I was a bit depressed after the Old Man's funeral, I am not sure why. His brother really irritated me for some reason—maybe it was his lack of respect, or his cocky grin, I wasn't sure. Nonetheless, all I wanted was some cold drinks at the Coffee Shop and to be left alone.
After precipitating my confusion with a handful of Jack and Cokes, a loud group of semi-cougars came in along with the Handsome Young Professor. I couldn't have imagined worse timing for such a crowd. Stumbling and drunk, he sent them to the bar and then meandered over to me.
“Hey man, I am glad you are here. I got a group of raunchy ones here, and ever since your little escapade at Shelly's, you are quite the legend with some of them.”
“Escapade?”
“Oh don't play dumb about it. You are one sick fuck, but these are the types that love it. Well, at least one in particular.”
Caught off guard, and not exactly sure what he was referring to, I told him I just didn't want to play.
“I am really not in the mood for this bullshit.”
“Okay son, but don't say I didn't warn your perverted ass.”
More confused now, I went back to my precipitation and tried to ignore there raucous, drunken laughter.
Its funny. When you are sitting alone in a place, feeling a bit lonely, but not wanting company, a group of revelers has a strange effect. Their very presence somehow makes your more lonely, but not in a way that makes you want their company. It's like you resent them for being there—for presenting the possibility of company—even though it is the last thing you want. It's like you resent the universe for making you one of many. At those moments you wish there was only One. I wish the ones were enveloped into the ubiquity and dominance of One that is Nothing. I wish there was no movement to and fro—no going close, far, between, near, or behind. One means movement. It means having an identity based on other ones. At that moment, I didn't want other ones and didn't want them wanting me. I didn't want to pretend to be happy. I didn't want to make small talk. I didn't want to pretend to care about people's names, or what they are interested in, or that their talk was anything less than meaningless. But, I did.
When I had just about tuned them out, I looked up and one of them was standing over my little round table, hands on her hips, with a big grin on her face.
“Hey you, I have heard about you.”
She wasn't unattractive, but she wasn't a stunner either. Her hair and makeup were all fixed up for a 'night out,' but her natural features just wouldn't cooperate with her cosmetics to make her beautiful.
“Oh yeah, well I hope it was good.”
“It wasn't good, but I wouldn't be standing here if it was? You are a kinky perverted motherfucker, aren't you? I heard what you are into, we all know about your stunt at Shelly's. She's a bit tame for that kind of thing, but me, well . . . you fucking animal.”
She was looking at me and agitating her own face in a way that was supposed to be sensual. Her face's muscles looked like they were convulsing.
I wasn't sure what she was talking about, and I was getting a bit annoyed, but it is always nice to be the center of intrigue.
“Why don't you come over here and join us?”
She wasn't sexy, this woman. No. There was something awkward about her. It was like she was trying to be sexy and seductive and shiny and smooth, but it just wasn't natural. It's like those rare occasions you hear a woman talk about going to the bathroom—like “making an accomplishment”--if you know what I mean. There is just something about it that we are taught is not to be mentioned. It is embarrassing for you and for her. It is like all the mystery and aura is swept away in the realization that at some point she was sitting down, pants and underwear around her ankles, toilet paper in hand, and making a huge smelly accomplishment. Or, maybe it is like when you go to a disco and see a woman who just can't dance. Dancing—at least well enough to fit in—is easy for women. As long as they move a little bit and don't force it, they are fine. Most men have to work much harder just to make it look acceptable. But, if you see a woman who is trying too hard—flailing—working--moving in a way that makes it look like her arms and legs are trying to vomit—it is embarrassing for both of you. It is like the mystery that is supposed to stand at the center of her is filled in with some bland, skin colored pigmentation that reveals dry, rotting skin. It is like the hole—the abyss—the place where you convince yourself that there is something in the world that is incalculable and unceasingly moving—is filled in with sharp, unforgiving gravel that spills out, disclosing the abyss to be a hard, scraping surface that portrudes into a space it shouldn't.
That is what this woman was like, standing in front of me, trying to be a seductress. Her forced attempts to be shiny betrayed her—swept all the confidence out from under her shaky psyche—and launched her into a place that was anything but fitting.
“No thanks, I would rather not tonight, but thank you.”
“Please . . .”
At this, she started rubbing her breasts in a strange way. I wasn't sure if she was adjusting her bra or trying to be alluring.
“I'll make it worth your while. I am a lot of fun, you know.”
I looked away, out on the beach. I looked at the waves crashing on the shore, a perpetual source of noise and activity.
“No thanks, really not in the mood.” I said without turning towards her.
“Okay,” she said in a deep voice.
As I looked back she was actually licking one of her tits. This was strange. She kept licking and tried to talk at the same time, “Surrr, yuu dawwnt wont tt cme over?”
What a sight. A grown woman, in semi-tacky cocktail dress and even semi-tackier heels, shiny earrings, and a huge handbag standing in front of my table, drunk, with one tit in her hand, trying to talk as she licked her own nipple in an attempt at seduction.
I guess whatever Shelly told her about me had led her to think I would enjoy this type of act.
“Okay,” I said curtly, “I am going to go, see you soon.”
As I walked home, the waves kept making noise and the activity didn't stop. Not for one moment.
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