Magic at the Matador
or The Time I Wanted a Facebook Friend More Than Sex
I used to stop by The Matador once every couple weeks, so I became familiar with the regulars. One regular — I’ll call her Amanda — was there every time I went, and admitted to me that she came to the bar “most” nights. I hit on her shamelessly since the first night I met her, though I’m not sure that I ever wanted to go home with her. She wore purple framed glasses and had black hair with straight bangs that went halfway down her forehead. I don’t remember what clothes she wore, but I picture something like Lindsay Weir’s army jacket in Freaks and Geeks.
Coincidentally, I once bumped into her after eating an eighth of mushrooms. The thirty-something-year-old womanizer that I was with scooped her up, leaving me and my associative, psychedelic thoughts to come to the conclusion that life is a series of empty relationships resulting in an utterly lonely death. I then lay in the middle of a road, on my back, looking up at the stars and half hoping a car would run me over, but also listening for an engine in case I decided to jump out of the way. I saw, with a clarity I have never again experienced, the absurdity of life. And then I laughed at it. When I heard a car approaching, I stood and walked off the road — so much for my despair and angst.
I could sense the animalistic hierarchy when I walked in The Matador, and quickly intuited where I was ranked in “tonight’s crowd” like an animal entering a breeding ground. I could also sense where there was tension, repulsion, attraction. Amanda waved at me from the bar, so I bought her a drink — a shot of Fireball and a bottle of Angry Orchard.
“I’m moving to North Carolina,” she said, carefully pouring the whiskey into the bottle of cider.
“Why?” I said, trying to picture coming to The Matador and not seeing her.
“I’m going to school. It’s my home state, so I get financial aid.”
I turned towards her on my stool, leaning on the bar with my right elbow and resting my head in the palm of my hand: “There’s nothing for you there. You can drink cinnamon whiskey and hard cider every night if you stay here.”
She smiled, “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“I’m not saying this to hit on you,” I said, meaning it, “but you’re a very magical person. I don’t say that about many people.”
“Thanks,” she said, smiling again. “I’m leaving, so it’s not like I want a relationship.”
On the surface, she must have said this to clarify that she had no romantic interest in me, which I had known, but I suddenly realized I could possibly go home with her that night. I wanted to sleep with her, sort of, but instead of flirting, I said, “Could you do me a favor, Amanda?” She looked at me, surprised. “Would you remember me? Later, when you’re living in North Carolina, would you remember that I exist?”
“Sure,” she said. She swiped the screen of her phone, which lay on the bar, with her index finger. “What’s your name again?”
We didn’t know each other very well, obviously.
“Now we’re friends on Facebook, so I won’t forget you,” she said.
This meant a lot to me, even if a Facebook friendship is ultimately meaningless.
“I’m not sure why, but I want to be remembered by you,” I said.
“I understand,” she said. “You want to feel like someone cares about you. Everyone wants that.”
