My generation
Or, maybe, just my weekend. We were on a rigorous schedule. If the hours had been flip-flopped, and “drinking, crying, and vomiting,” had been replaced with “riding, swimming, and singing campfire songs,” it would have been just like the girl scouts.
(However, it still doesn’t hold a candle to the fucking nineteenth century, when the difference between demigods and cokeheads was that cokeheads were real.)
But that does’t mean that your old pal Jack didn’t have some fun this weekend as well. Once we got through a very dangerous Friday, during which I prayed to a God I had not previously believed in, I was able to confront what turned out to be a lovely Saturday night and Sunday morning. But you aren’t having fun if you aren’t pushing your Earthly vessel to the limit of almost death. Every. Single. Moment. Live fast, die hard, and —
Well, to put it more simply, I went to the bar. I met my friend Oliver, who is the only good-looking guy I’m currently aware of who knows a lot of women, many of whom are beautiful, and still prefers whichever ones are nice and interesting. Also, his fucking name is Oliver. He is Mister Sensitive.
As soon as I show up, Oliver is in a tizzy (he is my only straight friend who can pull this off) because recently a guy he knows did some apparently bad thing to some girl in the bar. I was never clear on what it was, although apparently it transcended propriety in a way even less refreshing than the way I talk to women in bars. The girl in question is sitting down the bar from us. Oliver, who was not personally involved in whatever this thing was, nor present when it occurred, feels he should go apologize to this girl. We are talking extreme sensitivity here, though not actual sense.
So he runs off to do this. After a while I get curious, and I follow him. However, the wronged party is very animatedly talking to Oliver, who is doing his “active listening.” So I focus on the girl’s friend. Yes, it’s that kind of movie!
Hello, girl’s friend. I have never seen a stranger so happy to see me. She’s a cute blonde with a giant shit-eating grin. At first this makes me nervous — girls with PermaGrin can’t be understood by those of us who are not doing the same drugs. But then I realize it’s only one of her many facial expressions, as she runs her face through a few more. I love facial expressions. They are enough to make you think you’re talking to a real person. And that’s what was happening. So we chat for a while, and she asks me my name, and I ask her name, and I ask what she’s drinking, and she tells me what she’s drinking, and I ask her about her prop: a big ol’ Pentax 35mm sitting on the bar. Since I’m a photographer, this is a good prop for you to be wooing me with. So we talk about photography, and she suddenly says to me:
“What’s my name?”
“Excuse me?”
“Tell me my name.”
And I don’t remember her name. Her big grin turns to a giant pout. “You don’t really like me.”
“No, no, I do really like you. Of course I know your name, it’s, uh —”
“My name is Nicky, you asshole.”
“Of course it is, Nicky. I knew that, you didn’t let me —”
“N-I-C-K-Y.”
“Okay.” Jeez Louise. “I’m sorry, I —”
“Forget it.” Her giant pout has turned into a giant scowl. She has a pretty big head. I’m thinking about her facial expressions.
“Nicky?”
“Yeah, what.” She hates me.
“Can you smile for me again?”
She looks at me with the scowl. Then she giggles. Then she scowls. Then she smiles by accident. And I kiss her just quickly.
Then she’s all smiles! Look at this! Nicky thinks I’m great! Why the fuck does Nicky think that? We don’t know.
“Nicky, I’m glad I met you,” I say with all sincerity (this makes her so happy!). “Give me your phone number and I will call you soon, and we will do exciting things.” I reach for a pen.
But Nicky is not smiling! Nicky’s puppy-dog eyes are all droopy! Never has a face been so easy to read. I love it! Maybe I can finally understand somebody. Nicky, what’s wrong?
But then it hits me. “Nicky,” I say, “Do you want to come home with me?”
She’s 500 watts again. “Yeah!”
“Okay. Say goodnight to your friends. Get your jacket.”
So she says goodnight to her friends, and gets her jacket. So we’re walking down the avenue, happily making out. It’s about twenty minutes since I met her, which is enough to make even me dizzy. What a wonderful lady!
Under a streetlamp I notice her sweater is pulled off her shoulder a little. “Say, you’ve got a tattoo.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, I’ve got a few.”
(Once again, I was a little slow. I know you, gentle reader, are way ahead of me on this one.)
So we get to my apartment and she sits primly on a chair, taking it in. I offer her anything from the bar. “I’ll have chartreuse on the rocks.” Interesting choice! I make it for her. Please select a record album. She chooses Blind Willie McTell. “I’ve got the same record,” she says. Wow, how different from, you know, regular girls! Is she being as weird as she can be, just because she figured out I like weird? But no, she is the real item. I have hit the jackpot.
Let’s hope we’ll be hearing more from Nicky in the weeks to come. Full disclosure: she had a lot of tattoos.
by Jack, October 20, 2003 3:14 PM | More from Drinking & Women | More from Nicky
Within the Chronology
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And why exactly is Nicky such a wonderful lady? Do the illustrative facial expressions denote some sort of deluded telepathy?