Boys Life

Come by that chick is here…

It was a beautiful summer evening. I had on the white jeans, a blue collar shirt, and all white Jordan Ones. I left my friends at Teany where they were having coffee and grabbed a cab west. There are a few streets in the West Village that on the average day are breathtaking, but on a perfect summer evening these streets defy contemplation. Charles, Perry, The corner of Barrow and Commerce, there are a few more but the list does not run long. Beautiful brownstones line the streets and trees, planted every twenty feet, shade stoops the color of earthworms. The steps of such stoops welcome wayfarers, even tourists. And as Fifth Avenue divorcees return home from retail therapy they won’t even shoo the sitting if presence is owned. Wrought iron banisters have been painted glossy black once a year for, you’d think a hundred years, the way the paint has enveloped the steel safeguards. Young men and women in the unnamed class above yuppie hurtle towards, through, and beyond middle age while old queens tend deep wounds. The occasional crackhead veers off Seventh avenue looking for shadows while Black and Puerto Rican kids pour in from all corners of the tristate. Queers, escaping intolerant neighborhoods or running from the belts and fists of Catholic fathers. As close to safe as one can be, from here all the way to the pier, they are loud, gay, and boisterous. These kids, their energy, are my very favorite things about this area. Their youthful assault from the west and the lingering grime flanking from east and south (tourism’s Greenwich Village) battle the prosperity that’s overtaken blocks north, and keep flickering an idea of New York as a place for anyone and everyone who is willing.

I tumble out of a taxi, onto one of the West Village’s most beautiful corners. I pay the cabbie the only way you could back then, cash. While I wait for my change I adjust the shoelace belt on bright shimmer-less 501’s and make myself somewhat presentable. Change in hand now, I slouch into the bar where my best Friend is holding court. I greet my pal and he pours me a Coke.

“This is Veronica.” 

I look at her and instantly I know she is not my Winona Ryder. She is pretty, but in a way that does not fulfill my fantasies. Long brown hair, flashes of Jennifer Connelly and the earthy imperfection of Ali MacGraw. When she will tell me about the men courting her I don’t doubt their devotion, I just didn’t share it on first glance. I did however want to fuck her, so I got another coke and settled in. Her clothes were horrendous, this green blazer over an awful lacy top and white pants. I started with what I would later learn is Negging. I explained to her that I had seen Reality Bites for the first time that week and now, in a bizarre twist of fate, her top was just as ugly or uglier than a dress that Ethan Hawke’s character had referred to as a doilie. Her flowery creme mistake cried for similar disparagement. I remember this part of our conversation especially well because the way I made my point, regurgitating the line from the movie, was lame and a little pathetic. Funny how embarrassing moments burn our memory, searing and tattooing our receptors forever. Burns heal and scars fade with time, even old tattoos are forgotten for lengthy stretches. But a long look in the mirror will inevitably remind us, who were were and how we hurt ourselves. Forgivable accidents of childhood and ignorance, sure, but with us forever too. This night I made a fool of myself. It’s memory I’ve faded on purpose, but against my will some details remain. This blundering attempt to reference pop culture and be clever is one of them. 

After a few minnutes I tone down the posturing and we start really talking. Some chemistry beyond my comprehension is at work and soon we are almost sitting on top of each other at the bar. She’s saying I’m cute, I’m saying she’s suits me as well. She is an actress. She starts to toss industry names around in a way that does not seem like name dropping. A meeting here, a connection there, she seems someone with a genuine foot in the door. After all she resides on one of these streets, streets where moms and dads have done the paving, where wind blows constantly from behind and stop lights are always green. I think about dating an actress on the come up and decide it’s a good look for me. Still we’re flirting and I’m starting to feel like she is the answer. We keep talking and she seems confident, self-possessed, driven. The answer. Another Coke and another Vodka Soda for her and I’m convinced tonight is magic. Her clothes are awful and we probably don’t have a single common thread in our CD collections. Her hair, her whole rich girl vibe, is not my shit. Call it chemistry and pheromones or desperation and timing, call it whatever you want. For some reason I’m smitten. 

She has to leave, meet friends. And here it comes… 

“I’ll go with you!” 

I would not let go. Here was an answer. I had to hold on, to make this night fodder for a rom-com screen writer; make magic. Thing is, I don’t think she wanted me to go. And as much as she thought I was cute or her type, I think my sort of romantic fantasy was the last thing her radar was scanning for. I got my way anyway and we left the West Village and headed for Avenue B, my turf, and proximity to my apartment. In the cab I remember thinking maybe this was not such a good Idea. Thinking maybe I should get her number, make plans for later in the week and head to the Fish to celebrate potential. Then again you never know, we might end up at my place, more magic… I stay in the cab. Soon we’re pushing our way through a crowded bar on B. We head towards the patio in the back and a work contact she wants to see. Drinks in hand now and introductions are made, pleasantries exchanged. After forgettable chit chat the work contact starts talking about her friends hat. 

“Josh got that new hat, what do you think about it, I like it, looks pretty cool.”  

Veronica agrees with the work contact and says complimentary things. Then they ask me. I give him a once over with my eyes. Boot cut jeans with whatever kind of dress shirt was fashionable at the time, and perched atop an average schmo face was some shitty fucking hat. I could feel it coming. The inevitability of my next sentence was vomit in a flu ridden abdomen. 

“It looks kinda douchey.” 

Douche was still gaining steam then, slowing finding its way into the lexicon, and I thought maybe their blank expressions called for clarification. I explain that both dude and his hat look corny. It’s avenue B this is my turf, East Side. I can get away with this. Truthfully, getting away with it does not even cross my mind. Nothing crosses my mind. Inappropriate is a word I chose to erase from my vocabulary for living. You don’t like it? You won’t get me. Fuck off. Fuck you.  

Still blank expressions.  

Fuck 

Fuck 

Fuck 

“Maybe you should go and I’ll text you in a bit.” 

“No, it’s cool you guys do your thing, I can just wait. I’ll just sit over there and play Tetris on my phone. I can do it for hours, I could sit forever and play it.”

I think tonight is still salvageable. The dude was corny so what, I’m sure it was fine. 

“We’re gonna be a while, just go I’ll text you later.” 

“OK…”