The world is won by letting things take their own course.
If you still have ambitions, it’s out of your reach.
— Lao Tsu (trans. Brian Browne)
I walked into one of my very favorite haunts on Friday, hoping to kill a little time and meet up with a group of people I know: I’d met a remarkable woman and her husband in the ancient bar just two or three weeks prior.
Life, as usual, had other plans.
I was due at a birthday party for a Goddess in a little more than an hour and a half. I parked in back of the bar: enough time to have one of the famous jalapeno-cream-cheese burgers and a glass of a remarkable Chilean red wine.
I was looking forward to the party. The birthday Goddess was turning thirty-nine for the umpteenth time and she and her sisters were a Force of Nature at their family gatherings – I consider myself very lucky indeed to know them and still luckier to be welcome in their family circle. I was due to be the only female marshmallow in a cup of very hot chocolate: something I rather relish because I love overhearing jokes about WASPs. (Why am I not offended? Well, because so very many of them have a large grain of truth, dudes. “How do you get a white girl to suck your dick?” “I don’t know. Ask her?” “No, dumbass, dip it in ranch dressing!”) Besides, I was slated to meet up with another friend of the family: “our OTHER white friend,” as the Goddess’s boyfriend liked to term him. That other white friend would happen to be Jack. God damn. Oh, God fucking damn. Drop-dead gorgeous in a Black Irish way, built like a brick shithouse, and recently on-the-rebound single. The Goddess’s sister (another Goddess) had set up the meeting. She said she wanted to sit back and just watch the magic happen, watch me work it. I was hoping she was right and that the chemistry would be exothermic. But Jack was a little shy around me and came across as a bit inexperienced. Then again, you never can tell about men, now, can you?
So I had my doubts about organic chemistry when I opened the door to the old bar.
I enjoy this particular bar because the tiny kitchen is open. It is full of young male bodies slinging hash in the de rigueur white t-shirt, long apron and baseball cap. I’m always an object of curiosity to these hardworking youngsters and one or two of them have a smiling-across-the-room flirtation going on with me, though only one has talked with me on one or two occasions. I suspect it isn’t lack of nerve that keeps them on their side of the bar – it’s actually the unspoken and sacrosanct rule of most higher-class establishments: don’t fuck the regulars, figuratively or literally. The cooks spotted me as soon as I stepped inside. The nudges began.
Besides the grease-spattered flirtations, the place has background music that doesn’t assault the tympanic membranes and lends itself to intellectual discussion: classical, in other words. You can actually hear and follow a conversation. Amazing, rare and much appreciated by yours truly.
I noticed him as I paused just inside the door. He was on his way from the back to the front of the bar. He was blondish and had the most piercing aqua eyes I’d seen in quite some time. I can count the times I’ve seen that eye color on one hand, so he caught my attention right away. He didn’t smile, but nodded slightly and said hello on his way back to his seat. He took a second glance at my face before passing through the crowd out of sight. I found a seat one barstool away from the waitress station and settled in, spotting him: he’d managed to snag one of the good seats at the end of the ancient bar earlier in the evening, but was sitting next to a preppy-looking Muffy in an expensive black-and-white hounds-tooth wool suit with Mandarin collar. She had the practical-but-sexless-pageboy haircut and pearls. Her hair was dyed blonde and was thin and dead straight. She was also thin and dead straight. She seemed interested in Mr. Aqua, but was deathly afraid of showing any hint of actual sexuality. Talk about a WASP. Dip it in ranch dressing, dude!
I shook my head. No accounting for taste. No pun intended.
I ordered my glass of the Chilean red and the barkeep smiled (a rare occurrence, for this one’s a rather jaded individual and not quite sure of my character). “My personal favorite,” he said. The smile faded as quickly as a trout surfacing and missing the fly. He turned away. It was one of their busiest nights of the week and there was no time for small talk.
Another regular sat beside me, a gentleman of about sixty-something. He was curious about me and my choice of drink, but didn’t strike up a conversation. He sat quietly and leaned forward on the bar, doing his subconscious best to block my view of the man with the aqua eyes.
I sipped my wine and looked around, then watched the cooks at work.
There is one particular cook I love to watch: a small, very Mayan-looking brown man with black eyes who takes his job seriously. He’ll glance at me once in a while in a very cursory way as I watch, but my watching doesn’t make him self-conscious in the least. As he works, he moves gracefully and purposefully, with a barely suppressed passion. I’m pleased that he always has a slight, knowing smile when he realizes I’m watching him. I suspect he knows exactly what I am thinking and I suspect he finds it very flattering, especially since the younger, taller cooks talk about me when I’m in the bar. I never see him join in their speculative conversation. And what am I thinking as I watch him move about with that barely suppressed passion? Mostly – okay, exclusively – I wonder what it would be like to take him to bed and fuck the living shit out of him for days. No, I’d never touch him in real life: he’s married and I know because I asked one of the other cooks. (Yep. I take my reconnaissance seriously and I never, ever cross that line.) But it doesn’t stop me from imagining my hands on the bare skin of his back and belly, his hands on my skin, and his mouth on my breasts, on my mouth, between my thighs. He never, ever shows his thoughts in those cursory glances and that knowing smile: I’ll never know whether his thoughts about me follow the same vein. And this is just fine because it tells me he is good, solid man and every inch a man – man enough to be a man passionate about his woman. A very, very passionate man who takes it all home to mama.
But this nice little morality disclaimer aside, that little Mayan man is fried sex on a stick.[1] Just the briefest thought of him makes me tingle and squirm. And he was working that night. Glory Hallelujah.
I also tried to glance from time to time at the man with the aqua eyes. He had his arm out and his hand on the bar between himself and Muffy, separating himself physically. He was looking at me while he conversed with her. His stare was a little unnerving because he didn’t smile. When I met his eyes, he didn’t look away, either. He looked into my eyes as if assessing me, as if curious about what made me tick. His eyes never strayed from my face, never took the downward plunge, though I was dressed to show off The Girls. (Meeting up with Jack later, remember?) Predictably, when she noticed Mr. Aqua was watching me, Muffy became more animated, bouncing in her seat in a girlish way at least fifteen years too young for her. She began playing with her hair, fingering her string of pearls and leaning forward, trying to catch his eye. Her efforts were futile and still appeared about as sexy as a Yugo. I smiled at him slightly, then someone else caught my eye.
Mark, another regular, was sitting just two seats away from him. Mark waved at me once and I knew I’d get a visit from him soon because, well, Mark is Mark and absolutely everyone knows him. He’s a lovely man and I am always pleased to find him at the bar. Like Saturn’s rings, people of intellect and humor seem to circulate around Mark. I would guess the barkeeps hand out a fair share of free drinks to him. If they don’t, they should: he’s very good for business and brings in the right sort of clientele.
Because the kitchen was overwhelmed and there would be a wait for my burger, I went outside on the patio for a smoke. I stood on the other side of the glass of the back door and listened to the music on the outdoor speakers: Mozart. I watched the wind in the trees over my head, humming along with the overture. I realized about two minutes later that there was a visual straight shot between where I stood and where Mr. Aqua was sitting. I glanced in his direction, but all I saw were the cooks, every one looking out at me, or, rather, at The Girls. Like a flock of startled birds, they turned to different tasks as soon as I noticed them. Every one of them had been watching – except for the Mayan man, who was still tending the grill and smiling his knowing smile. Sex on a stick with an extra- spicy dipping sauce, even. I put my cigarette out in a puddle, tossed it in the garbage, and wandered back in, taking my seat again.
I sipped my wine and ate my burger with relish, running out of the wine about half way through my feast. Jalapenos, cream cheese and one of the best burgers in town: heaven. The warm cream cheese squeezes out and gets on your fingers as you eat. I hoped Mr. Aqua was watching as I licked the white stickiness off my fingers, but didn’t risk a glance to see if he did. The barkeep gave me the next glass of Chilean gratis because it was the dregs.
The regular next to me rose to pay his tab, freeing the line of sight. I glanced down the bar and saw Muffy rising to leave, as well. Mr. Aqua was smiling at her, still seated, arms crossed, saying goodbye, doing his best to be noncommittal.
The regular who’d been sitting next to me this whole time spoke to me as he rose, making small talk. I smiled and nodded, then looked pointedly at his left hand and the little band of gold that gave me my Out. He took the hint and left. Another regular took his place, one that has always given me The Creepy Vibe.
I turned slightly away from Mr. Creepy, stiffening my body. He’s been watching me for some time since I started coming in the bar months ago and I didn’t want to encourage him. The last time I had been in the bar, I had been talking to a librarian and her husband on one side while Mr. Creepy was sitting on the other side of me, listening in and trying to rub his thigh against mine. I remembered trying to eek my way toward the librarian and away from the uncomfortable warmth of his leg. Just as I was about to turn and tell him to go fuck himself, he’d gotten up to go to the bathroom for a few minutes. He came back smelling strongly of semen. (Believe me, a woman who hasn’t had any for a week can smell a drop of that particular tasty elixir a quarter mile away.) At least he kept his distance after that. But this was another night and here he was again. Fuck off and die, glick.
So my eye contact with Mr. Aqua was over because I didn’t want to encourage Mr. Creepy. As the French say, life sucks sometimes.
Mark appeared just as the barkeep cleared my burger away.
“Hey, Good Lookin’!” he said, putting his arm round my shoulders. He patted my back like I was the center for his high school football team, God bless him.
“Hey, Mark,” I said, smiling. “What’s shakin’?”
Mark told me he was going to the D.U. hockey game with a couple of buddies. He pointed them out. They were standing behind Mr. Aqua. We talked hockey and birthday parties for a few minutes, then I leaned in toward him.
“Listen,” I said, pointing through Mr. Creepy. “You know that guy at the end of the bar?”
Mark stood on tiptoe to get a look. “Green sweater?”
“Yeah, that one.”
Mark gave me a crocodile smile. “Was talking to some blonde chick earlier.”
“Yeah. She left. You know him?”
Mark shrugged, still grinning. “No. I’ve seen him once or twice, maybe. Why? You interested?”
“I don’t know,” I said, quietly, meeting his eyes. Mostly because of his young personality and little because he’s good-looking and built like a brick, Mark is a very attractive man for any age, which happens to be sixty in his case. Again, that little band of gold keeps me far, far away. . .
“I could say something to him,” Mark said, his grin widening a little.
I caught a glimpse of Mr. Aqua. He looked about thirty-two. “Seems young.”
“How old are you?”
I smiled at Mark, raising my eyebrows. He raised his hands to fend me off. “I know, I know, never ask a woman her age.”
I smiled and held his eyes for a few seconds longer, then I told him.
He smiled and shifted on his feet. “You look early thirties, girl.”
My smile turned into a grin. “Thanks. So they tell me. And that’s why the young twenty-somethings are the only ones I end up dating. Because most guys like him over thirty,” here, I pointed around Mr. Creepy, “never have the guts to come over and strike up a conversation.”
“What about where you work? You’re a professional woman. What about the guys there?”
I laughed. I took a sip of my wine. “You have no idea who I work with.” I laughed again. “Besides, that’s just asking for a whole heap of trouble, dating where you work.”
“True,” said Mark, crossing his arms and looking over at Mr. Aqua. “And probably very wise.”
“Besides, any man who hasn’t got the guts to cross the room and strike up a conversation hasn’t got the guts to deal with a strong, independent woman like me.” I said it trying to sound matter-of-fact. It came off sounding a little sad and lacking in conviction.
Mark laughed and looked into my eyes, putting his arm around my shoulder and giving me two hard squeezes. “Very true. But keep hanging out here. The intellectual types hang here.” He smiled again. “You know, if you leave the party early, you can always come back here. We’re coming back for the after-game. Got a couple of single friends who’d show for you.”
I looked into his face. “With this party and this group of Goddesses, I’ll be lucky to make it out of the party by sunrise.”
Mark leaned in close, flirting a little. “Sure you don’t want me to hook it up?”
I shook my head. “If he hasn’t got the guts. . .”
Mark let go of my shoulders and stood back, nodding. “You’re absolutely right. Most women aren’t that smart. They’d be chasing him. That always backfires.”
“That and I’m not desperate.”
Mark smiled his crocodile smile, glancing at The Girls. “I’ll bet not.”
Mark’s friends yelled from across the room. After giving me one more squeeze and a couple of noisy pats on the back that were enough to inspire me to win one for the Gipper, he was off to join them.
I had trouble meeting the barkeep’s eye to tab out. The place had gotten busier.
I have no idea what Mark did between his friends and the door. I suspect he hooked it up.
I shifted in my seat, trying not to brush up against Mr. Creepy as I gathered my purse and coat.
Mr. Aqua was standing right behind me, hands in his pockets, watching me. “You’re leaving your seat,” he said, simply. He looked into my face.
“Yes,” I said, quietly. I glanced at the end of the bar and saw someone had already stolen his former seat. “You may have it if you like.” Five seven, maybe five eight. And damn, this man is sexy. I had on clogs, which made it harder to tell how tall he was and made it harder for him to tell how short I am. He was a very, very handsome man of medium build. He had an air of outdoors-but-not-extreme-sports. I had to stand close because of the traffic and not wanting to brush up against Mr. Creepy. I could smell Mr. Aqua’s neck: he smelled like a man. God help me, I love that smell. No, never mind, God, don’t help me: I love loving that smell.
Mr. Aqua nodded, glancing at The Girls for half a second, then looking straight ahead. “I thought you were here on your own.” He looked at me sideways for about two seconds, then straight ahead.
“I am,” I said, looking at his face. He looked into my eyes, again. I felt a little jolt. He held my eyes and I forced myself to not look away. “I have to get to a birthday party in about fifteen minutes.”
His face looked hopeful, his eyes smiled. “Birthday parties are fun.” He gave me a sly smile.
I smiled at him, amused at the brazen hint. Not a chance, bucko. I don’t know you and you don’t know what you’d be walking into. I have no idea whether you would be able to relax and have fun or whether you would say something stupid and/or get drunk off your ass and ruin the whole evening for the birthday girl.
I let the hint slip by. I held out my hand. “My name is Titania.”
“Rob,” he shook mine with just the right amount of pressure. His hands were large, strong and warm.
“You come here often, Rob?” I asked, putting on my coat.
He shrugged and looked away. “Only about once every six months or so.”
He’s telling me I’m missing my chance, here. Too bad, baby. I’m not desperate. I shrugged my shoulders to get my coat in place. “I come here about every other Friday,” I said. “It’s half way between work and home.” And I’m telling you where and when you’re likely to see me again if you make the effort. AND I’m telling you I’m worth the effort, dude. And if you don’t think I am, then fuck it: your loss.
I gathered up the straps of my purse. He glanced at The Girls again while I was doing so. I took out my cell phone and checked it for texts as a hint: I was giving him some time and a visual cue to ask for my number. He didn’t ask.
He shifted, shyly, unsure of himself. “Birthday parties sure are a lot of fun.”
I smiled, sadly, tucking my phone back in my purse. I sighed. “This one is going to be a bunch of wild women and only a couple of very, very brave boyfriends and husbands.” And it’s not my party and not my birthday. It would be rude to invite a stranger to a family gathering.
He looked into my face. His eyes were sad. He rocked on the balls of his feet.
“It was nice meeting you, Rob,” I said, gently. I meant it. He seemed sincere, not at all a player. I could tell he had a tendency to be frank. I felt it might be quite something to know him. On the other hand, five more minutes might reveal him as a raving asshole.
I was suddenly aware of about six pair of eyes watching me from the kitchen. I smiled and blushed, involuntarily, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, cursing myself for my sudden shyness. Ask for my phone number, dammit.
He looked into my face. He looked slightly puzzled, as if he’d never heard the word no before and found it very attractive. He opened his mouth to say something. I waited, but he closed it again.
“I hope to see you again, Rob,” I said, gravely. I do. I mean it.
He nodded and sighed, resigned. “Me, too.” I couldn’t tell if he meant it or not, but he did look into my eyes and smiled slightly.
I turned and left the bar.
I smiled all the way to The House of the Goddesses.
Jack didn’t make it to the birthday party. I was disappointed only for a moment. How can anyone be disappointed in a room full of randy, loud, funny and tipsy women?
I didn’t get home until I’d sobered up again – after three.
Will I see Rob again? I have no earthly clue. Do I still hope to? Yes and no: I don’t feel I missed out on anything, but I was struck by his eyes and his quiet frankness. Like Penny Marshall says about comedy, “It’s all about the timing, kid.” Life is timing, too. Everything is difficult and nothing is easy. But both the difficulty and the ease lie within: the hardest part of making the right things happen is letting go and acting only within wisdom.
I wouldn’t do a single thing differently, given another chance at Friday night. It’s not often I feel that in sync with the Tao. And all Deep Thoughts bullshit aside, I’m still having loads of fun playing while waiting for Life to bring me a regular gig with my own personal bit of fried sex on a stick. And what is more Tao than that?
[1] In the South, if something is good, to make it even better, you deep fry it. To make it even better than that, you put it on a stick. Hotdog to corndog. Fried Snickers – on a stick. Funnel cake – on a stick. Sausage and a pancake – on a stick. So fried sex on a stick? Honey, we’re talking BEYOND sexy into something that makes even sexier-than-hell taste like cold, leftover oatmeal.