Light, sweet, crude
Every two years or so I run into Kerry. She’s someone I hardly know — and have for years. We met in high school, if you can believe it. Neither of us paid much attention. We met again during college. We went on a date that made us both miserable. Every few years we go on another date that’s worse than the last one. Here’s update 2003.
She’s a commodities analyst. I don’t know anything about that, but fortunately, there are anecdotes about anything.
“I’m waiting for the train in Poughkeepsie and I’m reading a financial weekly. I’m on the bench reading and a woman comes up with her suitcase and says, excuse me, do you have the time? I tell her the time and she says thank you — very sincere actually. A while later she excuses herself again, asks me do I know if the train is on time? I say as far as I know it is. She’s very grateful again.
“I’m reading more, and finally she says, have I read the commodities column yet? I thought that was strange, since I hadn’t read it yet, but of course that’s my business, and there are lots of columns in the paper, so why did she pick that one? Most people read it for stock and bond reports, and she picks my specialty. I ask her, what commodity do you follow? She says she doesn’t follow any, but she follows her sister, who is the columnist. And then the train comes and she gets on. I look at the speckle portrait of the commodities reporter, and it looks just like her.”
I’m sitting there thinking it’s good to hear about something I wouldn’t hear about any other way. Kerry was a commodities analyst last time I talked to her — which was, you know, approximately 742 days ago, if you get my meaning. She was one of the few people I knew who worked in the financial district. When I reached her, she seemed surprised I’d called. Not necessarily because we hadn’t spoken in a while, not necessarily because she was fine. Just like, “Why are you calling me?” Tragedy doesn’t bring everyone together.
I’m not sure exactly why Kerry and I keep our cycle of awful nights out going. I find her very attractive. I think she just finds me different from the guys she likes, and that’s refreshing. Historically, people didn’t know why I wasted time on her. I tried telling my friend Meg about it.
I said something like, “She’s got a stare that knocks you back. Her irises are crowding out her sclerae, and she just grins and stares. She looks like such a mammal, with her brown eyes and hair; her small, light frame; and her pointy sensitive nose. And her breasts, yes, disproportionate, full and stretched across a narrow rib cage. The whole effect, eyes pouncing, breasts pushing — she’s moving forward, she’s very forward-oriented. It makes you just want to leeeeaan into her.”
“What you’re saying,” Meg tried to interpret, “is that she’s got big brown eyes and big tits?”
Damn, it sounded better my way.
Anyway, the date: the smart money is, as usual, on separate cabs. But Kerry reminds me I’m lucky to be there at all, considering the last time. (No comment.) Now she’s saying, and not about me, “I don’t want to have a big wedding ceremony. I’m not interested in anything offensive. I just want a big rock.”
Me: “Excuse me, a what?”
“I think about forty-five thousand dollars would be nice. I want something to go with this watch I bought myself last Christmas, did you see it?”
I haven’t quite recovered. “Forty-five thousand dollars for a ring?”
“All right, fifteen.” Is she negotiating?
“Listen, I know you’re running in the big money circles, but unless you marry your boss, I don’t think many people our age are going to have that kind of money for that kind of purchase. Wouldn’t you rather, you know, live for a year on the money?”
“I know we’re not rich enough yet. I’m not expecting to get married yet. I’m waiting until we’re older and rich enough.”
“Well, maybe I could manage fifteen.” I take it all so personally.
“I don’t mean you,” she says, then bites her lip. “Look, if we’re not already married by forty-five, then we can get married.”
“Forty-five?”
“All right, thirty-five.”
Well, I picked up the check and put her in a cab. I have no idea what any of this is about.
“Do you plan to see her again?” Meg asked me.
“I don’t know. I mean, I’d like to. She’s pretty busy, and I’m going to be away for a while…these things slip away. You know my usual style. Play it so cool they forget who you are.”
Meg isn’t letting it go. “Are you trying to date this girl?”
“I only saw her once in the last two years, you know.”
“But you’ll see her a second time, and a third time, and then a fourth time…that’s how these things happen.”
“Well, I like her, you know. I admit it.”
“Listen, Jack, she sounds like a dipshit.”
Damn it, why is Meg my friend?
by Jack, September 23, 2003 7:14 PM | More from Kerry | More from Women
Within the Chronology
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Hey Jack,
Do you care if the comments are well-thought out and intelligent or can they just be the equivalent of a warm body? If I didn't have to think up smart stuff, I could definitely post a lot more. A whole lot if you catch my drift.