It's A Match!: "Thank you Brady..."

Begin Part 3.

“I tell you this, because I think as an artist you’ll understand...” 

–Christopher Walken, “Annie Hall”

The moonlight had struck my face and the curtain over my third-eye had been lifted. I was now walking down Martin Luther King Boulevard with a ghost from my past. My mind was now no longer shouting names, comparing warm laughs or attempting to smooth out this blanket in the cold; it was all here, it was all in her face. I can’t recall if she didn’t stop talking or if I was loosing my cool, but there she was – my ex-fiancé, beautiful in the clumsiest of ways. “...And this bandana around my right boot”, Claire kicked up her foot and firmly pointed. As her right foot elevated past her knee, she lost her balance and let out an “Oop!” She grabbed my shoulder and then after a few heavy balancing stomps she steadied herself and grinned. Staring in my eyes she giggled, “Uh, umm it’s for a gang back in West Palm Beach, but nothing serious.” She paused, cleared her throat, “just for a group of people that love each other.” I didn’t have anything appropriate to say, I mean... how does one respond to the notion of being in a gang that’s “just for fun”. My heart was racing. All my mental energy was being wasted thinking of songs and moments that I had with my ex. My mouth could only occupy a few words at a time, such as: Oh, Yeah, Really and Uhh Huh. Like a little girl her thoughts were visibly electric, sharply jumping around her mind looking for an exit. The thoughts would eventually escape and manifest their personality via her hand gestures.  “Oh and here’s the shirt I designed...” Claire said pointing at her phone. “It’s called ‘Stoner Simpson’. Do you get it?” Is this okay? Should I be thinking that she is the cutest girl I’ve talked to in months or am I losing my touch?

We continued to walk towards our destination; the streetlights were getting thinner with each passing block. I needed a drink. I needed to refresh my mind. Like a game of pong my thoughts tossed between brittle ideas, “well she’s not your ex, right? There were reasons why you loved that girl. This one’s different, obviously, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Did Conner Oburst ever write anything on this? What about Elliott Smith? Maybe if I listen to Frightened Rabbit one more time I’ll be able to center my self...” My mind continued this barrage of thoughts until we entered the alleyway where the bar was quaintly located; in the back, behind a black steel door that looked like it needed a sliding peephole.

The Bitter Alibi normally occupied 10 to 15 people tops but tonight was different, tonight obviously had to be different. The chipped-brick lined the alleyway and echoed it’s vast amount of inhabitants. There were jeers, stories, the scraping of glass on pavement and varieties of laughter scratching my eardrums as we passed under a thin canopy of Christmas lights. Even though the walk to the steel door was only 20 feet, I looked back more times than necessary; as if I was Lots wife, afraid she'd dissolve into salt and spread like ashes amongst the crowd. Each time I looked back she gave me a reassured but privet smile and then went back to observing her feet as she followed. I grabbed the handle to the door and yanked it open. It was packed, from front to back and on either side with burnouts, college frat groupies and sneering locals. Standing room only in this burrowed tavern. As we entered the bar itself, the wooden room was filled with ten times over the reflection of what was outside. We approached the counter.

“What would you like to drink?” I asked her. She glanced around the room, pivoting from eye contact to scouting out exits. 

Typical girl answer in 3...2...1...

“I don’t know.”

“You like beer, right?”

“I love beer” Claire said dizzily.

“Awesome, well would you like a PBR, Fat Tire, Red Stripe, Rolling Rock....”

As I listed the beers I could see her mind working. She was getting her bearings and scooted closer to my side. If she were a kid I would have expected her to grab my belt loop. We inched closer to the countertop. The counter was up to my chest, and if you peered over you could see one of the bartenders trying to prepare at least ten sandwiches in a frenzy of confusion and anxiety. Claire tugged on my arm, “I’ll have a Fat Tire.” There was no wrong answer here, well except for Red Stripe. I didn’t know how to reassure her that her choice of beer wasn't going to be an issue. Claire then pulled out her wallet and it was all white with the Imperial logo on it from Star Wars. What a cutie.

I hastily held out my hand, “Oh no, I got you.”

Claire grinned, “Really?”

I placed my arm around her shoulder, “Of course.”

Like Frank Underwood from House of Cards I double tapped the counter and yelled, “Jason! I need my usual and a Fat Tire for the lady.”

Jason popped up from behind the counter, “You got it man.” Jason was a younger looking guy. He was clean cut, and had a neat dirty blond poof that bobbed on top of his head like a wad of tissue paper. His hands, still a little messy from the sandwich grease, slid open the cooler, snagged our beers (PBR for me, duh), popped the tabs and handed them over the counter. Jason gave me a little wink and nodded in Claire’s direction.  I wouldn't call myself a ladies man, per say, but every time I’ve been in Bitter Alibi it’s been with a different girl. I can only assume that Jason believes me to be a Mac Daddy, and I'll let him continue to think that.

She held her beer like a juice box. I leaned in close and shouted, because that’s what you do, “Would you like to go back outside?” Claire nodded as she took a sip of her beer. I pivoted and opened the door for her and lead us out back into the alleyway. When we were in the alleyway I ran into yet another person I know, my buddy Zach. Zach is generally an exciting human to be around. Everything is fantastic and new. We can laugh about as much as we can talk about, and for Zach and I, we can talk about the moon. We stood in the corner underneath porch by the black metal door. Smoke plumbed the air and not one shit was given. For a moment I forgot that Claire was there. Zach asked me what I have been doing with my time lately. As I was explaining to him about the job hunt I felt a jab in my ribs. Claire nudged me with her elbow, “Did Brady also mention that he has met his soul mate?” she said grinning at Zach. Zach’s eyes echoed with excitement, “Oh my, oh no, no he hasn’t. How long have you two been together?” I quickly replied with, “Oh you know, for a good... long while.” And Claire laughed and inched in closer to me.

 Zach and I talked about old times, including when we were in a fraternity together, to which Claire sharply said, “Oh! A frat boy, good to know what I’m getting myself into.” Zach shook his hands in the air, “Oh, it’s nothing like that. Trust me. It was the most musically nerdy fraternity you’ll experience. Has nothing to do with Pucca Shells.”         

      

As the three of us chatted Caitlin and Ashley showed up. Like mermaids in sea of broken sailors they dodged prying eyes and “hey girls”. They made their introductions, shook hands like gentlemen, smiled like long distance relatives and retreated to the inside of the bar to grab some beers. As we waited for them to return Claire started to shuffle her feet.

            “Are you feeling okay?”

            She brushed her hair from her face as if they were tentacles of anxiety, “Yeah, I'm fine” then let out a small sigh, “I just get a little claustrophobic.”         

  

“Why don't we sit down on this bench, would that be better for you?”

            “I'll do what you want.”

            “Then let’s sit on the bench.”

            We plopped down on the green bench in the alleyway that had just been abandoned a couple of college girls. When we sat down we started talking about her life to which immediately led into her asking me, “would you like to see a picture of my ex?” How could I say no to that? So I just nodded my head. Claire took out her phone, “Okay, here he is.” This dude looked straight up like he was juggalo. There were facial tattoos all over this unkempt rats nest of a boy. I immediately felt two distinct feelings. One, I am so much better than this guy and second, and what does this say about me? If she is coming from a member the dark family to wanting to spend time with me does that mean that I share similar qualities with this dude? I surely hope not.  Caitlin and Ashley came back outside and propped themselves up against the adjacent wall. We continued to drink, discuss what we were all “good” at. I'm assuming, in hopes to create some common ground, Ashley and Caitlin started talk about shopping, you know, like you do.

“Where do you like to go shopping Claire?” Ashley asked in her very sweet and innocent voice. Claire’s eyes lit up,  “Oh! Oh I love Target”. Caitlin nodded her head in agreement and also acknowledged that she as well loved Target. “Oh, no. You don't love Target as much as I love Target.” It was at this moment that Claire decided to take out her badass Star Wars wallet again. When she took it out I looked at Caitlin and mouthed, “Yeah, she’s awesome”, eyeing her now exposed nerdiness. Caitlin just gave me the “nod” and a thumbs up close to the chest, but then her brow began to furl. I turned to my right to see that Claire had taken out her Target card and was flicking it with the tip of her tongue like a snake. She was licking her Target card. 

I took a giant swig of my beer, “Yep, you certainly do love Target” hoping by stating the obvious I would break the awkwardness of her now molested credit card.

“Hey! I want to get a picture of us together,” Claire said handing her phone to Caitlin. 

“Could you take a picture of us?”

“Um, yeah sure. I'd love to.” Caitlin said rather reluctantly.

As Caitlin positioned the camera I felt Claire inching closer to me. She got so close I could feel her breath on my face and her eyelashes flickering. What was she doing? I couldn't turn to look at her either; it would be like trying to back a car out of a compact spot. I would have scraped her cheek with my own. Caitlin, being the keen observer that she is said nothing about it, but instead started the count down. “Are you guys, ready? Three...Two...One...” And on the count of three Claire opened her mouth. From the bottom of my jaw line to right below my glasses her pierced tongue slithered up my face. Caitlin’s face was horrified. Shai Hulud had broken ground and revealed it’s God-like wonder. This girl had just straight up tasted me. And without any thrill in her voice Caitlin said, “And there it is...”  Claire clapped her hands and squealed, “Did you get it?!” Eyes bulging, Caitlin passed Claire’s phone back to her as if she was feeding an unfamiliar dog.

“Oh, it looks great! Except it looks like a I have a bald spot.”

Shortly afterwards the licking Caitlin and Ashley graciously bowed out, leaving Claire and I to our own devices. She wanted to go somewhere where it wasn't as packed, so I elected for us to go to the Pickle Barrel, where we had originally planned on meeting. It was the typical crowd there. Crust punk kids, homeless men treasure hunting out front and then me. We sat down and ordered our drinks and my mind went blank. I mean she had already licked my face, shown me a photo of her ex and told my best buddy Zach that we were soul mates. So what else is there to cover? I pointed at her arm, “So how many tattoos do you have?”

            She brushed her hair back and folded her arms out on the table and said, “Hmmm I have about 26 tattoos. I started getting work done when I was 17 and just never really stopped.” And like typical tattoo stories she grazed over some of her more unique ones, such as to the initials of one of her exes to whom she dated when she was pregnant. The way Claire talked about "her" was awkward, but she summed it up by saying, “oh, it was just a phase.”

            I’ll go ahead and be gracious and tell you that we talked for a long time. She shared with me why she had relocated from Florida to Georgia. We talked about what she was looking for in a partner and also about her aspirations for being a plastic surgeon. “I want to give girls boobies,” she’d say. “What a noble pursuit...” was my response to that. Either way, I feel like I've taken much of your time describing to you how unique Claire is, and I tried to make that point obvious. My reasoning for all of this is that even within the weirdest and most peculiar of people there are and can be the sweetest of moments. The internet dating game forces us to judge and assign value to people much faster than we do in “the real world.” If I would have been privy to several pieces of information about Claire before this date started I probably would have stayed at home playing Skyrim, but as bizarre as she was, she opened my eyes to what I've hid in my heart for a long time.

We started telling each other horrible pickup lines and stories about strange people that we've met. She'd listen deeply and I would find my self delighting in her desire to experience new things, people and her need to take life by the horns. At one point, during this particular part of the evening I told her a rather horrible pickup line, which in turn had also over exposed my supreme geekdom. I’m sorry to parents and those over the age of 48 in advance, but I compared her vagina to the Death Star from Star Wars: A New Hope. You know, like thermal exhaust ports, proton torpedoes and gunning down the trench.

After the punch line, she giggled with her whole body, but not after trying to fight it off first of course. I could see it in her stare, twisted into a mocking gaze. (Oh god, I hope somebody’s home... I’m trying to not to try too hard here!). Then Claire broke, it started with her lips as they tightened and the light shimmered off of the microscopic tremble. The quiver then started its wobble to the underside of her eyes. The longer she fought the more I began to understand, I'm hilarious. My deer-in-the-headlights eye sockets transferred me a grin like a dollar being passed under the table. My jaw was no longer propped open like P. Diddys, questioning if I had done something stupid. Upon seeing, what I'd call my “shit-eating-grin”, Claire’s hands slowly cupped her face, and her tiny brown eyes were squinting at me through the cracks. I could actively see that she was refusing to give me any credence or leeway to my retardation. Her will was strong but I could see it burn inside of her. I am all too familiar with this stage of cachinnation, a.k.a. girls fighting the moment, but not physical fighting me – just to make that clear. Once her hands had firmly curtained her mouth she stopped resisting and she let out a laugh as sweet and still as the rest of her voice. My heart was instantly inoculated. Her eyes lit up and they even shined under her eyelids as she closed them. Her hands dropped on to the table, face turned to the ceiling and projected the sonic nature of her laugh; laughter bounced off of the hanging barrel chandeliers. 

An orange light, smoked in tar and low in wattage, slumped out of these barreled wooden chandeliers and bathed the entire room. A linked chain connected this barrel to the over lacquered ceiling, mercilessly rigid and stiff like a streetlight hanging upside down blowing in the wind. Its dimness made my face burn and smothered us, privately, in a smoggy silhouette. Her face looked like it was burning too. My favorite moment of the night was creeping up on me like a tortoise hauling a load of fine white Columbian powder. It was talking to me like the wisdom in the etchings and carving on our table. These poets, from bar visits past wrote:  “Fuck what you know...” or “Rudy, die tryin’...” or “even a motha fucka can be a soft fucka...” alongside with the prototypical “Steven hearts Ally.” As she gathered her self I thought, I could be a ‘motha fucka’, but that soft and sweet motha fucka. I don't know what that entirely means; perhaps I'd be that motha fucka that steals your parking space. I'm sure that doesn't entirely constitute an ass beating, but maybe a hushed, under the breath snarl. Each engraving was timeless, now black and charred down in the wood; ready for you to read and sweetly feel with your fingernails as you sit next a pretty girl. Claire lowered her head, had smiles for leftovers as she turned to look at me.

“Are you back now?” I inquired.

“Yes, Yes I’m back...” She reached into her purse, digging through it like she didn't know what she was quite searching for yet, but then it dawned on her, her smokes were already on the table. She reached across, opened the pack up and slid a single Marlboro between her lips, catching my gaze from the corner of her eye. I was ready again, like I was before with my little blue lighter. She looked at me differently, it was weird but it was also... sexy. Her pupils dilated like a leaf wrapped around a stone. I struck the wheel, the flint grinded and it sparked as the flame shot up. Her pupils receded like a rabbit into the grass and she inhaled deeply.

Claire leaned back into her chair, as Audrey Hepburn would have, pivoting her head so her black hair swooped around her shoulder, crossing her legs and folded one arm under the other to support her hand as she took her first drag. Still displaying symptoms of a face wrought with laughter she hummed with a dim temperament,

“Thank you Brady”

“Claire...” I said, letting the a few syllables fade like the smoke from her cigarette.

“Yes?”

“I always,

                                    ...Light my bitches cigarette.”

Her face softened, she turned to me and held her palm close to her face, smoke blanketing our line of sight. “You, you're just cute you know that?”

            I had no time to respond, no time to be humble and politely repudiate my dainty wit. No time to even think. She kissed me.

            She leaned in close, and placed her palm under my chin; her fingers unfurled around my jaw. Like Magneto picking up change, or as to an asteroid being sucked into the planets atmosphere, or like the Millennium Falcon getting caught in the Death Star's tractor beam, or even light a 14 year old boy seeing tits for the first time... I was powerless, speechless and lost in the silence of the moment. When her lips parted from my body a trail of smoke followed, like the smell from a pie on the windowsill.

            She leaned back in her chair and smirked, a tender wicked smirk; the kind of smirk that we love to hate. I understood immediately what had just happened. The acknowledgement of yes, yes you have won. You have my attention, you have my voice tucked in the pocket of your eyes and I fold because every card you're about to draw in going to be an ace in the hole. I acknowledge that if I woke up now, this would be a most believable dream.

            Claire then stood up and leaned in once more. This time she bent over, examining me like a kindergarten teacher to her pupil. Our eyes locked like traffic lights. Were we going to kiss again? I mean if we were, I'm okay with that. Two thumbs ups, five stars, ready for duty, sir! Should I wait, or is it my turn to go 90 and she goes 10. That’s what Will Smith told me in Hitch. I could smell her perfume over the smoke and hear her think as she peered into my eyes. Then she curtsied and whispered...“I’m going to go the bathroom.”

“...k”

            The night continued on. We drank, we laughed and we kissed some more, a lot more. Claire went on about her tattoos, their stories and what she wants next in life. She talked about her daughter, and with a passion. She pulled out her phone and had me listen to videos of her little girl laughing, talking and playing games. She talked about her hair, her first steps, her little nose and most of all how much she loved her. If you ever want to measure the temperature of another’s heart, allow them to talk about those closest to them. They shall paint you the most accurate version of their heart to date, but be careful, because true love for another is the most attractive thing in the world. I kept asking myself, "Was this what it would be like? Would it be like this? Would we have been happy together? Would we have been a good family?" My mind was jogging between the present attraction before me and what had ended six years ago. 

            We walked back to her car holding hands. Then we sat, in her car, in a parking garage alone.

            I was once asked by a particular girl, a long time ago, “What are six things you couldn’t do without.” I remember this clearly. There was a fire pit, empty glass bottles and folk music in the background. When this girl asked me that question, the fire crackled and the wind around us shook the remaining leaves off the trees. The first thing I said to her was “Winter...” Winter, a time for us to keep warm and tuck-in our feelings while the world around us goes to sleep with its hand our body. As I sat in the car with Claire I remembered this moment. She stared at me with a gaze as sturdy as lumber, and with a voice that cracked like that winter fire she asked me, “Hey... would you like some gum?” I let out a soft laugh, “Of course. I'd love some gum.” She pulled out a thin piece and placed it in my palm. We sat there chewing for a moment, crackling like fire with deep sighs. I gazed out her window listening to the moment and then felt her hand as she rested it on my thigh. Claire’s gaze was stern and steady. My memory eternal echoed, What’s the second thing you could never do without... Claire rested her head on my shoulder; a memory familiar. My fingers became caught up in her hair, and for a moment our lips fell asleep upon each other's body.The candle in the dark of my mind whispered my response. A plea that was before the drugs, before the broken portraits and before I or my ex had even tasted the isolated dirt of a bathroom floor. The second thing I could never do without is, “...you.”

Fadeout:

We went down to New Orleans one weekend in the spring.
Looked hard for what we'd lost.
It was painful to admit it but we couldn't find a thing.
- The Mountain Goats