(This is a fictionalization of several journal entries, altering the point of view so that the narrator is one of the minor characters. I thought about making her the narrator, but the story would not work as well)
Anyone with a brain in his head can tell how obsessed he is
with her from the minute he walks into the bar.
We know neither of them, having stopped here for a drink
before going on to see the sights across the river in New York, a little pick
me up after already having worn ourselves out doing the tourist thing on this
side, Ellis Island, the Statute of Liberty, and the place where they filmed “On
the Waterfront” all those years ago.
He looks discombobulated, with the deer in headlights look,
especially when he looks at her.
Who can blame him?
She is hot, and the kind of bar gal that draws attention of
every male in the place, including me – long legs, full breasts, a slanted mouth
with an almost sardonic expression, and eyes that once aimed at you make you
swallow twice and come near to fainting.
I’m with my wife. So, I can’t say anything.
But I feel sorry for this guy, a bit pudgy, with a sheepish
look, dressed like a kid a third of his age, coming in carrying a box of candy
and a greeting card.
“Is it somebody’s birthday?” I ask when he settles onto the
stool next to ours; she is on the other side of him, near where the bartender
stands when nobody’s haunting him for refill.
And she looks a bit annoyed, not at anyone in particular,
maybe at everybody, including this poor fool.
She is so remote, she might easily ignore him – although from
what I overhear, she agreed to meet him here.
“I waited a whole week passed my birthday for her to keep
her promise to have dinner or a drink with me,” he tells me in a whisper. Now I’m
scared to death.”
“Of what?” I ask.
“Of being here, a place we’ve come to before,” he says. “Before
everything went sour.”
And he’s worried that it won’t be the same as it was before,
and isn’t really comfortable in this environment, full of barflies like us, I
suppose he means.
He wants to be with her in a less public place, something
more intimate, and perhaps he might be lucky enough to get another kiss, and
maybe more.
His eyes show it all, especially when he glances at her, admiring
every aspect of her, as if he recalls a moment when he’s already made love to
her, and aches to do so again.
At the same time, he feels guilty.
“About what?” I asked.
“I’m married,” he says. “I shouldn’t be having these
feelings for someone other than my wife.”
“Who can blame you,” I tell him, trying to reassure him,
trying to make it clear that she obviously thinks enough of him to meet him anyway,
outside the office where both of them work.
“I guess you’re right,” he says, vision of that other time
and place obvious in his eyes, painful and yet full of promise. He clearly
wants to fuck her again.
At this point, she turns her attention away from the
bartender, and you can tell just how thrilled he is, her hand closing over his
hand on the bar, his whole body seeming to shift, thinking he may get what he
wants from her despite their difficulties.
But then, she sees the candy and card.
“What the hell is that?” she asks, coldly.
“I brought them for you.”
“It’s your birthday, not mine,” she says.
“I know. But I sort of wanted to make up for all the hard
feelings?”
“I don’t like candy and that kind of Hall Mark crap,” she
says.
Even the bartender looks over at him oddly. This isn’t the
kind of thing that goes on in places like this, where men and women meet, not
for romance, but for sex.
It almost seems offensive, absolutely wrong, spoiling what
should be a playful game with something much too serious.
But then, this boy – who is twice her age – isn’t playing the
game others play, wanting something even more than a chance to explore her
wonderful body. He wants something that goes far deeper than mere fucking,
something too serious to contemplate over a friendly drink.
For a moment, his face grows red, from his neck all the way
up beyond his eyebrows, and then he gives out a laugh.
“Okay, so you don’t like candy,” he says, and pushes it
away. He clearly didn’t intend to let this one small mistake ruin it all, after
all, he gets to be with her for the night.
I clap him on the shoulder reassuringly, although I can tell,
he’s already spoiled the mood and it’ll take an awful lot to make up for it.
“Don’t worry about it, pal,” I tell him. “My wife and I will
take the candy.”
And indeed, it is too late.
Whatever interest she has in him is fading quickly as she
turns back to the bartender, picking up the conversation from before.
This time when his face grows red, it’s not from embarrassment.
It’s the green-eyed monster. He clearly envisions her going
off with the bartender instead of him after the bar closes, the whole scene
unfolding on his face, of their embraces and kisses, their sudden passion, the
bartender easing himself between her legs, savagely pushing himself deep into
her, the way this man wishes he could.
When I try to make light of the situation, he looks at me as
if I am mocking him, though my wife doesn’t help when she jokes, “Is she your
girl or the bartenders?”
The poor man looks so broken and isolated, I know nothing I
can say can consol him or ease his fears.
“I gotta take a pee,” he said, slipping off the stool and
staggering off in their direction of the men’s room, looking drunker than he
really is. I give a dirty look at my wife, then follow after him.
“I’ll be all right,” he tells me once he’s positioned in
front of the urinal he really doesn’t need to us. “It’s not the end of the
world.”
Yet, from his tone, I gather it may well be.
“You’ll be fine,” I say.
“I guess I shouldn’t expect her to be thrilled with me,” he
says, “for her to act like she used to when she pretended to be my cub.”
“She’s still your date,” I tell him, even though I’m not
sure she is.
We both head back to the bar where my wife has ordered more
drinks, having already finished the new drink, and is clearly on the verge of a
serious drunk. I drink mine down in gulp and order three new ones, two for us,
one for the poor fool, who is clearly on the outs with his date, who is leaning
over the bar and teasing the bartender.
He gulps his drink down as well, and orders another, gulps
that down, too, and then goes quiet, clearly insolated not just from her, but
from us and everybody else in this crazy place.
“I got to get out of here,” he mutters. “I’m going to go
home.”
He glances at her. She is so embroiled with her talk with
the bartender, she doesn’t hear him.
“How are you going to get home?” I ask.
“I drove here.”
“You’re not sober enough to drive back,” I say, taking his
arm, going out to the street with him. “Let me call you a cab.”
‘No, I’ll walk.”
“Is it far?”
“Far enough for me to be sober when I get there.”
I decide to walk part of the way with him, just to make sure
he doesn’t stagger into the street and in front an oncoming car.
Then, when we reach the bottom of the viaduct, his cell
phone rings.
It is her. She is screeching at him in a high pitched voice.
“Why the fuck did you leave me alone at the bar!”
The poor love-struck fools falls against the viaduct fence,
and looks at me.
“Isn’t there anything I can do that’s right? I really love
her.
I have no answer except to say, “Love has nothing to do with
anything.”
