Wednesday, July 11, 2007

I smirk and agree

Marriage is like this measure of success. I feel forever stressed with the question “Do you want to get married?”

My answer right now is: not really. Unless I elope, you know, something spontaneous, with some woman I just met like two weeks ago in a bar who is staying with her friend Alicia because “the “scene” in San Francisco ruins lives”. It’ll be some woman in a desperate situation, pouring her emotions out on the table. “These people in the advertising business are brutal!” Her right balled fist rests on her temple and she says this as she pokes the bottom of the glass with her pink straw. I knew nothing about advertising except that I do frequent Hooters for the wings, tits and the divisive battle between in-state rivals Florida and Florida State plastered on three televisions. I am partial to Florida State; an image of Gainesville rubbed me the wrong way once. “I grew up in Riverside.” We both admitted to liking Hanson and the “Mmmbop” craze. It was more of a stretch for me to come to terms with how I knew the lyrics to that song—“keep planting to find out which one grows, it’s a secret no one knows”. As we sang in unison the couple next to us gave a one of those funny looks. I think she thought it was cute that I imagined myself as the drummer, Zac, and how I would sit in the darkness of my room and mimic his drumming skills. She was on her third Long Island, while I was on my first, of three, White Russians. The time flew by. “Men who don’t pick up after themselves irk me!” I’ll exclude the fact that I haven’t done my laundry in two weeks hence why I buy new whites to stave off that dreaded trip… and that dreaded wait!?! She didn’t vote in 2004 because she wasn’t, and still isn’t, into politics. She’s got this mannerism of flipping back her hair before she starts to say something. “I remember ‘Licia and I were on this trip and we coaxed Mr. Dunbar to come out with us one night. It was a small town near Cordoba and the night was flat, perfect. We ducked out after check-in time and met him in the middle of some street.” She excuses herself to the “little ladies room”. “Wes” is calling. I don’t pick it up. She mentions she paints. I mention I write. “My mom and dad fought all the time.” They threw things too. I guess she wastes her time watching “Law & Order” re-runs, “It’s so interesting, all those odd cases. I’d hate to be involved in all that, right?” I smirk and agree but I want to let her know that it is just television. Dumb ass. Who knew it was this easy to pass four hours of my life? She rummages through her purse for three minutes, picking out smokes—Camels?—and some lipstick; she never had a pen in there, I knew it. “I haven’t seen Alicia in like three years, it’s weird.” We head over to my place. I ask for a smoke even though I’m not a causal smoker; I just hold it in between my thumb and index fingers as we make our way up 18th. “What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do but never have?” She was serious after I answered with “a foursome”. I said, “Outer space. But not like NASA and all that shit. I want to skyrocket out of this damn place. Like, skyrocket past money, crumbs, miscommunication, work—just say “Fuck it”. I’m not unhappy. I want to be vulnerable. I want something to yank me out of my comforts and throw me into something terrible—nothing traumatizing—just something I’ve never experienced before. I’ve been held down by gravity for too long.” I laughed as I made the last statement. She did too. “Let’s go then.”


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