, we found ourselves in a constant inquiry of our friend, Joseph. Assumptions of his location became regular. Soho? Somewhere in Brooklyn? Bronx? No, we didn't bother to pick up the phone and ask him- instead we only asked how long before he'd arrive. As promised, he arrived thirty minutes after our inquiry.
He strode through the door with a form similar to how Meredith had been in when I first happened upon her outside of my bus. Doused in a combination of camel, black, and gray, he looked like he just stepped out of some sort of avant garde art festival for black kids in Harlem. He looked like one of those snazzy dudes the guys from Street Etiquette would invite for one of their fashion pieces. Well dressed and prepared, he quickly placed two Budweiser onto the counter; 40oz, of course. We inhale more, and drink more until we are all at the point that any more intoxication might find us unable to function properly outside of this Prospect Heights apartment.
Meredith taps out first. Giving us the excuse that she was too comfortable as it was- she would leave the fun left to be had to her boys. We reluctantly accepted, but accepted we did. We took her keys, walked out of the door and within a few blocks had reached a pizza place where Joseph would meet a friend from elementary school. It was a chance encounter from the two a few weeks ago, but now I could see they had attempted to establish some method of friendship with each other.
The process was pretty simple after that. Joseph and I relayed our want to hear, and possibly dance to, a mixture of African and Caribbean music. His friend, without really skipping a beat, suggested a place right across the street. 95 South was the name. Clearly both novice to the idea of the place, we embraced it without hesitation. A few shown driver's licenses next, we found ourselves in the dregs of Brooklyn's original population. A mixture of old and older surrounded our impressionable minds. While I can't deny the pretty enticing music, this was accompanied by full bodied women and baggy clothed men. Hoodies, baseball caps, and Timberland's were banned from this place- which didn't pose a problem to our party- but it was clear that the average crowd would have to actually think about what they would have to wear in order to spend all night at this place.
The bartender's breasts gave me a drink or two, and I grew tired of the environment. Our next stop was only a few blocks away. Franklin Park initially didn't seem to be much different than our previous location. We were routed from entering fairly quickly. Confronted by a bouncer thrice my size, we found ourselves “three girls short” from meeting the requirement needed for entering. We must have given convincing puppy dog faces, because soon after the proclamation of our lack of estrogen, we were soon let in regardless. I still wonder what made him change his mind- but I think it had to do with the fact that Joseph was wearing a boulder hat. That's like a pussy magnet.
It was a pretty cool bar, to say the least. An assortment of picnic tables would lead to two different bars connected by a nicely furnished courtyard. To the front was a very relaxed bar. It's speakers played a low tone jazz for couples who wanted some time off of their feet to enjoy some conversation and cocktails. We obviously didn't go through that door. Instead, we find ourselves veering left into the body heavy dance floor where we found many men that had apparently convinced the bouncer to forego the one man-one woman requirement for entering. In order words, there were lots of dudes there. It didn't really phase us, and that could have been due to how fucked up we were, but it didn't really kill our vibe.
It took about an hour of meandering before we did anything near productive. A bunch of standing, looking, talking to each other, and eventually sitting- before Joseph approaches me from the crowd. A swift backhand to the chest gets my attention and wakes me up from the daze that Kevin Lyttle's hit song Let me Hold You had put me into. I had been hypnotized by the crowd. The women that wanted to dance to the song, and the men that wanted women to see that they felt the same way. There's always such a weird disconnect for scenes like this. Women want to be wanted, and men want to show their wanting. Bridging that gap is a social phenomena, and it had encapsulated me to the point that I was simply standing on the dance floor thinking these thoughts to myself. I looked like an old man that had wandered in to tell the DJ to quiet down- but found myself enjoying the chance to be among the youth that populated the place.
Anyway, Joseph's aggressive method of getting my attention was appreciated. I snapped out of my daze just in time to hear him brief me on our next plan. Across the crowd his finger would point to a pair of women, both on their telephones, and more importantly, without company. He wanted the one on the left, so as his wing man, I would distract the one on the right- mission accepted.
In my attempt to make the first move- I soon discovered just what I was dealing with.
“Hey ther-”
“Hi, I'm Maria.”
It sort of took me by surprise. Given, she had been accosted by a number of men during her entire tenure within the bar. It only made sense that she would be short with me, but what I didn't get was how the response would effect me. It wouldn't have taken much for her to ignore me as much as she had ignored the fellow men before me. It wouldn't have been much for her to lie and tell me about her boyfriend who wasn't with them that night. No, without any hesitation she introduced herself to me. She introduced herself to me. I was confused, but tried my best to prevent it from showing on my face. From that moment on, the beginning, I didn't really think about the mission anymore. If Joseph wanted to talk to her friend, he was doing me a favor, as I had become quickly captivated by this wildewoman: Maria.
We spoke about our lives, and shared a few interests- the kind of shit you talk to a stranger at a bar about. I offered her a drink, and she followed me to get it. Gin and tonic for the lady, blood orange pale ale for the fella. Yes, it was inspired by Dev Hynes, and yes it was delicious. We spoke some more, and shared our drinks. We began to dance a bit, and I saw myself bridging the gap between the women that want to be wanted, and the men that want to want. I wanted her, and she wanted me to want her. My hands touched her thighs, and her sides. I made sure she was real, and her grasp of my hand tightened to ensure me that she was.
The song ended and she turned around to ask me if “[we] smoked..” Without hesitation I said yes and could only hope that Joseph had been asked the same question. She smiled and informed me that she wanted to take us to the place that she and her friend inhabited a few blocks away. She invited me to her home- only after this song, of course.
It was the longest Beyonce song that I had ever heard. We had another dance and as soon as the song ended they kept their word and instructed us to leave with them. A few blocks later, and a few shoulders covered by our coats, we soon walked through the door of an apartment building that would lead us to their place.
Once we arrived, and the lights were turned on- it was the first opportunity for us to actually see their faces. Usually when people meet other people at bars, the lighting is dim, and it's a lot easier to think that someone is attractive in the dark. This wasn't the case with Maria. Here, in this light- her features were accentuated.
She was short- about five feet tall, with hair that was so big that it made her appear about two inches taller. I would have pegged her for a Puerto Rican, but didn't want to make the assumption. Her skin was a weak comparison to caramel- but more milky. She had a small smile, and she played with her hair as though she was some sort of Pocahontas woman. I think what I liked the most about her was her laugh. It was a real laugh. She had the kind of laugh that made women realize how 'down to earth' she was, and made men realize how 'different' she was. Her laugh made her seem like the girl that would sit and play Madden on the couch with you for hours, while drinking something a tad bit more classy- like Stella or Dos Equis or something. Her laugh made her seem like the kind of girl that would fight you for the last slice of pizza- like, literally slap box you for it.
She told us about the stories of her day-to-day. A teacher somewhere in Manhattan, she clearly had a lot to deal with. Children fighting each other, or their scores not looking good enough to pass to the next grade. She dealt with the stress well, but not alone. She soon revealed her drug expeditions: Acid, Shrooms, Weed, Coke, Molly, Ecstasy- you name it. It was enticing. I felt a bit overwhelmed, but in the way that a man feels overwhelmed when diving into the ocean- you don't stop.
The night went on, the two girls rolled up and we all partook in some passing of the bud. The stories continued, and so did the laughter. I started to notice the girls making eyes at each other. Joseph was telling a story- and the next thing I knew they had both left the room in unison. This was something that all of my experiences with girls had indicated change in scenery. What was interesting about this moment was that we might have been far too high to know whether this meant a negative change, or a movie sequence where they leave the room to apply more makeup, take their clothes off, and beckon us to bed. I assumed the latter, obviously.
What actually happened was much different. A few minutes passed, and Maria comes back to the room with a smirk on her face. She addresses us as 'Gentleman,' and it's clear her assertive teacher voice is on. She tells us of their plans for bed, and again a movie sequence of us clearly being invited plays out in my mind. Again- this isn't the case. Joseph wishes his goodbyes to the lady that's held his attention while I attempt to steal a kiss from my wildewoman- with no success.
The door closed slowly. On one side stood two men, and on the other lay two women. I don't know how they felt, but Joseph and I looked at each other with a clear indicator of how alone we were, together. We wanted things to play out differently, and for whatever reason- it didn't happen. It's better that way, I suppose.
I saw her two days later on her way to brunch. She texted me, and I texted back. She told me to call her next time I was in NYC- but I don't see that happening. There's a certain allure in the mystery that she had that night. I don't want to ruin it. I want her to remain that woman, with that laugh, that I can imagine whatever I want about her. I don't want reality to change that.
Friday, January 17, 2014
To NYC
It's dark. The lights that hang above each head in a dim lit, teasing sort of fashion, are at invariable levels of brightness. It's almost as if some of us have been blessed a bit more than others. The man in front of me, and the woman to my right both appear to have saved themselves seats in order to lay down, or do work- or a combination of both. The woman who I happened to sit next to is asleep- and our light appears to be the most dim. The cramped space makes it hard for my to type this- but I think it's kind of fun in a Kerouac sort of way.
I'm in a combination of writing and texting- as the bumps in the road, and spacial limitations, make it pretty difficult to focus. My friend just sent a WhatsApp message informing myself and a few other friends that he was recently married. Not engaged, that would make more sense at our age; ring-wearing, broom jumping, 401k affecting, Kim Kardashian, married.
It's funny, because at the same time I'm sending a few flirty iPhone messages to a girl that I went on a date with a few days before. It's a surreal experience. I'm not sure what to think of it all- but it's definitely taking something out of me. As I think about this girl, and how we literally met a few days before, and that this guy is getting married to a woman that none of us have ever met- it's like the world is shifting on its head.
It hasn't always been this way. I used to be the guy in the very serious, very committed relationship. If anyone would have guessed, it would have been me to send the engagement announcement to my friends. I would be the one giving my friends dating advice, and telling them about the 'days when I was single. It's not like I've never had a friend to be married, either. This just seems a bit too close to home, for some reason- and it's sort of bittersweet.
If you're a real Kanye fan, you might have heard the song Bittersweet Poetry, featuring John Mayer. A portion of the hook is as follows:
See what I want so much should never hurt so bad
Never did this before, that's what the virgin says
We've been generally warned, that's what the surgeon says
God talk to me now, this is an emergency.
I was first introduced to the song by my senior summer sweetheart (we all had one). I thought the lyrics were perfect at the time, and it's almost uncanny how perfect they are now, for completely different reasons.
While my ex-girlfriend probably meant to tell me something much more micro- now I'm looking a the lyrics in a very macro scale. The lyrics aren't about anyone in particular- they're about this whole process. Meeting to dating, dating to sex, sex to commitment, commitment to engagement, engagement to marriage and whatever the fuck happens when you get married. Half the time, these people are strangers. You had no stake in their upbringing, and have no idea how fucking insane they can, and probably will, be.
I love the idea of being with a partner through thick and thin- someone who will have your back for the end of time. Maybe I just like the idea of John Snow and that hot red-headed girl keeps insulting me to prove how down she is to ride. Then again, maybe I don't really like the idea of being John Snow, and having that hot red-headed girl keep insulting me to prove how down she is to ride. It's a nice notion, but might just be too much for me to deal with.
I think what makes this moment so bittersweet is that I'm sort of in a crux between realizing I sound like a walking vulva who can't deal with the idea of love- or I'm a super realist who just doesn't want to deal with the debilitating and depressing effects relationships will ultimately have on our generation. Love is more of a Godard movie than an Ephron, and that makes me happy.
It's not easy- it's fun and quirky, and a challenge, and I love that it's that way. It's something that we have to overcome one way or another- but as long as we exist we will have the desire to want- and as long as I exist, I will embrace it.
P.S. It was later revealed to be a joke. Crisis averted.
I'm in a combination of writing and texting- as the bumps in the road, and spacial limitations, make it pretty difficult to focus. My friend just sent a WhatsApp message informing myself and a few other friends that he was recently married. Not engaged, that would make more sense at our age; ring-wearing, broom jumping, 401k affecting, Kim Kardashian, married.
It's funny, because at the same time I'm sending a few flirty iPhone messages to a girl that I went on a date with a few days before. It's a surreal experience. I'm not sure what to think of it all- but it's definitely taking something out of me. As I think about this girl, and how we literally met a few days before, and that this guy is getting married to a woman that none of us have ever met- it's like the world is shifting on its head.
It hasn't always been this way. I used to be the guy in the very serious, very committed relationship. If anyone would have guessed, it would have been me to send the engagement announcement to my friends. I would be the one giving my friends dating advice, and telling them about the 'days when I was single. It's not like I've never had a friend to be married, either. This just seems a bit too close to home, for some reason- and it's sort of bittersweet.
If you're a real Kanye fan, you might have heard the song Bittersweet Poetry, featuring John Mayer. A portion of the hook is as follows:
See what I want so much should never hurt so bad
Never did this before, that's what the virgin says
We've been generally warned, that's what the surgeon says
God talk to me now, this is an emergency.
I was first introduced to the song by my senior summer sweetheart (we all had one). I thought the lyrics were perfect at the time, and it's almost uncanny how perfect they are now, for completely different reasons.
While my ex-girlfriend probably meant to tell me something much more micro- now I'm looking a the lyrics in a very macro scale. The lyrics aren't about anyone in particular- they're about this whole process. Meeting to dating, dating to sex, sex to commitment, commitment to engagement, engagement to marriage and whatever the fuck happens when you get married. Half the time, these people are strangers. You had no stake in their upbringing, and have no idea how fucking insane they can, and probably will, be.
I love the idea of being with a partner through thick and thin- someone who will have your back for the end of time. Maybe I just like the idea of John Snow and that hot red-headed girl keeps insulting me to prove how down she is to ride. Then again, maybe I don't really like the idea of being John Snow, and having that hot red-headed girl keep insulting me to prove how down she is to ride. It's a nice notion, but might just be too much for me to deal with.
I think what makes this moment so bittersweet is that I'm sort of in a crux between realizing I sound like a walking vulva who can't deal with the idea of love- or I'm a super realist who just doesn't want to deal with the debilitating and depressing effects relationships will ultimately have on our generation. Love is more of a Godard movie than an Ephron, and that makes me happy.
It's not easy- it's fun and quirky, and a challenge, and I love that it's that way. It's something that we have to overcome one way or another- but as long as we exist we will have the desire to want- and as long as I exist, I will embrace it.
P.S. It was later revealed to be a joke. Crisis averted.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)