Was never a friday girl…

I woke up at six am this morning and could not go back to sleep. I remember this girlhood anticipation—like the first day of school, where you just can’t go to sleep and you wake up far too early. My first date with the nameless is tonight. Oh, one could argue the fact that it’s not a date unless one picks the other up, but I choose to ignore that argument. I’m meeting him at the bar. I sort of like the fact that I don’t know his name yet, adds another element of mystery I can’t really describe.

 He came in again on Tuesday. Even though it’s rather dark inside, I noticed the man’s shoes (don’t I always). Black and white houndstooth sneakers. I smirked at his audacity. Disappointingly enough, this time, he didn’t really try to talk to me. He sat at the end of the bar, drank quite a few PBR drafts, watched television and moped. On a normal evening, he would be social, talkative with the rest of the patrons, playing My Bloody Valentine and Bad Religion on the jukebox, flirting.

 I washed glasses, told dirty jokes that cracked up the drunks at my side of the bar, all in sad lonely girl hopes that he would eventually pay attention to me. To clarify a rather embarrassing point, I am NEVER like this. Being a bit of a barfly and a bartender, having both seen and lived “the game,” it’s easy to say that throwing myself at a male, in attempt to be smooth or otherwise, in general, makes my stomach turn.

 Finally, I approached him; set down a shot of my poison in front of him, and grinned, telling him it looked like he needed it. And I received the first smile I’d seen out of him the whole night. Goddamn was that shot worth it. He slammed it back, turned his stool around, and came to life.

 Vincent seems unimpressed. He thinks most males that sound even the remotest bit interesting are usually all games and gimmicks; have something up their sleeves. That evening, I was so pleased to see him I didn’t even ask where he had been, but welcomed him back just as if he had never been gone. Though in retrospect I now wonder if he just missed his jacket. But it didn’t matter—we drank vodka martinis and stayed up all night writing and laughing. And Man Ray, well, ignored me the entire evening, favoring his lap instead. Which ultimately was fine with me. I suspect he has fleas.

Keeping up with the jones’

I saw him again.

While he was reaching for his drink, I spotted his palm. He had “nobody” written there, as if he was just looking for someone to write their name there to replace that emptiness.

I’m a basketcase. But I think I’m in love. Which really means I’m infatuated and horribly shallow. The pain is quick, severe.

Vincent is coming over tonight for afterdinnerdrinks.  =)

a very merry unbirthday to me

Uncle Roger sent me a birthday card today. It’s not even my birthday. I suspect he had a friend or a pet once with a birthday in August. I’m a Pisces; my birthday is in March for chrisssakes. In any case, I’m not a fucking Leo.

It was a pretty eloquent card, if you ask me.

There’s a black and white photo of a kid on the front. It says:
“Hi. My name is Kevin. I am sad. My kitten is gone. Mommy said he ran away. But, I think that’s a bunch of shit and he got shot by that bastard next door.”

Through the span of my conscious existence, Uncle Roger has been the token eccentric uncle, always just on the other side of sanity. He’s been chock full of invention ideas, pyramid schemes and get-rich-quick epiphanies as long as I can remember. He calls himself a Renaissance man, an entrepreneur. But really he’s just bonkers.

“Jolie, baby, hope you have a great day.” Happy face. “You really should come visit, I have a great idea for a business and thought you would make the perfect partner.” Ever. “I don’t want to tell you the ins and outs of it right now, but basically it’s an edgy new clothing company. I could definitely use your help, and we could make lots of $$$. Well, love you, email me and we’ll discuss it further. Your favorite Uncle, Roger.”

This was particularly amusing seeing as he was the only uncle I had.

On a sunnier note, Captain Coke Major Tom left without a fuss the other day. He left his phone number on the mirror, a cute if not somewhat womanlike gesture, but I threw it away. I imagine he will eventually come into the bar again, which is unfortunate but at least I know to be prepared for it. No more Jack Daniels.

Man Ray has been acting silly the past few nights. He’s been doing his best to seduce the cat next door, a mostly indoor black and white Manx. I’ve been catching him strolling up the stairs and cooing at him through the screen door. I would go up there and remove him from my neighbor’s doorstep but I haven’t spoken to her yet and that seems like a truly odd way of meeting your neighbor the first time. “Why, hello, I’m Jolie, and this is my homosexual cat Man Ray. Fancy meeting you here at your front door.”

Maybe I’m not giving him enough attention. I know since Vincent has been gone he’s been a little lonelier. Vincent used to pull him up onto his lap and stroke him for hours while we would have our existentialist chats. And it’s not like I don’t take time every day to pet him and play with him, but he seems unsatisfied. I would perhaps try and get another cat, a playmate for him; but knowing my luck, they’d both disown me and end up meowing on the neighbor’s doorstep, begging the mangy thing to come out for a fuzzy threesome.

I guess I haven’t been in the best mood lately. Not that I ever am in the happiest of moods you know, but I’ve been irritating myself with how broody and self-destructive I’ve become. So very disturbingly emo.

Before, when I would drink excessively, it would be with Vincent, someone who was self-destructive with or without me, and he would put me to shame with how much he could swallow. I loathe drinking alone, but it’s really the only thing I’ve been doing asides from work. I’m not writing. I’m not reading. I feel wretched and most people at work make me feel more so. But there have been exceptions; some light emerges from an otherwise dark tunnel.

I met a man at the bar last night. He seemed shorter than he should have been. However, he had a comforting smile and warm hands. He treated me like a lover although we had just met. I don’t think his intentions are honorable (when are they ever?), but I hope to see him again.
I envisioned a makeshift date under the stars where we would drink plenty of lager or wine and there, in all likelihood, he would take me, just as he intended. Then perhaps I would fall in love with him, only to discover he does not believe in love because that’s how life is—a cold, spoon-fed promise of nothing.

Or I would tell him I am a writer and he would tell me he is an actor, and then it would end suddenly and perhaps painlessly, because we both know better.

The light grows, spreads toward me. Vincent just rang.

Ground control

The man who ordered a Captain and Coke last night is in my bathroom. I can’t really even explain how this came to be other than the fact that I was still upset about the Vincent thing and drinking obscene amounts of Jack Daniels while on duty. I don’t even drink Jack Daniels! I know bartenders are infamous for this pastime, drinking with the customers and all, but I generally don’t participate. I find that my drinks are strong but still taste better when I’m not intoxicated, which make for better tips. Anyone can make a strong drink that tastes like shit.

But last night there was no stopping me. I was on a mission or something. This man came up like Ron Johnson from Fast Times asking me for a drink and my phone number and I laughed in his face. As you can see, he was pretty persistent. He wore wingtips, played Nico on the jukebox and gushed about Henry Miller as if he were an ex-lover. So that definitely helped.

I feel unkind now; it’s really not that he’s bad looking or anything; I’m just not the type that does this sort of thing.

I could use the lame excuse card; say that this was exactly what I needed. But it’s not, at all. Vincent still has not spoken to me. I think this is the longest time we’ve gone without talking since the day I found him, passed out on the hood of my car with an erection, on Halloween six years ago. There are days I want to call him but then I think, ‘No, this isn’t my fault, I did nothing wrong, he was the one that got fresh first and enraged second.’ On second thought, he might just be extremely embarrassed. But that usually isn’t enough to keep him away this long.

Perhaps something’s happened. Maybe he’s sick, or in the hospital, or got hit by a taxicab downtown drunkenly stumbling out from the bars. This may sound like a stretch but it’s happened. Twice. Oh, I worry so!

This man, he’s apparently singing in the shower. He’s singing Space Oddity! Holy hell, this was a mistake if I ever made one. Who sings in a stranger’s shower? I certainly hope he doesn’t think this is going to turn into some kind of regular thing or something. But wouldn’t he just collect his belongings and leave if his intentions were of the one-night-stand variety? I cannot do this; these kinds of things don’t work for me. If he comes out and asks me if I want to have lunch, I am going to tell him I’m married. That’s it. Just separated for a spell, trying to work things out. Perfect.

You know, though, he’s sounding an awful lot like David Bowie in there…

Real vile friends

It gets lonely around the apartment sometimes. The walls are too empty and white. I keep telling myself I am going to fix all that, that I shall make this place look at least the slightest bit lived-in. But it’s to no avail. My couch is black and unassuming; the woods are all brown and boring, none even having a bit of character to them with knots or discoloration. I threaten to put up some of the art I’ve collected throughout the years, but I grimace every time I actually start hammering a nail in the wall. To be honest, I think I’ve gone strange.

Sometimes I try talking to myself, speaking as if I were a pair of strangers that had just met by some interesting circumstance, such as a car accident or the birth of a child in a public place. Sometimes these people become lovers or enemies, but most of the time they just become friends. It’s rather uplifting. Becoming friends with oneself is a hard task. You cannot mask or hide your worst attributes. They are as crystal clear as the windowpane.

As this procedure progresses, Man Ray just looks up at me with confused emerald eyes and his ornery twitching tail and I feel like he’s laughing at me, giving me a raspberry, telling me to get real friends.

Real friends are too much work.

Vincent isn’t speaking to me again. We drank far too much bourbon on Saturday and he turned into the reckless cad he was when I met him the first time, all hands, slurred speech and empty promises. I love him like a mentor; a more fun version of a father or uncle but with no ill will or resentment, but sometimes the alcohol just makes him vile.

Don’t get me wrong; we all become vile on occasion. I have swilled down an entire bottle of vodka in one evening, destroyed things, threatened friends. I have made eyes at the foulest assassin possible, made a myriad of poor decisions. It’s just that Vincent and I have been through this a thousand times. He loves me, I think, but not for the reasons he stacks in his mind at drunken, opportune times. He respects my writing and my drinking, and the fact that I’m not your token shiny happy 20-something wearing brightly colored shoes, a shit-eating grin and toting a Livestrong bracelet.

He left his jacket here. It’s a dirty green military field jacket that I’ve always disliked, but anytime I have ever said anything to this effect, he takes out a cigarette and lets it hang from his snarled lips while patting the pockets, claiming how many stories were contained there, trapped, and if he ever got rid of the jacket, perhaps the stories would disappear too. I always told him he was mighty superstitious for an atheist.

Now I hate it even more; how it’s sprawled across my only chair, as if he were merely taking a long time in the bathroom and any minute he would be bound to come out, asking to play liar’s dice or work on an exquisite corpse. Last night I sat in my dimly lit living room and waited for it to happen, my fingers wrapped around a port glass, knowing better. As the night wore on, and my buzz blossomed into full-on drunkenness, I gave up on him. I put my arms through and slept.