14
Oct
08

she’s a rich girl

I met a girl yesterday. For some reason I found her interesting. There were two seats free at either end of the bar, and one in the very middle. She took a moment deciding in the doorway and then chose the one inbetween a heavyset rockabilly chick with curly blonde hair and a red bandana and an old man in a Dodger’s hat.

She had short black hair with a few scattered streaks of bright blue. I was surprised by her order; Goldschlager, straight up, and she sipped it casually. My heart instantly warmed thinking of Rabbit and his affinity for cinnamon schnapps.

So I paid closer attention to her brown skin, her ears stretched with emerald green plugs. She seemed rather apathetic and quiet, neither particularly enthused nor upset, just, I guess, at peace with the goings on of her world. I envied it. I could not remember the last time I felt that way.

I decided that she wasn’t pretty. When she got up to go to the bathroom I noticed the excess weight in her hips and backside, significantly more so than what flattered her small frame. She walked more like a man than a woman, her hips not really swaying as much as they rigidly moved from side to side, like some sort of exaggerated cowboy dance. I suspected it was the heaviness of her legs that afforded her the uncomfortable-looking walk.

It had been a boring shift. I wasn’t particularly busy, although the house was nearly full. People had been ordering easy things, like shots and bottled beers; it was practically like I wasn’t working, merely hanging out at a bar. I absentmindedly washed glasses, stared off into space until she returned.

“Howsit goin?” I asked, drying the pint glass I had previously been washing.

She seemed surprised that I was talking to her. She turned around and looked back at me as if to ask, “are you talking to me?” Once her answer was confirmed, she nodded and replied.

“Not bad.”

It wasn’t my last attempt, but the ones that followed got similar results. She wasn’t easy to talk to. I was getting annoyed, but it provided a challenge that I was attracted to.

I wasn’t trying to take her home and I wasn’t trying to be her friend; I just wanted to talk to her. The other people I had been waiting on weren’t talking much, mostly watching sports on television or kissing and cuddling. I knew some people went to bars to be alone, hell, I did it all the time.

In my head, I made her much more interesting than she probably was. She was from out of town, someone that had left her whole life behind her in a small town she didn’t quite fit into; perhaps she had killed her best friend, a virgin with stringy red hair and freckles, just to say she did it, to save something so pure from being corrupted. Maybe she was a musician who was going to write a song about it that nobody would listen to.

“I’m Jolie.”

The girl was starting to look annoyed, but she smiled then, for some reason. I felt accomplished.

“I’m Sonia.”

I went to school with a girl named Sonia, many years ago, before I had lost my mind, before I was completely ruined. I remember her having glasses and a long nose. Shy eyes, when you could see them. She laughed in her palm every time, which was a shame because I remember thinking she had nice teeth. Besides, there was something so sexy about a laugh that wasn’t hidden. Well, I guess that Sonia hadn’t been sexy.

And neither was this one. This was not her, but the thought was still, warm and inviting and I wondered why. I wanted to ask her about herself; what movies she liked and didn’t like, what music made her dance, what made her angry. But I didn’t.

She finished her drink. “I’ll have another, Miss Jolie.” It was said in an affectionate way, but there were undertones of mocking. I didn’t care.

I poured us both one and clinked glasses. She took hers as a shot this time, like me. “I haven’t seen you in here before,” I said, grimacing from the heat of the drink.

She nodded. “That would make sense.”

“You just move here or something?”

“No.”

I was growing tired of the charade. I wasn’t getting anywhere. She wasn’t even proving herself the least bit interesting yet and I was mad at myself for still being so interested. I thought of her like a rock I was attempting to squeeze water from.

I began to talk to other patrons, new men that had come and sat at the bar. I had to make a few drinks, mostly kamikazes and Jager bombs. I was getting tipped relatively well for the small amount of work I was doing. I tried to find things to do. I swept, texted James out of boredom, put some songs on the jukebox.

When ‘I Can’t Go For That’ came on, she spoke again. “Great song.”

I laughed. I had played it. “Oh yeah?”

She nodded. “I’m a sucker for Hall and Oates.”

“Oh yeah,” I agreed. “Classic.”

“I don’t drink much,” she confessed, pushing the glass around the bar with her palms. “I just needed to think.”

I nodded. “Don’t like the taste?” I wanted to avoid the second part of her statement. It was personal; those kinds of things would come out if she wanted them to. Bartenders never have to pry to get that.

“I don’t know, it’s just not my thing.”

I shrugged. “Different strokes.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, then pushed the shot back to me. “Another.”

“Not your thing huh?” I asked. It was cheekier than I wagered I would get away with.

“No, ma’am.” She ran her hand through the ebony layers, let them fall back into place. I noticed a birthmark on her cheek.

I had another one with her and decided it was my last.

“You know if it is the taste that bothers you, I can understand why,” I said, shaking my head, getting shivers. “The cinnamon thing, I have to admit, I have never understood.”

Sure it was good for gum, apple pie and Valentine’s Day. But booze?

“This is really all I’ve had,” she retorted, shrugging.

We didn’t really talk much after that; I got back to work and she had one more drink and waddled to the bathroom. She tipped nicely.

I didn’t notice her leave. But somehow I knew she would be back.

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3 Responses to “she’s a rich girl”


  1. October 14, 2008 at 12:19 pm

    Perhaps the lack of actually being interesting can, in itself, be interesting. Everyone has drama and quirks. But what if one genuinely normal person came in. They’d certainly be unique.

    Or maybe, it WAS all in your head. But real or fabricated, it makes no difference in the end.

  2. 2 Briana
    October 30, 2008 at 12:30 pm

    ‘schlager, hey? can’t remember the last time i drank that.

    so are you saying she wasn’t sexy? i mean, ‘pretty’ and ‘sexy’ are completely different, no? some of the sexiest women i know aren’t particularly pretty.

    (dude, it is almost 10pm here and some crazy old man is outside my apartment screaming into a megaphone about how we should buy his sweet potatoes?! Wtf, seriously. Who needs starch at this time of day?)

  3. 3 B
    November 5, 2008 at 5:40 am

    I was between classes when the news came in, and I literally exploded into an uncontrollable crying fit.I had to go to class with tears all over my face, and I was having trouble speaking because I was I laughing and crying at the same time. Of course my students didn’t understand…

    This is hands down one of the greatest days I will ever live to see.

    I wish I was home.

    Love,
    B


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