Multi-level marketing of me
Life in the bar is a series of compromises and reconfigurations. One must be fleet of foot or risk being thrown off the logroll. The general tactic is, go to talk to the bartender, not girls. Then start trading up. If, at any time, the most fascinating woman in the room is carted away in an ambulance, pick a new belle of the ball and work from there. Move laterally if you have to, but don’t move backward.
It’s about momentum. Use the bonhomie generated in one conversation to fuel your entry into the next. It isn’t as systematic as I’m making it sound. It’s organic, things ebb and flow, but you do need to be on the lookout for when Someone Better comes in. It’s sort of like An American Tragedy in that respect.
So I spent a pleasant hour speaking with a very earnest young woman about any number of forced conversational topics, ranging from how old ladies in the doctor’s office often don’t remember their real age, having lied about it so much, to subcultures in regional America where alcoholism isn’t believed in. It was very pleasant and she’s very cute, but when a fire engine pulled up in the personage of my old sparring partner, Jillian, I had to get involved.
Apparently there were other fires to put out, because Jillian’s total face-time was about five minutes, two of which were spent in the bathroom refueling her nose. However, we still had time to make plans to go to the movies next week, exchange cards, and for her to perform two filmic impressions for a few of us who happened to be there: memorable moments featuring the female leads in both the 1954 A Star is Born and the original Deep Throat. Exit Jillian, the perfect woman.
By that time the earnest girl had moved, for protection, to a new scene of her own. Cue Crazy Jane, Sweet Jane, Calamity Jane, who even the very naïve and rather drunk somehow know not to hit on. She came on in, with a smile and a wave, very happy to see me, for whatever reason. She sat next to me, in the hot seat. But Crazy Jane and I aren’t secretly in love the way Jillian and I are, or at least it’s an even better-kept secret. I keep her at arm’s length. I like crazy girls, sure, but she seems to be somewhat pompous about it. I prefer the free-spirited crazy, not the collecting-old-newspapers crazy.
So I excused myself to go to talk to my friends Moustapha and Yusef, otherwise known as The Moroccans. (Whenever I mention Moustapha to Meg, it always takes her by surprise. She thinks it’s like talking about Mister Snuffleupagus. I can’t decide if that’s racist or witty, though politics make it difficult for it to be both.) I told them that when I came into the bar, the bartender was standing in the door smoking. He told me excitedly, “We’ve got both Moroccans here tonight.” The sight of two gentlemen getting excited over this fact caused some guy smoking nearby to ask, “Are they hot?” So I warned M. and Y. that they might be mistaken for belly dancers at some point later in the evening.
Cut to Crazy Jane, alone at the bar, if a woman with several drinks in front of her can be said to be alone. Move laterally, but never backward, to the bar, to her side, stepping over the bodies of the would-be swains who got the vapors. It doesn’t take long for this:
“Jack, I know you don’t believe me, but I’m the most open and giving person there is. Whenever we talk, I always feel like you’re so, so guarded! It’s frustrating to me, because I’ve had better connections with people I’ve been stuck on the subway with.”
But do you know what? Just as October was my month to show no mercy in the Vanquishing of the Mostly Disappointing, in November I’m trying to grow as a person. Since I have mastered Creating Unhappiness Where There Had Been None, it isn’t proving the same entertainment. It’s time to undertake a new challenge: giving people what they want, instead of withholding it forever. Stay tuned.
by Jack, November 13, 2003 2:42 PM | More from Drinking & Women | More from Jane
Within the Chronology
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What is it with girls that start with "J." It's as if J stands for "Self-reflection" or "Growth."
Maybe it's just the name Jillian; I've been in love with Ms. Andersen since I saw her eat a bug on national TV. Call me crazy. . .