Part 1 - We Meet
Part 2 - She's So Lovely
Part 3 - See Me
Part 4 - Here Today
Part 5 - Gone Tomorrow
A little over a month later, with the blessings of her family, Beth sent her things ahead and flew out to start our life together. A year to the day later, we said our vows in front of our closest friends and family in a small chapel at Waleia Hawaii.
We pulled out the checkbook for this one, but we had our wedding at the Grand Waleia, and the reception at the Four Seasons, a pair of neighboring five star hotels that were simply elegant. I had never stayed at any hotel better than a Super 8, so I had no idea what was in store.
There is something magic about Hawaii that cannot be explained. There is a mood that grips you the minute you land, as if you had descended into dreamland. On the road to Hana, rain comes and goes like a camera flash and you hardly seek shelter because it feels so good. We drove around the back roads where tourists don't normally go, where the locals --No Local, No Mahalo-- have junk cars in their front yards overgrown with wild flowers and vegetation, exhibiting the genius of nature's keen artistic side, rendering us mute with awe. We saw wild weasels and pet a goat that was tied beside the road, such a friendly little guy that I wanted to take him home. In a small village we saw what looked like a large megaphone mounted on a metal tower, which turned out to be a tsunami alarm, which drove home for us that we were on a small rock in the middle of a vast and violent ocean.
On our first night there was a message at the hotel from a friend of mine that couldn't make the wedding, but who had spent many vacations in Hawaii. He tried many times to express that Hawaii was a jewel on the ocean band, but what human really knows a thing until experienced first hand?
"Welcome to Hawaii," the message went, "now you know."
Paul, my friend who introduced me to Beth, regardless of his intentions, accepted our invitation to attend. The reception featured a two hour open bar, and my luscious friends, locked arm-in-arm with my side of the family, used it to it's fullest advantage. My brother John had been feeling nervous, dreading his responsibility as best man to give a toast. When his time came he delivered his flawless anecdote, but walked away before actually calling for the toast, which made us all laugh. He came back with his head hanging and finally had us raise our glasses.
Many took turns saying a little something, including my mother, who so sweetly couldn't say much without breaking down and crying. Paul stood up and gave a toast.
"Hi, my name is Paul," he started, "and I introduced Beth and Scott."
Then Eric, read evil nemesis, interjected in When Harry Met Sally style, "And if she was the least bit attracted to him, we wouldn't be here today." Just to let you know, Paul is still my friend today. Eric is too. But there isn't too much love between the two of them.
Our wedding coincided with the weekend of the Pro Bowl, a game that never held an interest for me. By this time, the Super Bowl has came and went, so this game means less than nothing. Although the game is not played on Maui, many of the football players like to stay at the Four Seasons. Since we were kids, my brother John and I loved football. John chose for his favorite the Pittsburgh Steelers, and I the Dallas Cowboys. My dad told me that he saw Troy Aikman jogging on the ocean path, and I had seen John Elway and Mike Shanahan by the pool. I was hoping to see Troy around, although I didn't plan to say anything to him; I feel that these guys get it all the time and I like to think I'm not a mindless lemming.
As luck would have it, Troy was sitting at the bar that was servicing our wedding reception. Paul and my brother, my best man, saw him there and gave him a hard time for not making the Pro Bowl that year. I could have killed them both and would have been acquitted. Neither thought to come get me, and I never saw him during my stay.
So that is the story of how I met and married my wife. There are so many details that I have either forgotten or left out, as the male mind has periodically to clean house to make room for sports statistics. So what's the moral? For all the posturing I've done for the opposite sex, it was being myself that really mattered. I wasn't trying to impress anyone, home alone on a Friday night, when against all probability my future wife knocked on my door. What if Paul were more characteristically possessive and kept her away that night, or if the rain had kept them away, or a parking place hadn't become suddenly available? I've always felt like an angel watches over me, call it luck or divine assistance, but a sense of destiny has been a tangible, almost palpable presence in my life. I'm not a man of faith, but sometimes, as with most people, when I really want something badly enough, I'll pray for a little help. I was walking along the oceanside by Fort Mason on a sunny morning, during the time I was corresponding with Beth via email, wishing that somehow I could be with her, but not feeling any real hope of it happening. I said to myself, on an open frequency, "God, if you send her to me, I'll take care of her for the rest of my life." I'm not one for sappy sentiment, nor have I ever seen a UFO or Bigfoot; I don't hear voices, have imaginary friends, or see things that aren't really there. I know how it sounds, and I wouldn't believe me either, but in that moment I looked out into the bay, and there hovered a tiny circular rainbow above the water's surface, refracted in the fine, nearly dissipated morning fog, so close it seemed that I could almost touch it. It seemed to me like the halo of an angel.
Showing posts with label Fate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fate. Show all posts
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Gone Tomorrow
Part 1 - We Meet
Part 2 - She's So Lovely
Part 3 - See Me
Part 4 - Here Today
I drove home with a heavy heart; the details of the night replayed in my mind like a movie on A-B repeat. I got back to my apartment at three in the morning, and although the rain had stopped, the streets and sidewalks were still mottled with puddles and whispering runoff. The once teeming thoroughfare around me was fast asleep, deserted like an old west ghost town, as if the city had declared last call hours ago and closed it's doors.
I pulled her card from my wallet and made an entry into my email address book, the clicked Create Mail. Although I had no idea what I was going to say, the words came alive of their own accord; my fingers rattled the keys and chattered like the staccato of machine gun fire. My feelings flowed unhindered and without inhibition, words that would have been impossible to express were I to attempt to speak them. When my head lit upon my pillow that night, I slept easier than I had in years.
I didn't know how to retrieve my email at work, so I had to wait an agonizing day before I could rush home to check for her reply. I dialed up my internet service provider and fired up Outlook Express, and my heart puttered in anticipation as I watched the status: Connecting..., Checking..., Downloading 1 Message..., 1 New Message. And there it appeared in glistening bold.
To my great delight, she matched my enthusiasm and depth of feeling. Where the night before she had been guarded and controlled, now she wrote with unfettered passion and abandon. She wanted to know everything about me, and I replied with a dissertation on my life, never leaving a question or point unanswered, and countering with a thousand questions of my own. I always wrote in the evenings, and her reply always awaited my return from work.
Chuck, a coworker of mine, was our resident genius, whose thirst for computer knowledge was insatiable. He was also a wannabe psychiatrist, who liked to dig into my past and diagnose my condition, once even going so far as to give me some of his Prozac, or Zolof, or some other Russian sounding anti-depressant. I was Starling to his Hannibal Lecter. He was a drill sergeant whose goal was to break me down and recreate me in his image. I began to doubt myself, so I went to a psychologist for a single session, and told her of my trouble holding down a relationship for more than a few months, of my various reactions to being treated with disrespect. She gave me the best, most helpful, and the only professional advice I've needed since: "What you are describing to me is perfectly healthy, and I would only be concerned if you didn't stand up for yourself." Chuck was very disappointed, who had been licking his chops as he tried to convince me to confront my father for a lifetime of instability and chaos. He wanted me to need the drugs, like himself, to remove any responsibility on his part to deal with his own problems. I told him one day that I decided to forgive my father, and myself, and move on with life, and thus did our relationship take a turn to nowhere.
But I needed to get my email at work, as the daily wait was killing me.
"Chuck, is there a way to get my home email here at work?"
"Yes." He stared at me insolently, and waited for me to press.
"Ok, will you show me how?"
"You could Telnet and use Pine." He said simply, as if I should know what the hell he was talking about.
"Chuck, you may as well be speaking Farsi, but I would really appreciate it if you would just show me, ok?"
"Hmmm. Why can't you just wait until you get home to check it?"
"I could, but I want it now, see?"
"It must be important, whatever it is."
"Are you going to show me or not?"
He did show me, and thankfully left me alone. I would have told him why, but I didn't want to hear about the odds I was up against, or how contemporary scientific studies clearly proved that long distance relationships are doomed to fail.
Soon, emailing wasn't enough, and we talked at night on the phone, which kept me up until midnight or one, which meant three or four in the morning for her. I asked her one night if I could come for a visit.
"Are you trying to give me a heart attack," she exclaimed.
"I can't help it, I have to see you. I can't take it anymore."
After a long pause, she said finally, "Ok."
I stayed with her at her house, where she lived with her parents. Her sister and two brothers were in close attendance, and I made a favorable impression. Again, not for any reasons I had intended.
We ordered out for Chinese food on the first night. I served myself some rice from a bowl and noticed that it was overcooked. Her mom saw me eating it and commented, "I just hate the rice that they make there."
"I know what you mean," I replied with a slight grimace, "it's a little watery."
She looked quite amused. "I won't eat the rice from the restaurant, so I make my own."
I felt the sparkling warmth spread across my face as I turned cherry red. "Ok, wow," I stammered, "that, hmmm."
Everybody laughed as one of the brothers pat me on the back.
The next morning I slept in. I could hear Beth's mom asking where I was, grousing that I wasn't up yet, so I made my way downstairs. As I came through the kitchen entryway, I leapt through the doorway to make a grand entrance and say 'Ta da!', but instead I crashed my forehead on a crossbeam atop the doorway and nearly knocked myself out. I had a nice imprint to show for it, and again her mom got a good chuckle, and from that point forward, I was a made man.
The night before I went home, I threw all caution to the wind, and told Beth that I loved her. Her eyes glossed as she stared at me speechless.
"I want you to come to San Francisco and move in with me."
Part 2 - She's So Lovely
Part 3 - See Me
Part 4 - Here Today
I drove home with a heavy heart; the details of the night replayed in my mind like a movie on A-B repeat. I got back to my apartment at three in the morning, and although the rain had stopped, the streets and sidewalks were still mottled with puddles and whispering runoff. The once teeming thoroughfare around me was fast asleep, deserted like an old west ghost town, as if the city had declared last call hours ago and closed it's doors.
I pulled her card from my wallet and made an entry into my email address book, the clicked Create Mail. Although I had no idea what I was going to say, the words came alive of their own accord; my fingers rattled the keys and chattered like the staccato of machine gun fire. My feelings flowed unhindered and without inhibition, words that would have been impossible to express were I to attempt to speak them. When my head lit upon my pillow that night, I slept easier than I had in years.
I didn't know how to retrieve my email at work, so I had to wait an agonizing day before I could rush home to check for her reply. I dialed up my internet service provider and fired up Outlook Express, and my heart puttered in anticipation as I watched the status: Connecting..., Checking..., Downloading 1 Message..., 1 New Message. And there it appeared in glistening bold.
To my great delight, she matched my enthusiasm and depth of feeling. Where the night before she had been guarded and controlled, now she wrote with unfettered passion and abandon. She wanted to know everything about me, and I replied with a dissertation on my life, never leaving a question or point unanswered, and countering with a thousand questions of my own. I always wrote in the evenings, and her reply always awaited my return from work.
Chuck, a coworker of mine, was our resident genius, whose thirst for computer knowledge was insatiable. He was also a wannabe psychiatrist, who liked to dig into my past and diagnose my condition, once even going so far as to give me some of his Prozac, or Zolof, or some other Russian sounding anti-depressant. I was Starling to his Hannibal Lecter. He was a drill sergeant whose goal was to break me down and recreate me in his image. I began to doubt myself, so I went to a psychologist for a single session, and told her of my trouble holding down a relationship for more than a few months, of my various reactions to being treated with disrespect. She gave me the best, most helpful, and the only professional advice I've needed since: "What you are describing to me is perfectly healthy, and I would only be concerned if you didn't stand up for yourself." Chuck was very disappointed, who had been licking his chops as he tried to convince me to confront my father for a lifetime of instability and chaos. He wanted me to need the drugs, like himself, to remove any responsibility on his part to deal with his own problems. I told him one day that I decided to forgive my father, and myself, and move on with life, and thus did our relationship take a turn to nowhere.
But I needed to get my email at work, as the daily wait was killing me.
"Chuck, is there a way to get my home email here at work?"
"Yes." He stared at me insolently, and waited for me to press.
"Ok, will you show me how?"
"You could Telnet and use Pine." He said simply, as if I should know what the hell he was talking about.
"Chuck, you may as well be speaking Farsi, but I would really appreciate it if you would just show me, ok?"
"Hmmm. Why can't you just wait until you get home to check it?"
"I could, but I want it now, see?"
"It must be important, whatever it is."
"Are you going to show me or not?"
He did show me, and thankfully left me alone. I would have told him why, but I didn't want to hear about the odds I was up against, or how contemporary scientific studies clearly proved that long distance relationships are doomed to fail.
Soon, emailing wasn't enough, and we talked at night on the phone, which kept me up until midnight or one, which meant three or four in the morning for her. I asked her one night if I could come for a visit.
"Are you trying to give me a heart attack," she exclaimed.
"I can't help it, I have to see you. I can't take it anymore."
After a long pause, she said finally, "Ok."
I stayed with her at her house, where she lived with her parents. Her sister and two brothers were in close attendance, and I made a favorable impression. Again, not for any reasons I had intended.
We ordered out for Chinese food on the first night. I served myself some rice from a bowl and noticed that it was overcooked. Her mom saw me eating it and commented, "I just hate the rice that they make there."
"I know what you mean," I replied with a slight grimace, "it's a little watery."
She looked quite amused. "I won't eat the rice from the restaurant, so I make my own."
I felt the sparkling warmth spread across my face as I turned cherry red. "Ok, wow," I stammered, "that, hmmm."
Everybody laughed as one of the brothers pat me on the back.
The next morning I slept in. I could hear Beth's mom asking where I was, grousing that I wasn't up yet, so I made my way downstairs. As I came through the kitchen entryway, I leapt through the doorway to make a grand entrance and say 'Ta da!', but instead I crashed my forehead on a crossbeam atop the doorway and nearly knocked myself out. I had a nice imprint to show for it, and again her mom got a good chuckle, and from that point forward, I was a made man.
The night before I went home, I threw all caution to the wind, and told Beth that I loved her. Her eyes glossed as she stared at me speechless.
"I want you to come to San Francisco and move in with me."
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Here Today
Part 1 - We Meet
Part 2 - She's So Lovely
Part 3 - See Me
Paul and I belonged to the Bravo Club, a gathering of young to middle aged men and women who pretended to be interested in opera, but in reality it was a way to meet each other. The club sponsored a party that night at the San Francisco Yacht Club, located on the bay at Fort Mason that caught the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge in the late afternoons.
Paul took Beth in his Corvette, and I went separately in my car, a Mazda MX-6 that my mother had managed to secure financing for despite my bad credit history to date, a reliable companion while my friends traded in their old models for the latest and greatest.
The party was bursting at the seams, and all the usual suspects were in attendance. Paul saw the Korean twins he had met at the last club party, and joined them on the dance floor, leaving Beth and I alone for the first time that evening.
"Have you ever dated anyone from the Bravo Club," Beth asked me.
"I've had a few close calls, but it never seems to work out. Some of the girls like me, and I like some of the girls, but it's never mutual. Just last weekend, I had a date lined up, you know, the time and place, and then she went completely radio silent."
I scanned the crowd and saw her, and I was stunned to see that she was not nearly as attractive as I remembered.
"My goodness, she's here," I said.
"Where?!" Beth was intrigued.
I was reluctant to demonstrate my bad taste, but I pointed her out anyway, as if she were in a police lineup. Beth smiled and said, "She's pretty."
"Yeah, right," I laughed.
We got a few beers then I invited her to the dance floor. She insists to this day that I tricked her that night into thinking that I liked to dance. I hate a crowded dance floor unless I am completely hammered, but then the dance floor hates me, so nobody wins. That night however, I had Saturday Night Fever, was Stayin' Alive and was Born to do the Hand Jive.
The music slowed down and I pulled her close. I was tortured to feel her next to me; her sweet perfume filled my head with impure thoughts; my body ached to consume her while my prudish mind urged caution.
We drifted outside under a covered deck, protected from the pounding rain that pummelled an ocean that hardly seemed to notice. A cool ocean breeze tempered with the steamy dreamlike redolence of fresh rainfall suffused the climate of our outdoor getaway. I couldn't hold back any longer and stole a kiss. She put both her hands out and looked dizzy for a moment, then we looked at each other in awkward silence for a few moments. She was going home tomorrow afterall, three thousand miles away on the opposite coast, and this couldn't possibly work.
"Can I drive you home?" I asked.
"But what about Paul?"
"I'll talk to him, wait here."
I found him standing alone at the bar, and decided not to mince words. "Paul, would you mind if I drove Beth back to her car?"
"W-w-why would I care? Of course you can take her!" He laughed a nervous laugh, and I felt awful. But the fact was, I was approaching 35; I wasn't a teenager anymore. Serious opportunity only knocks on your apartment door almost never, and I couldn't see turning it away on a technicality. I was breaking every rule, and was seriously jeopardizing my relationship with Paul, which I valued highly. For him though, this was just another date that didn't work out, for me, this was something more. I had however caused him a great embarrassment, and there wasn't anything I could do to staunch the wound.
All I could say was, "Thanks Paul."
From playing the dating game, I had learned that the more aloof you remain, the more the fairer sex will eat from your palm. But tonight I was all through with that. She was leaving on a plane in the morning and it was time to lay my cards on the table.
"I think you are the most important person I have ever met in my life, and I can't stand it that you are going home tomorrow."
She looked at me seriously. "But I am going home tomorrow, aren't I," she said wryly.
We pulled up next to her car and we sat for a while.
She said, "I've had a really great time tonight, but we have to be realistic about this. We need to walk away, and I don't think we should exchange numbers."
"What if I emailed you? Would you write back?"
She thought for a moment, "Ok." She pulled out a business card and wrote her email address on the back and handed it to me, then gave me a hug and slipped out the door.
Part 2 - She's So Lovely
Part 3 - See Me
Paul and I belonged to the Bravo Club, a gathering of young to middle aged men and women who pretended to be interested in opera, but in reality it was a way to meet each other. The club sponsored a party that night at the San Francisco Yacht Club, located on the bay at Fort Mason that caught the shadow of the Golden Gate Bridge in the late afternoons.
Paul took Beth in his Corvette, and I went separately in my car, a Mazda MX-6 that my mother had managed to secure financing for despite my bad credit history to date, a reliable companion while my friends traded in their old models for the latest and greatest.
The party was bursting at the seams, and all the usual suspects were in attendance. Paul saw the Korean twins he had met at the last club party, and joined them on the dance floor, leaving Beth and I alone for the first time that evening.
"Have you ever dated anyone from the Bravo Club," Beth asked me.
"I've had a few close calls, but it never seems to work out. Some of the girls like me, and I like some of the girls, but it's never mutual. Just last weekend, I had a date lined up, you know, the time and place, and then she went completely radio silent."
I scanned the crowd and saw her, and I was stunned to see that she was not nearly as attractive as I remembered.
"My goodness, she's here," I said.
"Where?!" Beth was intrigued.
I was reluctant to demonstrate my bad taste, but I pointed her out anyway, as if she were in a police lineup. Beth smiled and said, "She's pretty."
"Yeah, right," I laughed.
We got a few beers then I invited her to the dance floor. She insists to this day that I tricked her that night into thinking that I liked to dance. I hate a crowded dance floor unless I am completely hammered, but then the dance floor hates me, so nobody wins. That night however, I had Saturday Night Fever, was Stayin' Alive and was Born to do the Hand Jive.
The music slowed down and I pulled her close. I was tortured to feel her next to me; her sweet perfume filled my head with impure thoughts; my body ached to consume her while my prudish mind urged caution.
We drifted outside under a covered deck, protected from the pounding rain that pummelled an ocean that hardly seemed to notice. A cool ocean breeze tempered with the steamy dreamlike redolence of fresh rainfall suffused the climate of our outdoor getaway. I couldn't hold back any longer and stole a kiss. She put both her hands out and looked dizzy for a moment, then we looked at each other in awkward silence for a few moments. She was going home tomorrow afterall, three thousand miles away on the opposite coast, and this couldn't possibly work.
"Can I drive you home?" I asked.
"But what about Paul?"
"I'll talk to him, wait here."
I found him standing alone at the bar, and decided not to mince words. "Paul, would you mind if I drove Beth back to her car?"
"W-w-why would I care? Of course you can take her!" He laughed a nervous laugh, and I felt awful. But the fact was, I was approaching 35; I wasn't a teenager anymore. Serious opportunity only knocks on your apartment door almost never, and I couldn't see turning it away on a technicality. I was breaking every rule, and was seriously jeopardizing my relationship with Paul, which I valued highly. For him though, this was just another date that didn't work out, for me, this was something more. I had however caused him a great embarrassment, and there wasn't anything I could do to staunch the wound.
All I could say was, "Thanks Paul."
From playing the dating game, I had learned that the more aloof you remain, the more the fairer sex will eat from your palm. But tonight I was all through with that. She was leaving on a plane in the morning and it was time to lay my cards on the table.
"I think you are the most important person I have ever met in my life, and I can't stand it that you are going home tomorrow."
She looked at me seriously. "But I am going home tomorrow, aren't I," she said wryly.
We pulled up next to her car and we sat for a while.
She said, "I've had a really great time tonight, but we have to be realistic about this. We need to walk away, and I don't think we should exchange numbers."
"What if I emailed you? Would you write back?"
She thought for a moment, "Ok." She pulled out a business card and wrote her email address on the back and handed it to me, then gave me a hug and slipped out the door.
Monday, August 22, 2005
See Me
Part 1 - We Meet
Part 2 - She's So Lovely
It was the perfect lie, as that misperception was naturally associated with my character. There was a bar at the corner of Lombard and Octavia where a group of regulars came to drink and ogle the bartender, who moonlighted as a stripper and Sambuka girl. The bar also served as a watering hole for night clubbers on the pilgrimage from one bar to the next, creating a unique environment that was delightfully unpredictable as groups came and went like flash floods.
On one such occasion, I hit it off with a fun bunch of guys that came in with a head start on the evening. New York, New York was playing on the jukebox and we were singing along in a Rockette chorus line, arms across each others shoulders and high kicking as best as our beer battered bodies would allow.
"Listen, I'm having a poker party next weekend if you'd like to stop by," I told one of them. His eyes narrowed shrewdly and peered at me as if he was seeing me for the first time.
"And who's going to be at this party," he asked slyly with the delivery of a police investigator.
"A couple guys I know," I replied simply.
"I see." He rounded up his friends and left.
I saw him six months later at another bar on Union Street, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, how are you doing? Long time."
He nodded and smiled. "Hey," he said, scanning the people around me. "Who are you here with?"
Wow, I thought, this guy is a lost cause. My buddy Eric was at the bar competing with thirty others for the attention of two bartenders. His feet were close together and he was bouncing up and down with his hands neatly clasped on the bar on which he leaned, so that his rear stuck out like one of those girls on the old Hauling Ass poster.
Oh well I thought, and pointed in his direction. The guy took a look, then gave me that 'Aha!' expression and melted into the crowd.
The youngest of my two cats was no bigger than the palm of my hand when I got him, a tiny helpless little thing with crossed eyes that couldn't focus on a spot without great effort. When he tried, his head would shake like the coffee jitters. He emitted a volley of faint and high pitched mews on that first day, so cute that I named him for it. As he got older his adorable little mew was replaced with the signature Siamese yowl, but those eyes never straightened out.
Mew jumped onto the couch next to Beth and fixed her in his gaze, and the two became fast friends. "Oh! He's got koogley eyes! He's so sweet." My other cat Johnny, named for one of my early favorite guitar songs, Johnny B. Goode, was the prototype of a beautiful cat, perfect in every way from his fur and eyes to his warm affectionate manner. Almost nobody noticed Mew with his funny little face and reclusive personality. Mew needed to be cajoled, to be treated gently, whereas Johnny loved everyone unconditionally. Beth loved Mew for his quirks.
I suggested that we all go get dinner at a local restaurant called the Brazenhead, a darkly lit and charming place I had the good fortune to live around the corner from. We sat in a secluded corner booth and ordered an appetizer with spinach artichoke dip.
Somehow the conversation turned towards college, and I explained how I had been in a fraternity for a short while, and Beth's eyes darkened slightly.
"You were in a frat?"
I swallowed the oversized hunk of dip soaked bread in my mouth, "Don't call a fraternity a frat, would you call your country a cunt?" I laughed out loud and displayed my pearly whites, adorned now with a pair of neatly lodged spinach fragments between my front teeth.
She burst out laughing and the spark relit in her eyes. I thought I was quite charming, and the truth is I was, but not for the reasons I intended. She saw something that cannot be faked or hidden for long, an evanescent quality that once detected has compelled a few to seek the back way out. She had glimpsed my bare essence, my true and flawed self. Offbeat. Quirky.
Me.
Part 2 - She's So Lovely
It was the perfect lie, as that misperception was naturally associated with my character. There was a bar at the corner of Lombard and Octavia where a group of regulars came to drink and ogle the bartender, who moonlighted as a stripper and Sambuka girl. The bar also served as a watering hole for night clubbers on the pilgrimage from one bar to the next, creating a unique environment that was delightfully unpredictable as groups came and went like flash floods.
On one such occasion, I hit it off with a fun bunch of guys that came in with a head start on the evening. New York, New York was playing on the jukebox and we were singing along in a Rockette chorus line, arms across each others shoulders and high kicking as best as our beer battered bodies would allow.
"Listen, I'm having a poker party next weekend if you'd like to stop by," I told one of them. His eyes narrowed shrewdly and peered at me as if he was seeing me for the first time.
"And who's going to be at this party," he asked slyly with the delivery of a police investigator.
"A couple guys I know," I replied simply.
"I see." He rounded up his friends and left.
I saw him six months later at another bar on Union Street, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, how are you doing? Long time."
He nodded and smiled. "Hey," he said, scanning the people around me. "Who are you here with?"
Wow, I thought, this guy is a lost cause. My buddy Eric was at the bar competing with thirty others for the attention of two bartenders. His feet were close together and he was bouncing up and down with his hands neatly clasped on the bar on which he leaned, so that his rear stuck out like one of those girls on the old Hauling Ass poster.
Oh well I thought, and pointed in his direction. The guy took a look, then gave me that 'Aha!' expression and melted into the crowd.
The youngest of my two cats was no bigger than the palm of my hand when I got him, a tiny helpless little thing with crossed eyes that couldn't focus on a spot without great effort. When he tried, his head would shake like the coffee jitters. He emitted a volley of faint and high pitched mews on that first day, so cute that I named him for it. As he got older his adorable little mew was replaced with the signature Siamese yowl, but those eyes never straightened out.
Mew jumped onto the couch next to Beth and fixed her in his gaze, and the two became fast friends. "Oh! He's got koogley eyes! He's so sweet." My other cat Johnny, named for one of my early favorite guitar songs, Johnny B. Goode, was the prototype of a beautiful cat, perfect in every way from his fur and eyes to his warm affectionate manner. Almost nobody noticed Mew with his funny little face and reclusive personality. Mew needed to be cajoled, to be treated gently, whereas Johnny loved everyone unconditionally. Beth loved Mew for his quirks.
I suggested that we all go get dinner at a local restaurant called the Brazenhead, a darkly lit and charming place I had the good fortune to live around the corner from. We sat in a secluded corner booth and ordered an appetizer with spinach artichoke dip.
Somehow the conversation turned towards college, and I explained how I had been in a fraternity for a short while, and Beth's eyes darkened slightly.
"You were in a frat?"
I swallowed the oversized hunk of dip soaked bread in my mouth, "Don't call a fraternity a frat, would you call your country a cunt?" I laughed out loud and displayed my pearly whites, adorned now with a pair of neatly lodged spinach fragments between my front teeth.
She burst out laughing and the spark relit in her eyes. I thought I was quite charming, and the truth is I was, but not for the reasons I intended. She saw something that cannot be faked or hidden for long, an evanescent quality that once detected has compelled a few to seek the back way out. She had glimpsed my bare essence, my true and flawed self. Offbeat. Quirky.
Me.
Friday, August 19, 2005
She's So Lovely
Part 1 - We Meet
When I was in third grade, there was a new girl named Caroline that I felt a primal urge to impress. At recess, I waited on the monkey bars until she and Julie, who was showing Caroline around, drifted into the best vantage point, then I scampered furiously across the bars, skipping every other rung. That was a manly display I thought, and I turned to see if they had watched. Apparently not. I leapt to the ground and sprinted by them and waited atop the slide, then launched head first and rolled into a somersault at the bottom and stood up. They sauntered by, uninterrupted, immersed in more important matters. I dashed by them again. "What is your problem, Scott?!" Julie yelled to my receding back.
"This is Beth," Paul introduced her. "Beth meet my buddy Scott." I took her hand and held it firm but easy. Her skin was soft and white like Nivea cream, and her perfume was subliminal, a mere suggestion. The tumblers in my brain started to spin.
The apartment was my first experience at living alone. Two years earlier, my relationship with Casey came to an end, and she had left me with this apocalyptic prediction, "Some day you will meet someone who is just as co-dependent as yourself, and you'll have a bad relationship that will end even worse." She bragged that she had lived by herself in a small New York City apartment, and in doing so had found her center. She didn't think I could do the same, that I would always depend on someone else for my sense of self.
I found the only apartment in San Francisco that allowed my two cats, on a bustling section of Lombard Street, a veritable runway on the final approach to the Golden Gate Bridge, and eight or so blocks west from the famous serpentine, cobblestone section that tourists find so fascinating. The year I moved in I had a fabulous tax return, that afforded me the money to buy a bedroom suite, an entertainment center, a surround sound stereo system, a set of All-Clad pans, and a host of artwork and knick-knacks for decoration. I took meticulous care of myself and the apartment, and in all respects I had proven to myself and Casey's ghost that I was capable of taking care of myself, and although I was little lonely, I had found the strength and pride inside myself that was there all along. In other words, I was ready.
"You are so lucky to live on Lombard Street," Beth said to me as our hands lingered for a moment and fell away.
"I have a great view from my living room windows. Wanna see?!" I skipped with childlike abandon towards the bay windows and hopped onto the love seat, and she dropped in beside me.
"This is wonderful," she said, riveted by the traffic that tore through the drowning street like rocket propelled speed boats.
Paul cleared his throat and brought my ship back to the planet's surface. We both stepped down and shared an uncomfortable silence.
"Can I get you something to drink?" I offered.
Paul motioned Beth towards the big couch, and they both sat next to one another. "Do you have any beer?" he asked as his easy nature returned.
"I have some Coronas in the fridge. Beth?"
"I'd love a Corona," she smiled.
"Care for a wedge of lime?" They both nodded enthusiastically.
The chattered to themselves while the movie, She's So Lovely played on the big screen TV, forgotten now and droning in the background.
"I can't believe he's single," she whispered to Paul.
"Yeah, well he's gay."
"Oh my god!" she gasped, scrutinizing me through the bar opening connecting the two rooms. I grinned back as I meticulously sliced uniform lime wedges into a ceramic serving bowl.
When I was in third grade, there was a new girl named Caroline that I felt a primal urge to impress. At recess, I waited on the monkey bars until she and Julie, who was showing Caroline around, drifted into the best vantage point, then I scampered furiously across the bars, skipping every other rung. That was a manly display I thought, and I turned to see if they had watched. Apparently not. I leapt to the ground and sprinted by them and waited atop the slide, then launched head first and rolled into a somersault at the bottom and stood up. They sauntered by, uninterrupted, immersed in more important matters. I dashed by them again. "What is your problem, Scott?!" Julie yelled to my receding back.
"This is Beth," Paul introduced her. "Beth meet my buddy Scott." I took her hand and held it firm but easy. Her skin was soft and white like Nivea cream, and her perfume was subliminal, a mere suggestion. The tumblers in my brain started to spin.
The apartment was my first experience at living alone. Two years earlier, my relationship with Casey came to an end, and she had left me with this apocalyptic prediction, "Some day you will meet someone who is just as co-dependent as yourself, and you'll have a bad relationship that will end even worse." She bragged that she had lived by herself in a small New York City apartment, and in doing so had found her center. She didn't think I could do the same, that I would always depend on someone else for my sense of self.
I found the only apartment in San Francisco that allowed my two cats, on a bustling section of Lombard Street, a veritable runway on the final approach to the Golden Gate Bridge, and eight or so blocks west from the famous serpentine, cobblestone section that tourists find so fascinating. The year I moved in I had a fabulous tax return, that afforded me the money to buy a bedroom suite, an entertainment center, a surround sound stereo system, a set of All-Clad pans, and a host of artwork and knick-knacks for decoration. I took meticulous care of myself and the apartment, and in all respects I had proven to myself and Casey's ghost that I was capable of taking care of myself, and although I was little lonely, I had found the strength and pride inside myself that was there all along. In other words, I was ready.
"You are so lucky to live on Lombard Street," Beth said to me as our hands lingered for a moment and fell away.
"I have a great view from my living room windows. Wanna see?!" I skipped with childlike abandon towards the bay windows and hopped onto the love seat, and she dropped in beside me.
"This is wonderful," she said, riveted by the traffic that tore through the drowning street like rocket propelled speed boats.
Paul cleared his throat and brought my ship back to the planet's surface. We both stepped down and shared an uncomfortable silence.
"Can I get you something to drink?" I offered.
Paul motioned Beth towards the big couch, and they both sat next to one another. "Do you have any beer?" he asked as his easy nature returned.
"I have some Coronas in the fridge. Beth?"
"I'd love a Corona," she smiled.
"Care for a wedge of lime?" They both nodded enthusiastically.
The chattered to themselves while the movie, She's So Lovely played on the big screen TV, forgotten now and droning in the background.
"I can't believe he's single," she whispered to Paul.
"Yeah, well he's gay."
"Oh my god!" she gasped, scrutinizing me through the bar opening connecting the two rooms. I grinned back as I meticulously sliced uniform lime wedges into a ceramic serving bowl.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
We Meet
I was living in my San Francisco apartment, alone on a Friday night, watching a movie on my couch with my two Siamese cats. Outside the rain blew in gusts against my bay windows, which overlooked the perpetually busy Lombard St., where undeterred motorists planed across it's rain drenched surface, spraying sheets of water from their vehicles on either side, spreading from underneath like enormous wings, and hissing like an open air hose.
Paul had a passenger that night, a raven haired stranger on her last night of a business trip. His brother's wife in Boston called him the night before and asked for the favor of showing an acquaintance the sights. "She's my friends' sister, and she is very sweet, Paul, and has one more night before she comes back home to Boston." After determining that she was hot and single, he had the Corvette cleaned and popped a breath mint.
But the night was a disaster. She was only interested in seeing San Francisco, but Paul was only interested in seeing her, preferably in a hotel bed. The night was slipping away from him, so he called a friend who happened to live nearby, and coincidentally at home watching a movie.
"Scott, it's Paul."
"Hey Paul, what's up?"
"I'm showing someone around town and I need a change of pace. Is it alright if we drop by?"
"Is this the same girl that your sister-in-law asked you to t..."
"Yeah," he said with a twinge of irritation, "so can we drop by?"
This wasn't like Paul, to bring any girl around that wasn't already his, and even then. At a party a few weeks back, he had sat at a table with a couple girls and made me and Eric stay at the bar. I confronted him later about it. "Does this mean that any time we meet new girls that I have to go home?" He hung his head, feeling ashamed and said, "Of course not."
The rain beat down harder as they trolled for a parking spot on the blocks circumscribing my apartment. They had given up and had resolved to leave when a car miraculously pulled out from in front of my building.
I answered the knock on my door. She was a head taller than Paul, standing behind him, but and her image burnt into the back of my eyes like an overlong glimpse of the sun. A purse hung from her left shoulder and her thumb was hooked under the strap, and her arm struck me as being perfectly shaped, not buffed like a body builders, or too skinny like an anorexics, but firm and slight, achingly feminine. Her long black hair flowed down and around her shoulders, framing an angels face, her penetrating eyes held mine with a cool confidence and untamed spirit, and inside those swirling brown crystal orbs I could see my future.
Paul had a passenger that night, a raven haired stranger on her last night of a business trip. His brother's wife in Boston called him the night before and asked for the favor of showing an acquaintance the sights. "She's my friends' sister, and she is very sweet, Paul, and has one more night before she comes back home to Boston." After determining that she was hot and single, he had the Corvette cleaned and popped a breath mint.
But the night was a disaster. She was only interested in seeing San Francisco, but Paul was only interested in seeing her, preferably in a hotel bed. The night was slipping away from him, so he called a friend who happened to live nearby, and coincidentally at home watching a movie.
"Scott, it's Paul."
"Hey Paul, what's up?"
"I'm showing someone around town and I need a change of pace. Is it alright if we drop by?"
"Is this the same girl that your sister-in-law asked you to t..."
"Yeah," he said with a twinge of irritation, "so can we drop by?"
This wasn't like Paul, to bring any girl around that wasn't already his, and even then. At a party a few weeks back, he had sat at a table with a couple girls and made me and Eric stay at the bar. I confronted him later about it. "Does this mean that any time we meet new girls that I have to go home?" He hung his head, feeling ashamed and said, "Of course not."
The rain beat down harder as they trolled for a parking spot on the blocks circumscribing my apartment. They had given up and had resolved to leave when a car miraculously pulled out from in front of my building.
I answered the knock on my door. She was a head taller than Paul, standing behind him, but and her image burnt into the back of my eyes like an overlong glimpse of the sun. A purse hung from her left shoulder and her thumb was hooked under the strap, and her arm struck me as being perfectly shaped, not buffed like a body builders, or too skinny like an anorexics, but firm and slight, achingly feminine. Her long black hair flowed down and around her shoulders, framing an angels face, her penetrating eyes held mine with a cool confidence and untamed spirit, and inside those swirling brown crystal orbs I could see my future.
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