I wanted a rum-and-coke Friday night. So I finished up some work -- some stupid financial aid things and some crap to send my mom -- and went downtown to the Spar. Maybe the Spar isn't the best place to get a rum-and-coke (they're not the best place in town to get much of anything, except diner fries and friendly service), but I don't really know my way around the Olympia booze-trail, and the Spar is pretty laid back when it comes to cheeseburgers and fries.
They put WAY more rum in their rum-and-cokes than coke. But that was kind of overshadowed by the half-pint of ice cubes.
I sat down to write a letter; I know it's bizarre to drink and write in public (and more than a little dangerous), but it's soothing. It's my equivelent of a bubble bath, I think.
Perhaps I've mentioned this to you before, or perhaps not, but I'll mention it again. When I am in a bar alone, an older man tries to bring me home. IT NEVER FAILS. I don't mean "older" as in, 25. I also don't mean "older" as in, 35. I mean, a man old enough to be my father INVARIABLY walks up to me, asks me what I'm reading, what I'm writing, what I'm drinking, or if I have a boyfriend.
There was ONE man in the Spar who was old enough to be my father. And several other girls my age who came in alone. I figured I was safe.
I was wrong.
Oh well.
He sat down and asked, "what're you writing?"
"Just a letter."
"Thought maybe you were writing a book. I saw that when you got here it was the first thing you did, was open up that notebook and start writing..."
(It's kind of creepy to note that the older men sit there watching EVERYTHING I DO from the moment I set foot in the door. Creepy, but I'm used to it. It's still kind of a foreign concept to me that I no longer look like COMPLETE jailbait, and am, by virtue of being in a bar, what is known to older men as "fair game." But I understand that concept well enough to know I have to watch out...)
He said: "Do you like jazz?"
I grinned.
"I love jazz. I'm a mechanic, you know, and the other guys, they play a lot of country and sometimes they play grunge. And I like rock and roll, you know, but sometimes I just have to change the station and listen to my jazz."
"I understand," I say, probably not understanding at all. I was spacily thinking about Jack Nance. "I like grunge too, though..."
"Ohh, yeah; my daughter, she says, 'dad, you wouldn't like this, it's kind of grungy,' but that's what I listen to all day anyway. You know, grunge started in..." He waits for me to finish his sentence:
"--Seattle..."
(...Well, not EXACTLY Seattle...)
We talked for awhile, the mechanic and I. Just shooting the shit. We talked about mundane things, like movies and music. We talked about slightly more personal things, like marriage and lesbians (why is it that the old men always want to talk about lesbians with me???). There's something nice about talking to an older guy in a bar; one, he'll always pick up your drink, and offer you another. ALWAYS. Two, there's a good chance you'll never see him again, and even if you do, he probably won't remember you, and even if he DOES, he'll probably be with co-workers or something, and he'll be too embarrassed to say anything and reveal that he spends his evenings hitting on the closest thing he can get to jailbait. There's something reassuring, something therapeutic, in talking to somebody you're never going to see again. It's like a completely non-sexual one-night-stand. It might be nicer to have these long conversations with people my own age, but the old men are fine too. The old men pick up my check as well as engage me in conversation.
Last call. Somebody put "Sweet Caroline" on the jukebox. I giggled to myself. I hate that song. Or maybe I love it. I never can really tell.
The mechanic said: "Do you ever fantasize about jazz?"
It wasn't a question having anything to do with sex. It wasn't a question coming from a dirty old man. It was just a question. I burst out laughing. Probably he didn't understand my reaction, and I'm not sure I understood it myself. So I closed my eyes for a moment, then looked at the mechanic. "Yes," I said, decisively. And I laughed again. I looked the mechanic in the face, realized I'd never see him again, and words came out of me in a rush. I confessed secrets to him, silly daydreams and foolish aspirations. I spoke combinations of words that my mouth has never uttered to another human being. I told him about fantasies. I told him about jazz. I told him where I'd be in thirty years. I told him about the salmon and the stupid hedges and the Camel cigarettes and the house next door with the broken glass in the driveway. I told him names and places and birthmarks. I told him about the hidden key under the mat. I think I told him all of that in one sentence. Then I chewed up the last ice cube in my rum-and-coke-and-ice-cubes, and walked out, refusing his offer of a ride home. I don't take rides from strangers.
~Helena*
"Me and the stranger, you know I don't talk to strangers, I'm a private sort of person, but a blizzard is a blizzard. And somehow I found myself ... tellin' him everything I wanted to say to you. You know how it is when you can talk to a stranger, someone you're quite sure you'll never see again..." --Judy Collins, "The Blizzard."