On the surface this rekindled relationship with Helena is progressing far better. During the next great big holiday weekend, this one wrapped around the fourth of July, as all my closest friends have uniformly ventured back home, she and I hatch this plan to meet them at a bar up there. Even better, for this hourlong journey each way, Tamika has volunteered to drive. And I’m feeling reasonably optimistic, though what sounded like a great arrangement has proven more awkward than expected, with me in the backseat, shouting over the music if attempting to make conversation. Tamika’s presence is in fact a major hindrance, the one seemingly tiny, last minute detail that has made basically no seating configuration feasible. Either I would ride shotgun, or she would have Helena in back with me, chauffeur style, and I’m not convinced either of those make for a less awkward experience.
Nonetheless, it is great to reconnect with my fellows again, at their chosen dive. It’s the first I’ve seen of Phil since his abrupt departure, and though he apologizes for leaving me high and dry, I assure him it was no big deal and I’m glad he’s doing much better. Though neither of their women are present, Joe and Pete are both in serious relationships, leaving Phil and Dylan alone as potential options for pairing off with Tamika. As usual Phil talks a hardline stance about having no interest, hinting at better options in the pipeline. Dylan on the other hand emphatically tells me yes, without my even asking, he would very much indeed like to hook up with this black chick.
“Hey, I wouldn’t mind spending some time…in the African bush,” Dylan jokes, during a tiny window where Tamika has ventured off to the ladies room, and it’s suggested that Helena help make that connection.
Helena giggles but demurs, saying, “Oh no. I don’t think so. Forget it.”
“What? Come on!” I blurt out, jumping to his aid, “hook a brother up!”
“Yeah I mean all I’m saying is…I always wanted to explore…the African bush,” Dylan deadpans again.
Though continuing to cackle, Helena explains, “well, I mean, it could happen. But you’re on your own with that one. I don’t play matchmaker, sorry.”
Yet other methods exist for brokering deals such as this. Helena can refuse to play ball, and even Dylan himself never comes right and asks Tamika for her digits, or suggests they go out on a date. Instead, I whisper in an aside to Tamika, telling her that Dylan is interested. She only laughs in response, the kind of blowoff snicker, as though exhaling a gust of wind with eyes half closed, that is often accompanied by the phrase yeah right. Even so, I suspect she is secretly flattered. It’s fair to question why I feel the need to play matchmaker myself, but I’m not getting on some lofty pedestal here claiming to be an awesome friend — it’s only that I believe you want as many chicks coming around as possible, because everybody wins. Or at least we guys do, anyway.
Otherwise, this night is a wasted one, unless maybe you consider the time I have to contemplate how much this isn’t what I want right now. Helena and Tamika remain locked into neverending conversations, mostly friend related gossip, without even enough opening for a playset sized plastic spoon to wedge into. So I’m mostly stuck conversing with my well-worn band of colleagues. And Dylan never does come right out and express his interest to Tamika directly.
Hours later, as we all leave the way we came, an all too dreary ride home follows. One where I volunteer to pop out and pump gas, mainly because then at least Helena can roll down her window for some actual face to face with me.
It isn’t that she’s distant or disinterested, because after all, she orchestrated a large part of this herself. Rather, I feel as though my skin is crawling with the sudden realization that she doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with this outing whatsoever, that this is a totally normal night and we might experience many more like these in the future. And I’m thinking that if so, jumping off this merry-go-round before it’s too late is a possibly prudent strategy.
Well, that’s part of the problem, anyway. I also realize during this endless, mostly silent return voyage, if we’re being real here, I don’t give a fuck what Helena has been up to for these past five years. I really don’t. Unless you’re talking about an interesting or amusing story or something, then yeah, let’s hear it, but otherwise, who cares? And I suspect she truly does not possess one iota of interest in my history, either.
When Tamika drops us off, as we’re sliding out of the car, I’m about halfway through this motion when our driver whispers my name. I turn around with a “huh?” to encounter Tamika’s broad smile. That and a slip of paper she’s handing me, with her name and phone number and a smiley face, which she’s asking that I pass along to Dylan.
“Tell him if he’s still interested to give me a call sometime,” Tamika purrs, and I assure her that I will.
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Thanks and have a great week!
