On Recycling.

The blood was rushing from my face and around my left ring-finger was a cocktail napkin growing more red with each passing heartbeat. As someone who has panic attacks when they see blood, I was in trouble. Big trouble. My eyes yielded more stars than I capable of looking at. The roar of the room fell into the background as the ringing in my ears started to take center stage.

In grade school, our teachers were adamant about imparting upon us the three R’s of recycling—. Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle. Their indomitable logo was a chain of arrows pointing at each other to show “nothing is ever lost.” Unlike those arrows, I was fucking LOSING it. However, I was doing my best to hide this from the pretty girl sitting opposite me — Britany. I was cursing recycling for ruining what I thought could have been a great night.

When I saw her, she was standing in the middle of my local bar with a group of girls. Shotwells was a place where the neighborhood men congregated— It wasn’t exactly the spot to meet single women. I watched these girls spectating the bar in a way that made me think they were probably not from the neighborhood. Feeling a little bit of that “carpe diem” zeitgeist, I decided to see if my hunch was right.

When I walked ‘toe to toe’ with her, I was greeted by formidable red bangs framing lurid eyes. She looked at me like she already knew what I was going to say next.

“Hey, I’m Josh. What’s your name?”

She spoke to me enthusiastically as we exchanged formalities, and peppered in $5 dollar words like they cost her nothing. I was talking to someone who commanded her language and I found it sexy. I fiddled with my glasses as I tried to think of the most direct way to sate my curiosity…

“So, how did you end up…. HERE?”

She giggled at the question through her beer— There was a story here.

She’d been selected to fly out to San Francisco to go on some dates with tech guys, and be part of a documentary. It was the height of opulence. Can’t get a date in your own city? Pay some startup to fly women in for you. I had read all about this little project as the local tech press derided the women as digital hookers and “comfort girls.” If she was a hooker, she was doing a shitty job of it — We’d been talking for a few minutes and not once did she try to sell me anything.

Fortunately for me, she found the blind dates they were setting her up with pretty insufferable. Her and the other girls had sought refuge from the film crews and tech-dorks at Shotwells: a great beer bar in the Mission district. I had a million questions, but as the best of them were bubbling to the top of mind, my friend and Bartender du jour, Tom tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I could help him take the garbage can full of bottles outside.

Every Saturday, Virginia shows up to collect the empty bottles from the bar. She’s a graying local woman who supplements her income as the infamous “Tamale Lady” by collecting the recycling from local bars. If the bar waited for the weekly recycling day, they would need a whole separate bar just to keep the bottles in.

I dragged the can through the crowded bar and turned it over into the back of Virginia’s car. As I slid the bag out of the can, a broken bottle reached out and cut me from inside the bag. I felt like I had just been told a nuclear missile was on it’s way to the bar.

“Son. Of. A. Bitch.” I thought as I avoided looking at my finger.

I briefly considered how Britany would use her command of the English language to call me a pussy. Trying to remain calm, I knew that if I didn’t look at my sliced finger, I’d probably be able to at least nod somewhat intelligently as we continued our conversation. Aren’t women supposed to be in to good listeners?

When I walked back in I asked Britany to sit with me at the end of the bar, and discretely wrapped a cocktail napkin around my finger. I was really trying to remain cool, calm, and collected for my new serendipitous friend.

I felt a drop of blood fall onto my pants from under the napkin— it was then the stars started creeping into my vision. Her necklace had an elephant on it, and I felt like even he was judging me.

“Ziering, you pussy. Pull it together.” The elephant would say while condescendingly tapping his trunk into my chest. “I mean really dude.” I briefly contemplated why the elephant was such a bro in my imagination.

“Shutup elephant.” I said to no one in particular.

“Elephants have amazing memories. You’ll never-ever live this down Josh.” I thought. Time had started to slow as the ringing in my ears got louder.

“Are you ok?” Britany asked.

“Am I ok?” I asked incredulously, half talking to her, half talking to that trunked-fuck trotting about her chest. I knew I was white as a ghost.

“I’m totally fine, but I think I might have nicked my finger while I taking those bottles out.” I said, trying to downplay the situation to nobody else but myself.

From under the bar, I unveiled my cocktail-napkin-wrapped finger. The formerly white napkin was now red as I tilted my head in disbelief looking at it. She sprung out of her stool with an enthusiasm I found impressive— even for her.

“Don’t worry! I was a …” she started to say, but in my head, I had finished her sentence for three times over.

“Doctor.”

“EMT.”

“Nurse.”

I was expecting any of the above to fly from her lips next.

“…Camp counselor!” She declares.

“Fuck it— Good enough.” I say.

She tattles to Tom across the bar about my finger and like a good friend he pulls out the first aid kit from the drawer. I hold my head in my hand unsure if I’m going to pass out from the blood or the embarrassment.

Britany furiously starts to work. Napkins, wrappers and band-aids are flying in every direction. I take a sip of my cider as a bead of sweat runs down the side of my face she can’t see. I subtly wipe it away. It wasn’t hot in the bar. Her hands worked opposite of her words. She’s kind and gentle with me. There is no bluntness here, just the care of someone who knows how to deal with children... of all ages.

“All done!” She says as she hops back to look at her handy work. From the bloody mess she has created a perfect band-aid-masterpiece on my ring finger. It was artful. I inspect it much the same way I had that napkin, but this time the stars start to slip away into the edges of my vision.