Musical Chairs

She was curious about the pig in my online dating profile — a hobby I’ve very reluctantly been indulging in to meet new people. We had agreed to meet at eight at a charming local dive bar. It was 7:56 and I was running late. A side effect of an eternal disconnect with time. The universal standard of time is my most hated form of authority. 30 Seconds To Mars? Terrible band. 4 Year Degree? Please. 30 Mins at 350 for pizza? Fire.

The seatbelt rubbed against my neck and pain shot through my arm as I was trying to rub the wine stains from my lips and teeth. From time to time my arm will decide to try and depart from my body, keeping me from resting it at my side. The happy hour I was departing was working as a great way to calm my fears about online dating.

When I got there, the place was empty lest a few stragglers at the bar, and my date. Kelly sat tucked in the corner. She probably picked the spot so she could decide whether or not to say she was Kelly as I walked up to her. Big bangs swooped across her face and a cow girl shirt with a plunging neckline was half covered by a denim jacket. Hoop earings hung from her ears. She was pretty. She had a special kind of racial ambiguity that was kind of charming.

“Hi, I’m Josh.”

“I’m Kelly, nice to meet you. You should get yourself a drink.”

I went to the bar and ordered one their signature margaritas. They’ve been described by people better at life than me as pint glasses of tequila tinted yellow with lime juice. I’d say it’s not an entirely inaccurate description. She was apparently not unfamiliar.

“You got one of their margaritas?”

“Yep.”

“You’re going to drink that whole thing?” she asked me with a hint of judgement in her voice. She was at least subtle in her disgust.

“I am. And maybe another one after it. The benefits of being in advertising I suppose.” I bristled a little bit at the idea of her trying to control me with judgement.

We talked about life and the pursuit of happiness, but she was surprisingly hard to pin down on anything. She was a freelance something or other with an Ivy League education. Perhaps this is what it was like to talk to me, less the Ivy of course. Then she started talking about her earings.

“These are my chola earings.” She bragged. Her education probably should have afforded her some racial sensitivity, but I wasn’t entirely sure she didn’t have the license to make that statement.

“Unfortunately for you, Spanish Harlem is about 3000 miles that direction.” I extended my arm and almost spilled both of our drinks.

“I’m not from Spanish Harlem, I’m from Washington.”

“The state?” I asked in disbelief.

“Maybe she’s half Indian or something.” I thought.

“Yes the state.” I still wasn’t sure what she was, but I was beginning to suspect she might be part Jewish the way she was making me feel guilty for asking questions with apparently obvious answers. She was proud of Washington. I tend to feel less of an affiliation with New Jersey, if only because of the fist-pumping-bro-dogging stigma I’ve been left out on all these years.

As I was considering ordering another margarita to illustrate how I can’t be controlled, I had a zen moment. I was in the space between thoughts. I didn’t need to prove anything here, it’s entirely possible she’s a nice girl who studied hard in school and didn’t spend her time drinking and talking about poetry and just didn’t understand the drinking culture.

She mentions to me that at her school, you can design your own degree. I think it sounds like a lazy fucking school that makes the students design the course work, but I’m not really one for pedigree anyway.

“But what does it say on your diploma?” I asked.

“Bachelors of Arts or something. Nobody reads past the name of the school anyway.”

I considered getting the second margarita to pour on her.

“Let’s find greener pastures. This place is bumming me out. How about we journey to my favorite beer bar down the street?”

“That sounds fine.” she started getting up. I stood up like the Tinman needing oil, my arm stuck out to my side a little awkwardly.

We sat down at the beer bar and my friend Tom is working. He’s got a bright face and perfect hair. Straight men can’t even hope to look half as put together. He must own a comb or something. We order some drinks and Tom remarks, “Don’t you like airplanes a lot? These guys are aerospace engineers.” and with that introduces us to the two guys sitting next to me. Not wanting to be rude, I ask, “Where do you guys work?”

“We used to work at Boeing, now we work for a French aerospace company.”

Like an explosion happened behind me, I hear my ambiguous amigo say, “Boeing? I love Boeing! I’m from Washington.”

“Hey me too!” Says the guy sitting to my right.

They started talking about all kinds of Washington things, directly through me. I was torn on what to do. On one hand, I had started talking to them, and having the same place in common isn’t that big of a deal. On the other hand, I do really like trying to push social situations in strange directions with strangers. As I was pontificating all this, it occurred to me I hadn’t said anything in a while and I had almost finished my drink. They were still talking.

Tom floated over again. “You two should just switch chairs” He said half jokingly. Much to my surprise they agreed with him.

“She’s not your style at all. Trust me. I did you a favor here.” he told me.

I was having a conversation with the other engineer about fly by wire when she came back over. “So, I’m going to get going. It was nice to meet you.” She shook my hand. I cheersed her glass, toasting to how terrible she is. And she walked out the door.

I turn to the guy she was talking to, and I can feel myself getting worked up. My ambivalence about the outcome here was starting to creep into my conciousness. It wasn’t that she was rude to me that was infuriating me. I realized I was mad because this other guy didn’t fucking close and had the audacity to ruin my night.

“You talked to her for forty five minutes and you didn’t go home with her?! After all that? Are you fucking kidding me?!” The words exploded out of me. I was in disbelief of her, him, Washington state, Tom’s perfect hair. It was all too much.

“She actually asked me to stay behind a few minutes so we didn’t hurt your feelings leaving together.” He said, getting up, perhaps a little too victoriously for my taste and made a departure like he’d robbed a bank.

“I should have gotten that second margarita” I thought.