Better Living Through Absurdity

Part Three of the Weekend that Wouldn’t Die

“The End of the Affair”

So, where did we leave off? Ah yes, repeated rambling, lack of accountability, tact, class and coherency. The doorman was attempting to both seduce and reject me in the same sentence and I was having none of it. Black widow indeed –I don’t think jackass would make a very satisfying meal for me…

Anyways. So, I have to back up a bit in time. While we were outside having our conversation, one of the things he kept going on about was how hard it was to find a girl who wanted to talk, who wanted him for who he was inside and not for what he could get them perks-wise, or just for sex. He didn’t like feeling used and he would rather have a meaningful relationship with deep emotional attachment…yeah I didn’t buy it either.

Here’s why: I find that oftentimes, especially in regards to the “only being used for sex” or “why am I attracting unintelligent, low-brow women who can’t offer me more than plastic pillows at night?” woe is me crap, the fact is, the person is PRESENTING themselves as someone who does welcome that kind of attention. However, I made the appropriate noises of empathy and commiseration and “ain’t that a damn shame” and left it at that.

Fast forward to the bar and the 30 second wedding and divorce and into the picture enters “very drunk girl from Texas who’s engaged to be married and really in love with her fiancée but who acts like a totally debauched stripper…only sloppier." And the doorman proceeds to turn his eyes…and hands…to her. And she’s all over it –I won’t go into the excessive ass-grabbing, crotch grabbing, grinding and amount of inappropriate things said –except that I just did –but suffice to say, it wasn’t really what you’d call “discreet” –and lets just say it kind of proves my point about how someone’s behavior can give people a certain impression of them. In this case, someone acting like a man-whore means that eventually, the idea of him being only good for one or two things is going to stick –and frankly, he has no right to complain about this until and unless he does something to change it.

But I digress. So the bar is closing, the girl is drunk, the doorman is drunk and I’m sober and I’m going home…alone.

I say my goodbyes, venture outside and there’s the two of them, slightly swaying in the non-existent breeze. The doorman turns to me and says, “Okay ready to walk her home?” and I blink, the look on my face shifting between incredulity and loathing. I can’t help but recall my statement earlier in the evening that I wasn’t going to be walking anyone home anymore –I already clocked over three miles walking drunk folks to their domains –I had lost my inner good Samaritan. So I raise my eyebrow and ask, “Did you miss the whole speech about not walking anyone home anymore?” and he kind of um’s and ah’s and then says, “Well, so you don’t want to?” and I sigh and ask where she lives –turns out, she does live at the building right on the corner so I shrug and figure, what the heck, maybe I might actually prevent a mistake from occurring. We three begin to walk.

Now about this time I begin to notice that this girl is pretty off. Not just the fact that she’s drunk, but the fact that she alternates between being vacantly silly and being rather aggressive and edgy. It’s irritating but I figure I can hold out for a one-block walk. We arrive at her building and of course the “end of evening chat” commences, and I’m mentally ticking off seconds, waiting for the appropriate 3 minutes to have passed. Suddenly, they decide they’re going to go to another bar. I of course say, once again, that I’m going home. They then decide that they can’t let me walk back that block by myself –I MUST be accompanied. I’m now cringing, probably outwardly as well as inwardly. But I finally realize that the only way I’m getting back any time soon is to just let them walk me over there and then they can go their merry way. We arrive back at our original starting point.

And then…the incident occurs.

We began to have a discussion about tattoos. The girl begins showing off her various pieces, most of which are tacky little 20 minute jobs including one of the state of Texas on her ass cheek. She then proceeds to the large piece –lifting the side of her shirt up to her armpit. She shows off what appears to be the outline of a branch on her ribcage –closer inspection makes it clear that there is a lot of work remaining to be done. She then lifts her shirt over her head, revealing that she’s not wearing a bra and that it’s a tad chilly out. So she stands there, cupping her breasts and showing off this weird, black and white unfinished tattoo. She then explains that it’s apple blossoms…or dogwood blossoms…or blossoms of some kind –and it’s to be representative of family. I just kind of nod. Then she says, “This bud here represents my sister because she’s the only one not connected to the actual branch.” Now all I can think to say to that is, “Why, was she adopted?” thinking that that’s about all that makes sense to me. She shakes her head and gets an “I’m sort of possessed by an alien” look on her face.

And thus one of the most pathetically maudlin and drunken moments begins to take place.

She says in this detached, breathy voice, “No, my sister killed herself right in front of me when she was six.” Again, I’m not coming up with a lot of the wit, so I ask, “Um, how old were you?” (What?! It’s a perfectly valid question!!!) She mumbles something about being 4. I take a deep breath and try to say something relatively soothing and understanding. I manage to get out a few sentences about how that was a nice gesture and how I think it was going to look very lovely when it was all done. She seems to relax a bit after that and tells me that the bud will be done in pink and that will be the only color on the piece. She confesses that throughout certain periods of her life, it’s kind of come back to mess her up pretty bad. Which I tell her is quite understandable as well. I’m just glad that the creepiness has gone and I’m just making the appropriate sounds of sympathy. That is, until the idiot doorman decides to go for the “Witling of the Year” award.

While glancing over at him, I notice that it looks like all the booze hit him at once and he’s now visibly swaying, a sheen of sweat on his forehead and a kind of glazed look in his eyes. Here’s where it gets tricky. What he MEANS to say to her is, “Wow, I can really tell that this has affected you profoundly and it's really obvious how much that incident has impacted you." What he ACTUALLY says is, “Wow, you’re not lying.” Which makes it sound as though he doubted her story. Which makes her edgy again. She gives him a short, “No, I’m not” response and goes back to furiously smoking. He repeats himself, “You’re really not lying.” Once again, she says, “No…I’m really not lying.” He’s kind of shaking his head like Stevie Wonder or James Earl Jones in Conan and muttering random things and then once more, to go for the Hat Trick of supreme stupidity, he says it again. “You’re really not lying.” At this point, she snaps.

She says, “No I’m not lying –my sister’s name was (Insert whatever first, middle and last names here because I didn’t bother to remember them) and my name is (same excuse as above) and she killed herself in front of me when she was six years old and I was four years old.”

At this point, the doorman straightens up and says, “And I’m (insert whatever name here because I’m withholding the first name and frankly I didn’t bother catching the other two) and I’m just standing there trying not to snicker.

Then he drops his militant tone and says, “I know how it is, my, my, my brother blew his brains out and, and, and…so yeah…I gotta go home.”

Then they both turn and look at me like “So what’s your story –who suicided in front of you?” I once again can’t think of anything to say except, “I once punched an old woman in the face.” (Yeah, I know, it’s kind of a non-sequiter but I had nothing else to run with!)

It would be kind of a depressing conversation if it wasn’t also so utterly ridiculous. At this point, the doorman keeps muttering, “I gotta go home, I gotta go home” which I punctuate each time he says it with, “Alone.” Finally the Ambassador for the Best Little Whorehouse/Slaughterhouse in Texas turns to him and says, “I thought we were going to another bar!” and so he kind of lurches towards her and they go off down the sidewalk, and I just kind of shake my head and laugh as they stagger into every pothole, gaping crack and planter and trip over every slightly raised portion of sidewalk.

Turns out he didn’t go to work the next day…something about a messed up ankle.

I then proceed to go home. Alone. Happily alone. Sometimes, examining one’s options are enough to remove any possible stigma, depression or loneliness that might come from going home by oneself. Absurd, but true.

Next week…a challenge from a fellow BBF’er!