Seeking pointers on the whole black female experience, Dylan and I find ourselves at this somewhat posh hotel bar downtown, with Marvin, for happy hour. It's the Monday following her handoff of the digits, and my roommate was thinking it might make sense to assemble as much intel as possible before making that call. Not that hanging out with Marvin isn't enough of a riot on its own, to get anyone out of the house, which is precisely what brings me here as well.
“I be like a kid in a candy store with that one!” Marvin declares, eyes popping out of his head as he observes this sharp, somewhat older brunette in a navy blue pantsuit, having just approached the bar for a drink. “Those clothes come off, I'll find somethin I like!”
We have claimed the table nearest the door, in front of the picture window, which affords prime vantage points of sidewalk traffic, the entire bar itself, and anyone who might enter via side entrance from the hotel lobby. Academically speaking, anyway, because traffic has thus far proven light, on what is likely their slowest day of the week. At least until Marvin's brunette appeared upon this plush, dark green carpet, purse in hand, requesting that gin and tonic before she even wearily dropped into that bar stool.
The earlier portion of this year might have belonged to me, but Dylan is undeniably on the hotter streak now. Which is great, because he has put an equal or greater amount of work into these kooky schemes, and deserves the spoils. Not to mention, I am hoping to partake of any accompanying crumbs that might fall from that plate – even if not always quite so inspired to exert much effort myself, in actively forcing these matters.
He does manage to go on one actual date with the blonde cowgirl from Pardners, for example, Ronda, whom he’d already slept with on the night he brought her home. However, this outing is such a nails-scraping-on-blackboard experience that Dylan admits he’s already done with her. They started out at some club in the Edgecrest district where a friend of hers was rapping – and not very well, according to him. So after sitting through this grueling performance, he convinces her to bring it down a notch with some simple drinks at a quiet dive much closer to our place, Midget’s. Though the results here are no less excruciating.
“Oh my God dude it was so annoying,” he says, “we’re sitting at the bar there and she keeps singing, but not only that she’s singing REALLY fuckin loud. I mean REALLY fuckin loud. The bartender even looks over at me at one point, and I could tell by the expression on his face, it was almost like he was saying to me, dude, I’ve been there before…”
So while he’s feeling strong enough to kick her to the curb, I’m conversely sputtering here of late. Part of this downturn stems from things that I know would probably work, but can’t bring myself to do anyway. One apt parallel, for example, concerns that night he went out with Jodie, where, though only seeing her for a couple minutes when she scooped Dylan up, I could have theoretically asked her for Jodi With No E’s digits, to acquire them the way Dylan did Tamika's. Or rather, asked him to get her number on my behalf, which is technically how that played out. Yet there’s admittedly some hangup here where I’m not going to give these women even the tiniest impression that I might be chasing after them. This isn’t how that works.
And maybe we just get spoiled by our relative riches over time. Six months ago, if anyone had suggested Helena and I would sleep together just once again in our lifetimes, I would have sounded off an aircraft carrier foghorn to celebrate this victory. For that matter, the likes of Joe seemed vicariously charged at this thought, all but begging me to do so. Now that it's happening, I find reality not nearly so earth shattering. Even though consciously aware that this is absurd, and there's no good reason I should find Dylan's potential hookup with Helena's sidekick far more interesting at the moment, than my own actual firsthand experiences with Helena herself. Yet this is how it seems right now.
Or does this mindset just make me a good friend? That's one possible interpretation. To step outside of total self immersion long enough to seriously root for and focus upon somebody else's success. Well, whatever the case, we have spent the first solid thirty minutes here, about a drink and a half apiece, discussing the Tamika situation, and only now does Dylan ask for a status update on Helena and me.
“I don’t know, man,” I admit, shaking my head with a sigh, “these exes are a lot trickier than they appear. It’s like I kinda want to be into it, but not too into it. I feel like as soon as you let them know that you’re really into them again, you’re screwed.”
But even that’s an oversimplification, because most of me believes I’m probably moving on from Helena. I can't fake this, feigning a major interest in a serious relationship again where none exists. And that's not even me claiming the impeccable moral certitude of your naval fleet's most decorated captain – I' m not saying I am necessarily against trying such, rather that I literally can't bring myself to attempt it. The motivation’s lacking. Although in some strange roundabout fashion, maybe that does amount to a twisted form of integrity.
Whatever the particulars, though, Dylan laughs and nods in agreement, saying, “you hit the nail right on the head there, dude. I know exactly what you mean. That’s where I’m at with Jodie right now. And before that, even, with some of the other ones in the past.”
With the old monogamous relationships, there remains a certain holiness there that you don’t want to totally annihilate. While at the same time, I know we are both thinking that diving headlong back into them again, to commit to that, feels like spinning wheels and living in the past. The weird thing about Helena and me is that we have more in common now, many more similar life experiences to rally around, than we did a few years ago, during the period we drifted apart. But it’s like we have to develop amnesia and both agree to forget the past half decade ever happened, that we were never separated, just to feel natural again. Any thoughts about a resumption are just incredibly clumsy. Instead you must pretend everything has progressed without interruption, without a single blip.
If not exactly convinced we wish to rev up into a serious status again with our former dedicated girlfriends, longtime casual playthings still remain open for grabs. After all, I haven’t been opposed to sleeping with Jenna and Helena, am merely waffling on the commitment part. And that same concept applies when, as the calendar has somehow already flipped around to August, that I just this morning agreed to Millie’s latest proposal, that a few of us fly to Chicago to visit Lily. The latter was never remotely serious to me, but a change of scenery sounds great, so does inevitably hooking up with someone that I can jet away from a couple of days later, without complication.
Regarding the ostensible purpose of this present brain trust, it's true we make almost no progress. Picking Marvin's funhouse mind for insight into wooing the modern black female, yeah, it’s proving a much more convoluted process than we may have bargained for. Although then again there's good reason for that, as evidenced by our consultant's latest horndog turn.
“Uhn! Lawdy! Would you look at this, now! She's messin with my mind, she's messin with my senses!” Marvin declares regarding a short, frizzy haired blonde in sexy glasses, a tasteful black skirt, and sleeveless charcoal blouse, who just breezed in the front door. Accompanied by her much taller and homelier girl friend, with lifeless mousy brown hair, long sleeved white dress shirt and plain black slacks. As they continue right on past us, it's obvious which one he means, leaving no need to ask for clarification. Having apparently heard some commotion from this corner, this duo slows down ever so slightly, casting disapproving grimaces our way, over their shoulders, though otherwise not trifling with the likes of us.
Marvin does have his women, though, even if perpetually, unrepentantly on the lookout for upgrades. He has his admirers, he has his main squeeze – currently this redheaded white girl with a gigantic caboose – and distant pipe dreams, which number untold legions. One also gets the distinct impression he has freaks we don't even know about, which he likes to keep on the down low. Still, bringing him along for prospect recruitment is not often successful, mainly due to outbursts such as these. And the attendant other behavior that goes with it.
As for us, Dylan and I both have a couple other soft leads in the works, angles we're pursuing elsewhere, and reliable fallbacks of yore to help while away the hours. In my case this pair of sharp new coworkers I'm obliquely working, and when all else fails there's always the backup plan of his sister, Cassie. But this feeling persists, for me, of doing just okay, and hanging in there, yet still needing to level up my game somehow. And I feel like he mostly trends in this direction, too.
Except it occurs to us now that maybe some older projects remain unresolved out there in the wild, ones which we prematurely abandoned. And now that we're on the topic, it occurs to us that Brooke works right by here, at this nearest downtown skyscraper. Perhaps a bit late for her to remain stuck behind a desk, but it’s at least feasible that she's presently at a similar after work watering hole herself, nearby, hopefully with some tasty friends. Granted, she blew off my date proposal on grounds of a “married” status, but we left our rings at home. If able to make anything happen, we can always bullshit some story about our marriages falling apart.
Seated around this small table near the entrance, with the guys in agreement that this sounds swell, I decide to break protocol and give her a ring. Highly unusual, but the surprise element can work miracles on occasion. Speaking of surprises, Marvin is somehow the only one among us who has a cell phone, although he still has never gone as far as setting up his voicemail inbox. Is calling Brooke from his phone a little weird? Yes, but it's also hilarious, which acts as the tiebreaker.
Accepting Marvin's cell, I extract the slip of paper with her number from my wallet. And Brooke picks up right away, is quite merry sounding when I tell her who this is, shouting over the din, for she is indeed already at happy hour somewhere herself.
A minute or so of choppy dialogue ensues, however, with me attempting to get a read on where she’s at, though huh? is by far the most common phrase, on both ends. It's possible she is already about half in the bag. I mention being with Dylan and another friend and that we’d like to meet up with them, to which she returns an enthusiastic okay. From here am still trying to learn her precise location, though expecting a syllable by syllable ordeal at this point.
At least until she unexpectedly blurts out, a good three minutes into this chat, “wait, who is this again?”
“Sid!” I shout, to a chorus of snickers from my tablemates, “Sid Mason!”
Her course correction of a response could represent a pure blowoff, or maybe she does legitimately forget. She does indeed sound mighty sauced already, the more I speak with her. Regardless, she explains that they’re getting ready to head somewhere else, but she’s not sure where. Will call me back upon arrival, however, or at least when they decide, a phone call which is never forthcoming, at least not on this increasingly directionless night.
