10 February 2001 ~ Toasting the Weasel...

So I returned to the keg party, where I found a nearly-empty house and a parade of teenagers and early-twenty-somethings trekking back to their homes lamenting that there hadn't been enough beer to get them properly stupid.

(Beer makes you stupid; Bailey's makes you smart... It's a proven fact. Maybe. And by the way, how the hell do you RUN OUT of beer when you've got FIVE kegs?)

Norman had left, so I went to my house, fed my cat, and caught up with him at the Belmar, a sweet little bar a few blocks away. As soon as I entered, I found Norman seated with his friends, and joined them.

...At which point, a shitty-looking weasel of a guy with an ugly hat came up to me and asked for my ID. It was ten minutes of three; the bar closes at three o'clock sharp, and he was going to kick me out. Dude. I played stupid. "Oh, baby, I left my ID at your house, didn't I?" I asked Norman non-chalantly. Norman, engrossed in discussion, grinned and nodded, not really knowing quite waht was going on.

"I know you," said the Weasel. "You were in the newspaper. You wrote an article about yourself, and when you came in, five people turned around and recognized you. You're that girl from the paper, and I want to know why you're in here when the article said you're only twenty years old." He shouted this last part to the entire bar.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I claimed, offended. "I didn't write any article. I don't work for the paper." It wasn't EXACTLY a lie. I knew DAMN well what newspaper article he was talking about. But hey, I didn't write it, and I don't work for the paper, so it WAS just a little tiny fib.

"Don't lie to me," grinned the Weasel. "I read it, and I've seen you in here a lot of times before, and I want to know why you would take a picture of yourself, and have everybody know who you are, and write that you're only twenty years old, and then come in here when you know you're not old enough."

He was grinning. He was having all kinds of fun. I was scared, and I was pissed off. Norman was blissfully gulping a beer and talking about some friend who'd gotten married. Elli, who was seated next to me, piped up: "Don't talk to her that way; she might just kill herself!" It would have been a funny statement, since EVERYONE who read that dumb article is now fairly conscientious of my allegedly failing mental health, except I was desperately trying to convince the Weasel he had the wrong girl.

"You're only twenty!" he shouted again. I looked around. A couple of the people at the bar were staring at me. A couple of them were familiar faces: barristas and waiters and customers from around town. People I sit next to every day. The guy from Lost Dog with whom I'd discussed the Swiss Water Process just a few hours earlier. A kid I'd gone to high school with, a few classes above me. Elli, too, was watching intently.

At this, I was ready to burst out crying. I'm a nice person, I'm interesting to talk to, I'd made small talk with at least six or seven people in that bar, and now none of it mattered, because I was too young to be associated with this place, the Belmar, arguably the nicest bar within walking distance. I was sitting on a bar stool, but the Weasel was still head and shoulders above me, and I felt like a vermin. A pubic louse about to be sprayed with Raid.

"Listen, man," I said, recovering as much of my dignity as I had left. "I didn't write any article, and I don't know what your problem is, but there are ten minutes left until the place closes anyway, I'm not drinking anything, and I just came in here to sit with my friends." (I glanced hopefully at Elli and Norman and Jane, who were paying less and less attention. Surely nobody would mistake any of them for being underage. You hang out with an older crowd, you automatically look older. I was glad I'd had the insight to point out my companions.)

The Weasel leered.

"If you're going to throw me out, go ahead and ask me to leave, but I'd appreciate it if you didn't come over here and embarrass me in front of my friends."

The Weasel hesitated, and I knew I was saved. Not before he got a final word in, but I knew he wasn't going to throw me out.

"Embarrass you in front of your friends? You're an embarrassment to this bar. We all know you're only twenty and you're not allowed in here, and you're an embarrassment to the people here. How old are you?"

"Twenty-one," I sputtered, astonished. Embarrassing to the BAR? I was an embarrassment to the bar? FUCK the bar. But I wasn't about to get up and walk out. That would have been defeat.

"What's your birthday?" he asked.

"May 28th," I rattled off, trying to remember the appropriate year.

"Year?"

"Seventy-nine."

"You can stay, but just this once. And don't lie anymore. We all know." With that, he sauntered off. I noticed that everyone had turned back to their conversations, except Norman, who'd never left his, and there I was, alone and humiliated and Too Young and embarrassing.

(I wondered briefly if I was an embarrassment to Norman and his friends. I cut that thought off when I realized I was going to cry, as if to prove yet again that I'm just an angsty kid.)

Four minutes later, conversation in the bar ceased. Everything went dead, and I heard the bartender, a perky little lady with a perky little voice and a fierce attitude, yelling, "DAMON! DAMON! DAMON!"

An argument had broken out. A tall blonde guy -- apparently Damon -- with a collection of tattoos was towering above the Weasel. The Weasel was insisting: "You've always got some fucking chip on your shoulder, every time I see you, you've always got to have an attitude!" I couldn't hear Damon's reply, but I could see through the Weasel's cockiness: he was nervous.

Norman, who was lucky he hadn't been nominated to be the designated driver, called out, "come on, guys, that's enough; you've got nothing to prove."

Of course, nobody paid attention. If I'd been in a better mood, I might have rolled my eyes and giggled at Norman. The only thing that ever happens to a mediator in a barfight is that he goes home bruised. But I wasn't in a good mood, and I hoped the Weasel got the shit kicked out of him. I looked down, still wondering if I embarrassed people with my twenty-year-old presence.

I looked back up again when I heard the Weasel shout, "so fucking what? I wasn't giving anybody a hard time! She's the one who's in here and she's only twenty! It doesn't matter what I say to her, and it has nothing to do with you!"

At that, the tears broke loose. I wiped them away as quickly as I could. I was the subject of a fucking barfight, and a big blonde tattooed stranger was defending me. STILL, Norman and our friends didn't catch on.

My entire body tensed; I was ready to run out the door. But that would have been infantile. It would have been defeat. It would have been angsty and twenty. Norman would have been embarrassed.

Three o'clock. The argument settled down, and big blonde guy walked away without clocking the Weasel. The bartender kicked everybody out, and Norman and I walked Elli and Jane home, Norman singing "South Park" songs, and I trying to bury myself without actually making a scene.

* * * * * * * * * * *

At Norman's apartment, I explained what had happened, repeating verbatim what the Weasel had said to me. He cursed a couple of times, apologetic that he hadn't realized what was going on. Then he held me and told me that I'm well-liked, loved by lots of beautiful people: "Your mom loves you, and she's beautiful; Penny loves you, even if she doesn't really say it; I love you, and Elli loves you... well, she really liked you a lot... And I think Jane does too... Aaron LOVES you so much, and [I held my breath] David loves you... You're a really good person, Helena, and who cares about that stupid little fuck?"

"I love you too," I said quietly, meaning it, and not giving a fuck about much of anything except Norman. Norman, who is too old to be my mother's son, and just a few years shy of being old enough to be my father. Norman, with his pretty green eyes and his beard and his acquaintances who take him for twenty-three, except for his manner of speaking. Norman, whom just about everybody has said is not the right one for me. I wanted to yell:

It's not fucking fair that every time I find someone who makes me happy, something I like to do, someplace I like to go, people I like to hang out with, somebody has to ruin it by reminding me that I'm too young... At fourteen, too young to go our with boys, especially the one I liked, who was 21. At seventeen, too young to spent more than an hour with boys, especially the one I liked who was 24. At eighteen, too young to buy cigarettes without an ID, too young to be sleeping with a twenty-two-year-old. Too young to move out, too young to be on my own, too young to get a job, too young to choose my own friends, too young to get into bars, too young to have an overnight party, too young to drive...

And what sort of options do I have left? I learned to work the stove when I was four, but I wasn't allowed to touch it until I was thirteen. I learned to take almost complete care of myself when I was twelve, and people still don't believe I'm capable. I've been drinking occasionally since I was seventeen, but I'm not allowed to sit in a bar with friends.

I feel so sorry for Norman sometimes. He could pass for twenty-four, and I could pass for twenty-two, but you can see a real age difference, you can hear it, you can just tell... Do you have any idea how shitty people can be to a couple with more than a few years between them? Do you know the kinds of words "older guys" get called? Do you know that other girls think you're pathetic for seeing someone younger because you couldn't get a real woman? And other guys think you're just a sick fuck, and spread their own gospels of honor: thou shalt not screw with younger chicks, because it's fucked-up? I know... I have seen before.

I don't care what people say to me. But dammit, I hate the idea of people thinking negatively of Norman because of me. I suppose the only way to stop that is not to let anybody know my age. But I guess it's a little late for that. I think if I was Norman I'd be more than a little self-conscious, if not outright embarrassed, to be seen in the intimate company of a kid. Sometimes I'm embarrassed of myself for him.

* * * * * * * * * * *

But late at night, as we were lying in bed, and I was playing with his hair, there was no reason for embarrassment, or shame.

I said: "You know what I was just thinking? Maybe nothing in the whole world exists right now except us."

(NEVER say something like that to a philosopher.)

"It's there," he replied simply. He probably would have explained exactly WHY everything still existed, which could have taken the rest of the night, but I think he was sleepy...

"I mean, I just don't give a fuck right now if nothing exists except us," I amended quickly.

I imagined that there was nothing in the whole world, in the whole universe, except Norman, and me, and darkness, and blankets. It wasn't very hard to imagine; the streets were silent, and the radiator was silent, and nothing seemed to be in motion anywhere except Norman breathing next to me. Had the world stopped turning in that moment, I wouldn't have been particularly upset.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I'm not going back to the Belmar again until my twenty-first birthday It's not so far away; only a few months. I'll find other things to do while my friends are there. It's not worth the hassle, and it's not worth feeling bad just to spend time with friends. I'd rather be alone. I'm sick of feeling whiny over something I guess I was asking for anyway, and I'm sick of subjecting this journal to my whininess. Three months and two weeks from now, I'll tell you all about the joyous adventure of becoming twenty-one and toasting the Weasel.

~Helena*