Her real name means Spring in Vietnamese, but I like her nickname better, which means Mountain, because I think it sounds prettier. She told me that she wasn't a heavy drinker, but she could've fooled me 'cause she'd downed two Millers, a Corona, and a few Jaeger Bombs already.
She was grinding on me on the dance floor. Some club downtown with no sign so I don't remember the name.
As we were dancing, a guy in a checkered button-up shirt appeared at the edge of the dance floor and stared at us, arms crossed. He was maybe five-foot-ten or so, spikey hair like every Asian from five years ago. He stared at us; mostly at me.
I walked up next to him and stared in the general direction that he was looking and folded my arms too, emulating his posture. I humored him, "What we lookin' at, man?"
He looked at me, unamused, "That's my cousin." He pointed at Spring.
"No shit?" I paused for a second. Then, I leaned in, as if to whisper a secret, "You got any others?"
It was an asshole-ish thing to say, and I know it. And I said it for no reason more than for the sake of being an asshole.
He punched me.
And I have the black eye to show for it. And a funny story, too.
When my boys crowded around him, I held them back with violent laughter. "Naw, c'mon guys," I urged them back, "C'mon, guys, I'm too old to be doin' this shit." I patted Don on the chest as I pushed some distance between him and the girl's cousin, "Look'it me, man, I'm rich. I'm makin' paper, dawg, I don't needa fight niggas like these."
I'd been spending too much time buttoning up my collar, trying to look professional and proper. Being stupid made me feel somewhat human again.
I got socked in the face and did nothing in retaliation, but I felt better about it than I had about anything else in a long time.
We walked away, me and the boys, the cousin standing there looking angry and confused, like his feelings had been hurt. With Spring under my shoulder.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Sunday, January 6, 2008
The Smell of Wine and Cheap Perfume
I reclined on a couch in the corner lounge of the bar, a girl with a short mesh dress leaned into me under my right arm. Wall, who had returned State-side on vacation from Mumbai, sat in a single to my left, his eyes on our waitress, a sweet looking girl who flashed a nametag, "Amber."
My girl was a Filipina with jet black, shoulder-length hair, the ends tapered off so she looked like an airbrushed photo. Her skin was pale and glowed in contrast to her dark hair. She had this whole Kate Beckinsale a la Underworld look to her.
Amber delivered our drinks -- a Heineken for Wall, a vodka gimlet for myself, and a girly mixed cocktail of butterscotch and Bailey's on ice for my girl. Wall initiated conversation as the waitress set down our drinks.
Wall, at a glance, would never strike anybody as the kind of guy that could initiate conversation with a cocktail waitress. And in fact, at any ordinary bar or nightclub, he would never have been able to gather himself to approach any girl, much less one in Amber's league.
But this was not just any ordinary bar.
One of my office directors had introduced me to this place after one of the company get-togethers. It was a "classy" bar that catered to the corporate upper class -- older men of established positions and the women who want their cheddar.
Twenty-four years old and fresh out of school, I am nowhere close to being a man of established position. But I'd gotten in good with the Suits at The Company due to (or despite?) my vocal opinions and fuck-you attitude. They brought me in, and I picked up their mannerisms. Here, I could throw on a tie or a blazer and walk through the door, instantly a somebody. A twenty-four year-old somebody.
And I turned around and showed Wall in. Here, we were badasses among badasses. The girls wanted to meet us for all the wrong reasons. And we wanted to meet them for all the equally wrong reasons, too. But then again, don't we all? At least we weren't fucking kidding ourselves about it.
My girl and I made idle chatter. We rambled aimlessly, discussing random subjects from restless leg syndrome to planning our fantasy trip to Vancouver. She cuddled in closer, and I smelled her perfume.
"I'm going to smell like you when I get to bed tonight," I joked.
"You are!" she laughed, "I hope you don't have a jealous girlfriend at home!"
It would have been the most peculiar comment were we in any other bar: the thought of a girl snuggling on a couch with a guy she figured probably had a girlfriend at home.
But one thing I've learned from my exposure to the corporate upper echelon was that they simply didn't give a fuck. They were above morals and social taboos. They were powerful men that placed righteousness second to convenience. And if it were more convenient to sleep with a girl at a bar while your wife slept at home, you fucked her brains out.
I had begun to recognize this separation within myself as well. While most other people talked about paying off their loans or saving up for their next car or house or whatever big purchase, I dwelled on my next investment venture, my next strategic move to become more financially empowered. The American dream was simply too petty.
There was a good chance that more than half the men in the bar had wives and kids at home. Their wives were probably of the smoking hot variety -- the kind you set up on a pedestal. And the men were probably the kind that had devoted their entire lives to chasing paper, never learning how to connect to the women they loved, opting instead to unleash their desires on bar-room bitches. It wasn't an exception; it was the norm. While the facility catered to the "classy," it was probably sleazier than any strip joint on the Vegas Strip.
As far as I knew, my girl may be married to some white man fifteen years her senior. Hell, she might even have a kid or three.
I looked down at her, my eyes squinting to gauge what she'd meant by the comment. But I waived aside any second thought. "I don't," I said, "But I was hoping I could still smell like you in the morning."
She snuggled in closer, approvingly.
Sometimes, it feels like I'd sold my soul. But then, who's to say I'd have done much good with it anyway?
My girl was a Filipina with jet black, shoulder-length hair, the ends tapered off so she looked like an airbrushed photo. Her skin was pale and glowed in contrast to her dark hair. She had this whole Kate Beckinsale a la Underworld look to her.
Amber delivered our drinks -- a Heineken for Wall, a vodka gimlet for myself, and a girly mixed cocktail of butterscotch and Bailey's on ice for my girl. Wall initiated conversation as the waitress set down our drinks.
Wall, at a glance, would never strike anybody as the kind of guy that could initiate conversation with a cocktail waitress. And in fact, at any ordinary bar or nightclub, he would never have been able to gather himself to approach any girl, much less one in Amber's league.
But this was not just any ordinary bar.
One of my office directors had introduced me to this place after one of the company get-togethers. It was a "classy" bar that catered to the corporate upper class -- older men of established positions and the women who want their cheddar.
Twenty-four years old and fresh out of school, I am nowhere close to being a man of established position. But I'd gotten in good with the Suits at The Company due to (or despite?) my vocal opinions and fuck-you attitude. They brought me in, and I picked up their mannerisms. Here, I could throw on a tie or a blazer and walk through the door, instantly a somebody. A twenty-four year-old somebody.
And I turned around and showed Wall in. Here, we were badasses among badasses. The girls wanted to meet us for all the wrong reasons. And we wanted to meet them for all the equally wrong reasons, too. But then again, don't we all? At least we weren't fucking kidding ourselves about it.
My girl and I made idle chatter. We rambled aimlessly, discussing random subjects from restless leg syndrome to planning our fantasy trip to Vancouver. She cuddled in closer, and I smelled her perfume.
"I'm going to smell like you when I get to bed tonight," I joked.
"You are!" she laughed, "I hope you don't have a jealous girlfriend at home!"
It would have been the most peculiar comment were we in any other bar: the thought of a girl snuggling on a couch with a guy she figured probably had a girlfriend at home.
But one thing I've learned from my exposure to the corporate upper echelon was that they simply didn't give a fuck. They were above morals and social taboos. They were powerful men that placed righteousness second to convenience. And if it were more convenient to sleep with a girl at a bar while your wife slept at home, you fucked her brains out.
I had begun to recognize this separation within myself as well. While most other people talked about paying off their loans or saving up for their next car or house or whatever big purchase, I dwelled on my next investment venture, my next strategic move to become more financially empowered. The American dream was simply too petty.
There was a good chance that more than half the men in the bar had wives and kids at home. Their wives were probably of the smoking hot variety -- the kind you set up on a pedestal. And the men were probably the kind that had devoted their entire lives to chasing paper, never learning how to connect to the women they loved, opting instead to unleash their desires on bar-room bitches. It wasn't an exception; it was the norm. While the facility catered to the "classy," it was probably sleazier than any strip joint on the Vegas Strip.
As far as I knew, my girl may be married to some white man fifteen years her senior. Hell, she might even have a kid or three.
I looked down at her, my eyes squinting to gauge what she'd meant by the comment. But I waived aside any second thought. "I don't," I said, "But I was hoping I could still smell like you in the morning."
She snuggled in closer, approvingly.
Sometimes, it feels like I'd sold my soul. But then, who's to say I'd have done much good with it anyway?
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