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Press HERE to enjoy this sucker in >>STEREO-PHONIC<< SOUND |
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Chapter Twenty-Two - Page 2 - |
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Read Along! |
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“Thank you,” I said. “You have my condolences,” she said. “No,” I meant, “thank you for being the only person who understood the invitation.” “Well,” she scanned the colorfully dressed people around us, “was it really that hard to figure out?” “Apparently.” She removed her veil and said, “Maybe we’re just on the same wavelength.” “You look great, by the way,” I said. Actually she looked pretty damn stunning. For the first time, I really looked at her and saw that she was even better looking than any of the Fantastic Four. That, I’m sure accounted for some rude comments I’d heard other girls in the office making about her. Which reminded me -- it had been a few weeks since New Girl broke up with Mr. Armani and she was certainly not the type to go long without an escort. “Who are you here with?” I asked. “I came with a friend, but I think he ditched me,” she said without a care in the world. “Ditched you?” I started, “That’s a little rude, don’t you think?” She cut me off. “I think you and I should have an affair.”
Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat went my heart while I absorbed that. She could have achieved the same results with a jackhammer. I was not merely floored; I became One with the linoleum. “You look shocked,” she said, displaying an uncanny gift for understatement. “I’m sorry.” “No, no, no, no, no,” I lied. “I just, uh, you know, with the ex and all, I haven’t been thinking along those lines. You surprised me.” “Don’t worry,” she assured me, “it will be fun.” My god, where did she get her confidence? “And besides,” she leaned forward, “We’re friends now. We’ll be friends when it’s over.” What a strange remark I might have caught in more capable times. Positive with a slightly Detroit-esque bent: Built-in obsolescence.
New Girl. She was really not my type, but what is a “type” anyway? Is it a physical manifestation of an ideal that we have stashed away in our hope chest? Is it pheromones at play? Or is it just a limitation we put on ourselves? My best friend and compadre in the Great Pussy Famine (another time, perhaps) was always complaining that he kept dating the same girl in a different dress and ending up with the same results. “Look,” I told him, “next time you’re attracted to someone, just turn to her friend -- physically turn away and go for the friend. It’s the only way you’re going to break the cycle.” I had never considered New Girl before. Not I had been considering anyone lately. Now that New Girl was on the table, so to speak, I considered hard. The more I considered, the more stunning she looked. Though usually she wouldn’t be someone I’d make an ass out of myself over, I could learn. Open-minded was unfamiliar territory to me. Perhaps it was my turn to turn away and break my cycle. Perhaps the forces of the universe that sent everyone to my party in bright colors and pastels were trying to tell me something. I should have grabbed her hand right then and whisked her away in a cab. I should have at least whisked her away into a closet. I think she actually whisked a little drool off my chin, as I stood there, catatonic. “Wow,” I got out -- helluva vocabulary -- “I, gee, I uhÉ” She did her best to move things along. “Do you want to think about it and call me?” “Yes,” I backpedaled, “That would probably be best. I’ve got the party and all.” “Okay,” she said, “I’m listed.” “Me, too,” I said, wanting to bite the words off my tongue. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” “I know.” “Would you excuse me for a minute? I was on my way to say goodbye to someone and I totally forgot about them.” “Sure. I’ll be here.” “I’ll be back.” I needed advice, but quick. Very Dear Friend, looking resplendent as always in a turquoise taffeta cocktail dress (I’ve yet to forgive her for that), was sitting on a couch with her new boyfriend. “See the blonde by refrigerator,” I asked. Very Dear Friend casually looked over my shoulder. “The one holding that guy’s hand?” “What?” I exclaimed, turning a 180. One of the sound guys from work was leaning in very close to New Girl and holding her hand. What was up with that? I turned back to VDF. “Yeah, that’s her.” “What about her?” She asked. “She just asked if I want to have an affair with her. What do you think?” The thing I like best about my Very Dear Friend is her manish outlook on things sexual. “Right on!” she said. “So, you think I should?” Duh. “Why are you sitting here, talking to me? Go for it!” she ordered. “Okay. I’m gonna go back and talk to her some more,” which I did. Sound Guy left as quickly as he moved in. Now, if you consider the fucked up state of mind I was in during the year leading up to this night, I didn’t do so bad. If not for Very Dear Friend’s pep talk I would have probably never said another word to New Girl. But I did, and I was pretty sure I said enough of the right things that she didn’t leave regretting she ever opened her mouth to me. Her ride came back eventually and took her away. I didn’t know what to make of that. I wasn’t sure what to make of her holding Sound Guy’s hand, either. Then I got a vision of work Monday, her denying everything or claiming it was a joke my friends put her up to. I loaded up on booze to calm my nerves. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, the Fantastic Four emerged from the V.I.P. bedroom en masse, looking remarkably energetic. My Boyish Friend from another band and his girlfriend with the fake tits and frosted lipstick gave me a ride home. Little did he realize he was less than thirty days from being alone like me. Drunk, I tossed and turned the night away, unable to maintain a single thought for more than a second. Sunday, I... I don’t know what I did during the day. I might have called Very Dear Friend for more advice. No, I went back to Party Central to help clean up the mess. Actually, Lawyer’s Son slept right through me coming in and cleaning. I left without ever seeing him. When I got back to my place, I paced around for a time, then boldly grabbed the phone book and looked up New Girl’s number. I didn’t dial it, but I stared at it for a good long while. Maybe I didn’t call because I was still a wreck. I don’t know. Maybe I was getting better and realized I was still enough of a wreck that I had to proceed with caution. I don’t know. “I don’t know” is a phrase I’m using a lot to describe this period of my life. “I don’t know” may very well be the Mantra of Thirty-One.
•••
THE MORNING AFTER
Not exactly -- it’s Monday and I’m in the elevator headed to the top floor. It felt a lot like a morning-after-sex-with-an-ugly-girl-and-now-I-have-to-face-my-friends to me. The one feature about me that has got me into and out of more hot water is that I am direct. I didn’t beat around the bush with New Girl when I got off that elevator. “Hi,” I said, leaking confidence all over the floor. “I’ll transfer you,” she said to the person on the phone. “Did you make it home alright Saturday?” I asked. “Uh-huh, my ride came back.” “I was there.” “Right,” she said plainly. Pregnant pause. “Well,” I said, “I’ve got to get some coffee and get to work.” Mister Smooth, that’s me -- a real lady-killer. Thankfully, there was an avalanche of faxes waiting for me so I didn’t see New Girl again that day. When I got home, I kicked myself in the ass repeatedly. “She is so out of my league,” I thought. “A-hem,” Wiener cleared his throat. “Didn’t we go over this in Paris?” I hate it when he’s right. “You’re right,” I said and dialed the phone. She answered her phone in the same business type voice she used at the office. “Hello?” “Hi,” I said, “It’s me.” “Oh, hi,” she softened her tone. “I’ll bet you thought I’d never call, the way I acted at the party and again at work today.” “No, I didn’t,” she said, “But I’m glad you did.” And with those few words, she made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time: at ease. I was glad I called, too. “Listen,” I started, “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said.”
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