Tonal shifts arrive in subtle waves, the longer we continue to sit here. So much seems preordained in retrospect, considering the list of characters who behave exactly as one would expect. And yet this amounts to a longshot betting parlay, when analyzed with more scrutiny: each occurrence carries a decent probability, but combining them all reaches astronomical odds. Not to mention the biblical roll call of nights that have devolved into total chaos, due to one or more known entity behaving unexpectedly, or the introduction of some other x factor.
While I sit patiently absorbing what this Michael is bellyaching at considerable length about, despite having never met the guy before, concerning his recent DUI conviction and its attendant complications — fines, loss of license, lawyer fees, you name it — Robby answers a phone call from Charity, wanders outside so he can “hear her better” and is never seen again. The ever elusive Aaron, though confirming that he is indeed seeing some new girl but not elaborating much beyond that, is the next to depart, albeit with handshakes and vague allusions to preexisting plans. During this time, a random influx of bodies float in and out of our midst, some sitting down, others not, most of them at least vaguely familiar to me from previous outings with Millie and crew. As for Millie herself, she is no stranger to rambling at length either, although her métier is more an endless onslaught of gossip.
By the time I come up for air, while it’s not yet 10pm, Michael has been picked up by some unnamed individuals, due to his current non-driver status, and the other tangential faces have departed. Only now is Lily at long last flopping into the booth, deigning to grace us with her presence. Even in so doing, she cites exhaustion as the primary inspiration, a claim that this alleged popularity is really taking its toll upon her. Somehow, by gradations so slight I didn’t even realize their cumulative significance, our party has now dwindled down to just me and these two. The other three guys all had much better options on their plates, and bailed. Maybe Joe’s right, maybe I am a joke, who can say. Moments like these can make a person wonder. But I think my social life is maybe analogous to that betting parlay, the potential payoff involved with such. The individual pieces all appear exceedingly slight, yet when you stack them atop one another, a more substantial picture emerges. Assuming you can get everything to line up just right, that is.
In the moment, though, it’s impossible to say where this is even headed, if anywhere, despite the presence of Lily. While we have known one another for nearly five years, we’ve only hooked up on a few scattered incidents. There were far more occasions, even when I was single (this limiting qualifier, ahem, has never seemed to apply to her own relationship status), where nothing has happened. So I’m taking it frame by frame. And as far as this current isolated still, the latest development is that Millie’s underage boyfriend is getting off work and wants to join us. Only problem is, there’s no way the vigilant help here at Sticks will serve him. The question is where do we go from here, with the added wrinkle that Lily’s insisting she would like to hit a karaoke bar if possible.
“Where can we go, Mason? Got any ideas?” Millie questions, grinning over at me.
“Yeah, Sid,” Lily seconds, albeit with a much more furrowed, serious expression, “whatcha got?”
This is when the thought first occurs to me, which never would have otherwise, I’m convinced, without this specific sequence of events: Pardners. It has karaoke, it is well off the beaten path, it features a bartender who drinks behind the counter himself and totally wouldn’t notice much less care if a nineteen year old were in there. And so it is settled.
When he arrives at Pardners about a half hour after us, I can see that Millie’s boyfriend, Jacob, has grown a fully formed beard since the last time we met, which further enhances his cause. He’s also not a huge drinker — prefers smoking weed by a wide margin — and is highly unlikely to make a spectacle of himself. We have furthermore sequestered ourselves to a distant table in this murkily lit, bluish-purple corner, and he’s sticking with mixed drinks in lieu of beer, which is somewhat easier to disguise.
These are all positives improving our odds of sticking around here. His ability to assimilate with this culture, however, is another matter entirely. Millie and Lily arrived here looking around as one would at a museum, with slight awestruck smiles and giggles, remarking that they haven’t been here in probably six or seven years and had totally forgotten about this place, and meanwhile I feel second-home comfortable here now even without the frontier attire. Jacob, however, continues to smirk at this parade of outfits drifting past, only leavened by his cringes at the country playlist people belt out from behind the microphone.
That sharp looking blonde in the white cowgirl hat is here yet again, and once more sings her signature tune, Sylvia’s Nobody, alongside a few other selections. A subgenre I’ve begun to think of as porno country remains mighty popular at this watering hole, these really slutty sounding late 70s/early 80s jams sung almost exclusively by Nashville’s leading starlets of that era. We’re talking Barbara Mandrell’s Sleeping Single in a Double Bed, we’re talking the timeless Dolly and her Here You Come Again. And Nobody, too, of course, alongside countless others in this vein. On any given night, guaranteed a few tarted up but much appreciated hussies, dressed to honor and evoke those distant decades, will click their heels to the microphone stand and take a shot at these classics. Hot, totally hot. And where else can you find action like this?
All of which is well and good, expected even. Elsewhere, I observe that the Paulie character is seated in that same spot, near our usual posts at the bar, which makes me question again his dubious purported status of only being in town for a party. Bartender Greg has indeed continued pouring the occasional round of Beam and Coke, for Jacob and me, with total indifference, while the girls stick to their beloved cheap domestic brew. And when, lo and behold, some old man who doesn’t look a day over 76 emerges from the distant horizon to belt out a certified actual rock and roll tune, I leap at this opportunity to try and get Jacob a little more enthused about his surroundings.
So what if the song, White Rabbit, is as ancient as this fellow. In this reverb drenched aural cushion, the old man’s doing that whole thing where he’s basically just speaking the words in maybe a slightly higher pitch than his normal voice, and yet it doesn’t sound half bad. Still, Jacob’s a diehard hip-hop fanatic, and is not even remotely impressed by this crap.
“These are some cool lyrics, though,” I mention, tipping my head toward the scrolling word screen on the side, helpfully posted for anyone who cares to follow along. But he only nods once, with a cursory glance at them, and appears no more moved by this than anything else.
Shortly after this, I dip into the bathroom to take a leak, and splash some water on my face. It’s still not very late, but I’m already feeling about halfway out of it, though more tired than drunk, somehow. Millie drove us here, so that’s not really an issue, and anyway I can always crash at her place if need be. The issue is that, if I’m being honest, I plan on crashing at her place. With Lily. Because that’s where this night is clearly headed. And I need to keep myself together in order for that to happen.
Throwing this cold tap water across my features, I can’t help but regard myself in the mirror — which is only unusual in that, unless shaving or something, I try to avoid looking in these. Call it some strange willpower related kick I’ve been on for who knows how long. It’s not that I abhor my appearance or anything, only that I believe it can only lead to reduced confidence. There’s almost no occasion, ever, where any of us are going to peer at this reflective surface and think, oh wow, I look even better than I thought I did! Usually it’s an occasion for the opposite to occur, as we begin nitpicking ourselves.
But in inadvertently doing so now, I am struck by a totally different thought, variations of which surface from time to time: thinking that we are all these little separate rocket ships that were sent careening off into space, and wondering how it transpired that I was in charge of this one. It seems so increasingly surreal, the more I ponder and regard myself as the one left piloting this craft.
Concerning my actual appearance, though, I guess the default all-purpose take is, eh, good enough to get the job done. Whatever. Feeling that appearance doesn’t matter as much as everyone thinks it does, anyway, that this is a bullshit crutch to fall back on instead of bettering your game. Particularly when everyone’s standards are so different to begin with — and we know they are wildly divergent, yet argue with one another about some theoretical universal standard regardless.
Coincidence or not, this topic will tangentially raise its head soon after I return to the table. My stance on Lily, for the record, is that she represents somewhat of an outlier by looking better now than she did five years ago. Lost a little weight, yes, but she’s also shorn her locks significantly — though usually a fan, I didn’t really think the long, silky straight hair thing was working for her, somehow — and there’s some aspect to her face that has aged well. Actually, this is also possibly due to the locks chopping, for it allows her features, particularly her wide, light brown eyes and full bodied smile, to really pop to the forefront. One other oddity, which I have told her several times, is that I find Lily way more attractive first thing in the morning, with no makeup and her hair in a ponytail, than after she dolls herself up, for a night out like this one.
However, these sisters at the table are not talking about themselves, but instead their cousin Michael. I’m not sure about the full story, though the dude is clearly suffering some correlated hard times there with the DUI and his now living in their basement. Nonetheless, though that guy has to weigh a good 400 pounds, as Millie and Lily are now discussing, somehow he is seeing four different women, two of which will give him a threesome any time he wants it. Needless to say, our reactions to this information differ. Which only serves to underscore my theories about appearances.
“Damn,” I mutter, “I gotta meet these girls.”
“You wouldn’t like them, Sidney,” Millie says.
“Yeah they are total 1980s chicks,” Lily adds, then demonstrates with her hands, “big hair, poofed out…”
“Still wearing the clothes from that era…,” Millie continues.
“Still wearing those clothes, and like, the makeup…,” Lily nods and confirms.
These two are one hundred percent serious, of course, though it just blows my mind that they would think something like this matters. A deviation so distinct that, to me, it highlights a basic philosophical dichotomy between males and females. Although even within the sexes, there are of course huge discrepancies in preference. For example I’ve gone on record many times declaring that I’m really not into excessively skinny girls. To me, they just look like boys. Yet I have known countless friends or family members or coworkers, all guys, who are beside themselves if they manage to land any skinny chick whatsoever, even one with a busted up face. And should we get on this topic and I mention, eh, she really doesn’t have a very pretty face, though or what have you, the response is almost always, yeah, but look how skinny she is, dude! Granted, if they have a beautiful face, then the skinniness is maybe not an issue. But if they possess no body and the face is hit, this is nothing to write home about.
And yet others, like most notably Pete Ravage, beg to differ, considering my opinion preposterous. Though we have yet to meet his new girlfriend Kathy, and therefore don’t know anything about her appearance, how we have gotten onto this topic is Pete continually going on about how skinny she is. Which has led to this mildly combative discussion, because we are two guys who like to debate things, one recent evening as he, Dylan and I are walking back to my car, after exiting Edgecrest Café.
“I don’t know, man, and not to diss her or anything like that, but I personally am not into really skinny chicks. To me they’ve got to at least have some sort of body, a little meat on their bones.”
“Yeah I think you and me are on the same page with that one,” the mostly silent Dylan concurs, though remaining out of the fray otherwise.
“But see, I mean, that’s where I think you guys are wrong,” Pete loftily declares, “most guys are into skinny chicks. That’s why, you know, models are all really skinny, and like, if you go to the beach, who do you see for the most part, walking around in these skimpy bikinis?” Pausing, he glances over at me for emphasis before concluding, “it’s a bunch of skinny chicks! You know what I’m saying? That tells you something!”
I laugh and say, “weeeeeeeelllll, I think you would also see chicks with huge tits in a bikini. Or even just a great ass. But no actually, for the most part, if you ask me guys are mostly into bodies that sort of match theirs.” Though admittedly this would not explain the inexplicable global phenomenon of slender and/or fit black dudes — such as Marvin — obsessing over gigantic, blonde white girls, I think my theory mostly holds. And even that phenomenon slots into my other one, regarding excessive boniness. “Like you’re into extremely skinny girls…because you are also extremely skinny.”
“Yeah, but see, I think that’s kinda bullshit, you know, like I was saying, most guys are into skinny chicks, when you get right down to it. Like for you two to say you’re not into that, in a way that’s sort of a copout, you’re basically just saying, eh, I’ll take whatever I can get, you know? I weigh 98 pounds dripping wet, and if they weigh more than me, they’re too fat. Kathy’s the same way, she’s even smaller than that, she gets it. Most girls are too fat. Actually, most people are too fat…like, lift up your shirt.”
While chuckling at the absurd yet highly entertaining turn this conversation has taken, I comply, yanking up my tee and sweater as he has requested. “Now, see,” he rules on the matter, “that’s too fat, dude. Like I was saying, I only weigh a hundred pounds at most, dripping wet.”
Even while it dawns on me that he’s also a bit shorter than any of us, I don’t bother mentioning this, and mostly just tune him out from here. There is basically no persuading him on any topic you present, and anyway, it’s only half the equation. No amount of arguing is going to convince someone that the bodies they find attractive are bullshit, regardless, and it also overlooks a much more crucial flipside: okay, but what do females find attractive in a guy?
Here I am certain he is totally out of his mind, because most girls are simply not into overly skinny guys. This is a proven fact. It’s the reason that “dad bods” consistently rate highest for them, year in and year out, in all the major polls. Women are generally not salivating over extremely skinny guys, and probably not ridiculously obese guys — although this Michael character proves even that is not a deal breaker — but also by and large not extreme workout fanatics, either. The reason for that last point, I believe, is obvious to a fault. The women feel they would be forced to keep up with that obsessive fitness routine as well. Because what do these females ultimately find themselves drawn to, most of all? A good looking face, an okay body that retains its shape with basically no effort whatsoever, i.e. something they feel they might pull off too.
“I think Pete has some…controversial takes, with a lot of his theories,” Dylan says to me, cackling, when we reappraise this conversation later.
That’s true, but it’s possible mine are just as controversial, for different reasons. For one additional angle did occur to me not so long ago, and as soon as it did, this rang in my head like a game show bell, confirming its verity. Though we are not consciously aware of doing so, I am now certain that on some primitive level in the back of our caveman brains, when we look at a really skinny girl…we instantly think, god DAMN, I bet that is a tight pussy…
Though there is no correlation here whatsoever, our minds automatically take that leap. And it represents a huge component of the subconscious allure. Even after this realization sinks in, and despite not being into beanpoles myself, I too must force myself constantly to fight that tendency. Being skinny does not mean they will have a tight pussy. Repeat. Repeat. And after I mull this concept and its ramification for weeks, I feel bold enough to present it to Dylan.
“Hmm. You know what, I think you might be right,” he nods, after pondering it a handful of seconds, “there probably is something to that. And really, the weird thing is, I would say the complete opposite is the actual truth, wouldn’t you? Doesn’t it seem to you like most of the time the heavier ones have the tight pussies?”
A laugh escapes me, though he is correct, as I conjecture, “yeah and I wonder why that is. Do you think maybe it’s, like, gravity pressing down from all sides? Or do you think they’ve just been banged less?”
“Probably a little bit of both,” he concludes.
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