The Drive
Monday, May 18th, 2009
Sloppy behind the wheel, too broad on the turns at the intersections, the caravan came wild toward its destination – a karaoke bar attached to a strip club. Artificial lights had taken over the city streets with a brown-orange hue muddying the crosswalks and building sides. Another intersection and the cars swung wide, the passenger-side tires coming up to the pavement and veering off. The windshield glass started beading light rain, an occasional heavy drop falling hard and streaming through the smaller ones. But they kept their windows down, their heads looking out and their arms reaching, waving drunk hellos to foot traffic on the sidewalks, waiting for lights to change or sitting under umbrellas and sipping café drinks.
l fell back in my seat and concentrated on following the taillights. I did my best to keep up, but sober, I wasn’t nearly as good a driver as them.
Abrupt turns and wide ones almost put me off their trail and cost the cars behind following me the way to the bar, but we kept on course. We wove together like a military unit intent to strike fast. The scenery started to streak like the rain – the one-story brick building strips that were once machine shops and manufacturing plants stripped and remodeled to trendy bars and restaurants with French names. This city by the Missouri River, not the Seine, has an identity crisis almost as large as ours.
The cars made a tight turn into tighter parking spots on a slant and everyone eased out and down the sidewalk much less intent than they’d been at the wheel. They found tables – two elevated round ones for 12 or 15 people and they started tabs. They continued drinking. And they finished the usual conversations and moved on as definite as the caravan to new uninhibited talk about anything usual offensive that showed their truest colors.
Danny was the most absurd. He knows all the pick up lines and sex positions. He doesn’t know them from experience, he just knows them. He can toss them out for a quick laugh to a group drinking at a table, then move on to the next before the laughter has died down. He has perfect timing – a good sense of humor. But his efforts have never gotten him laid or landed him a girl. If what he said ever worked, he wouldn’t be funny anymore, and therein is the danger with being a bar act – you’re a step below comedian and your livelihood is controlled by your audience. Come to think of it, it’s not unlike being a writer.
Danny moved up the line to another table, but the conversation went on about him at ours like he could hear us talking and we were waiting for his response.
“Most of them involve degradation – you know, the positions,” someone says. “You know, he knows all the really nasty shit.”
I thought Danny was a virgin and after finding he wasn’t, I wanted to contemplate it a bit, but the conversation moved swiftly on.
“Things have changed since you’ve been out here,” a girlfriend says, meaning the bar, meaning dating. And I thought to myself, they haven’t changed that much. Most of the guys aren’t concentrating on their beers, dreaming about getting laid and not getting it done. The good girls are sitting back in their chairs and looking the men in the eyes, kind of leaning away with their hands folded in their laps, not giving up ground, not giving any signs unless they want to. The whores are still obvious. They are the touchy ones staggering around, elaborate body motions, bending at the waist to laugh and raising their arms – carefully, so as not to spill the beer – to emphasize how much they love something or how big something was. And I analyzed it all, partially removed, partially like the other guys with dreams of getting laid and yet realistic. It’s hard to pull women from bars these days.
“Is that your first?” the same girlfriend asks, pointing at my glass.
“Second,” I say. When my head is reeling, I get quiet. I speak in one or two words and mostly nod or shake my head.
“Come on, drink up,” she says.
“I am.”
I am usually not so much in to alcohol other than the way it makes me feel. I was enjoying myself. I was thinking about Danny, watching him move further down the line, perfectly balanced in the art of the bar. Graceful. He knew some one-liners. He was content going home alone. We had work the next day and he’s going home and not even going straight to bed. And lucky for it.
I wanted to arrive at someone’s heart as wildly as I’d come to the bar, but I surveyed the options and found nothing to my liking, love waiting for another day. I found my joy in the beer and the let down from all the anticipation – getting there is all the fun sometimes.
