Phil’s advice about girls plus drugs was questionable to begin with, and now finds itself collapsing on every side. He remains mostly trapped in his room, which is a sad, unfortunate turn of events. And though lacking specifics, it can basically only mean one thing, in my opinion. The extension of that, however, is my interpretation of his advice, which I’d always viewed as suspect. And concerning its personal application in my efforts with Helena, I’m seeing some encouraging signs that his recommendations weren’t the least bit necessary.
It’s early spring now, and though chatting on the phone a couple times, I haven’t seen her since the day she swung back through to retrieve her purse. I’ve continued treading this water both slowly and lightly. Jenna wasn’t totally off the mark, after all, by insisting that any chick who would pull this was probably up to something. Not that any nefarious plots would stem from Helena, unless getting roped into another serious relationship counts. Rather, I suspect it is just that, she is hoping to rekindle something regular with me. She has already made one slight allusion to a half-joke we tossed around, clear back when we broke up — a pact to get back together, if we were single, after five years had passed. The calendar is now fast closing in on that point. Also, now that I’m over at this house she has purchased, for the first time, another angle or offshoot of the original angle is rearing its head.
“You should move in here,” Helena bluntly declares, with a giggle, although it’s a safe bet she’s not joking. “You and your roommate. I have a huge basement, there would be plenty of room for him, too.”
In other words, another example of why I’m peeking around every corner before proceeding. Is she seriously interested, or looking for someone to split the bills, or both? Whatever the outcome, I’ll admit it’s a tantalizing prospect, and many a day — or rather, usually late night — will find me wondering if I’m insane for dragging my feet. That is after all one popular interpretation, from the armchair quarterbacks.
“Dude! I would be all over that!” Joe insists, once I inform him of this development. “Hell, I would probably join you and move into her basement, if I wasn’t already with Shoniqua!”
But we are not there yet, the occasion of that conversation. At the moment she has proposed this, I’m sitting on her couch, thinking caution remains the best policy. And will continue to believe this. Have I really come this far just to jump back into another dedicated relationship with my first serious girlfriend? She’s awesome, but she’s also quite the free spirit. Meanwhile this would essentially throw in the towel on any sort of hit-n-run strategy, because it’s difficult to imagine I could pull that off if committing to moving in here. I still think these baby steps are best, albeit, hopefully, interwoven with some casual reunion hookups while we sort this out.
A whole host of other considerations point this way also. She already has a roommate, in the other ground floor bedroom, her best friend Stella whom I have also known for many years. And though Helena isn’t working at a world famous lingerie store herself, her job is at the nearby headquarters of said world famous lingerie company. Who knows what kind of hot friends she might have, as an insider in that industry. All of which add up to still more reasons to maintain this light, breezy vibe, try to keep the situation afloat as long as possible without committing to anything, and see if I can’t maybe turn this into a major bounty bearing countless untold riches.
Helena’s place is somewhat more spacious than it appears from the outside. Located in a sleepy tract subdivision, on the far east side, her palace is also a quite warm one, meaning both temperature and atmosphere both, as I have knocked and gained admittance. Aromas of a somewhat strange and possibly cobbled together dinner — sauerkraut and smoked sausage — fills the air, the stated purpose for which I was invited over, with the kitchen, living room and dining area lights ablaze, an old Drew Carey rerun on the television, which nobody is watching. This despite the presence of Stella and her boyfriend, Jack, over at the dining table.
While Helena shouts conversational pieces to me above the din, only half turned my way as she continues to cook, these two remain seated, only smiling and saying hello. Both are clad in hooded jackets and are giving off that unnamable yet unmistakable aura of people who have just come in from the outside, i.e. only recently arrived here themselves. Stella’s examining a zip locked baggie of some sort, though it’s not until she draws my attention to it that I pay any mind at all.
“Does this look good? To you?” she questions, shoving the baggie up underneath my nose, where I can quite clearly see this is a large quantity of pot they’ve presumably just purchased yet whose quality they are academically debating.
I cackle and tell her, “I have no idea,” before parachuting out of this conversation, in favor of joining Helena at the stove.
Once dinner is served, Helena and I descend upon the living room with our plates. Though it seemed obvious we would join those other two at the table, they don’t partake at all, at least not immediately, preferring instead to pack a bowl and test out the weed they were apparently questioning. After which they indeed do sample her wares as well. As for me, considering Helena was not yet out of her teens and I just barely so, back when we broke up, I don’t recall her ever really cooking for me before. Not that this is the most difficult dish in the world, but she’s at least proven herself capable right here. The subject doesn’t really come up much, however, apart from a couple brief passing compliments, for we’re mostly getting caught up on old times.
“Do you remember when you were still living at home and snuck me into your bedroom?” she asks.
“Oh yeah. You hid out in my closet, I think for pretty much most of the night,” I recall with a chuckle, “I had to bring you in through the window.”
“Yep, yep!” she concurs, nodding and offering me a warm broad smile at this memory, “like I was saying, I think about that kind of stuff all the time!”
Whatever is going on here, I think it’s safe to say she has found her dating choices, in the years since me, somewhat lackluster. But maybe I have as well. Now in our mid-twenties, we have reached some sort of assessment phase, and yet even with this, I’m already detecting a slight dynamic shift having occurred. Though a decade out from Aaron’s observation about the miserable thirty-five year olds, this phenomenon creeps in more and more at the edges with every passing year, and these females know it. We guys then proceed to field a progressively louder chorus of bellyaches that this isn’t fair, that for whatever reason we are perceived to mostly age better than they. That alone probably gives us more confidence, as time goes by, in addition to the life experiences themselves.
But while there’s a whole lot of cultural and historical baggage to unpack, concerning why this is so — or should I say, is widely perceived as true — that’s not my focus and anyway I am not going to unravel the great mysteries of the universe in a single night. Except to observe that when the tables were spun around in the opposite direction, and we were much dorkier, say, sixteen or eighteen or twenty-one year old goobers, and they were holding most if not all the cards, supremely smug in swatting down guy after guy after guy, we would not receive so much as a dollop of sympathy from them, in fact it was considered somewhat lame to even expect any sympathy. Now that the tide has possibly begun flowing in the other direction, though not exactly feeling sorry for these women, I would say, having suffered this ourselves, we are at least generally way more understanding about the situation, because we remember what that was like. Although again, the difference is that they didn’t have any experience behind it, when they were at their peak. Therefore couldn’t possibly have appreciated this enough as it was happening, therefore this also isn’t fair.
We’re not getting into any of this right now, of course. These are all my observations, after the fact. In the moment, nothing more substantial happens, apart from inching this reunion a foot or two forward. After I eventually leave, with hugs and pecks on the cheek, I am still uncertain where this is headed. Considering Helena has Stella as a roommate and possibly even Jack as well, I feel confident ruling this out as some sort of bill sharing ploy. But I’m not sure if she’s looking for anything serious, or is adopting just a hookup-and-see type approach herself. We have discussed getting together for drinks maybe next time, which was one component seriously lacking tonight, alcohol, to possibly grease the gears a little bit.
A fact all but confirmed the next time I see Joe, and am telling him about this occasion, at another of these Triads Lounge rendezvous with him and Shoniqua. I did wait until she drifted off to use the ladies’ room before introducing this topic. Once again Joe launches into his bit where he is acting like some sort of guru, adopting the tone of a patient manager, coaching me, which I mostly appreciate even though it’s a little bizarre.
“See what you do is, you get to talking about old times. Plus, it helps if you have a couple of these,” he picks up his beer bottle, grinning, before taking a swig, “in fact, you pretty much have to have a couple of these. Trust me, I have a lot of experience in these matters.”
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