Wing-Man

15Mar07

Being Leif’s wing-man last night meant entertaining and laying the friend of the girl he was working on. Other nights it meant simply ducking out as his potential sex illuminated, as the night became warm and bright. But as it happened, as it always happens when I’m out with him, the girls were essentially magnetically opposed to me, and I probably did more harm than good for his chances of getting a piece of tail. When I walked up to the three of them, one of the girls exhaled from her nose a quick measure of disdain, though it also could have been the quick deflating of her brain. The girls were obliterated and not very interesting to boot, and certainly not interested in me, which is just as well (by this point in my life I am observing that I say it’s just as well with some concerning regularity). Anyway, these two other crunks sidled up to the girls and were laying it on think. One of them, perhaps the most absurd poser ever was brandishing an unlit cigar while taking pulls of budweiser. They were obviously better candidates for the girls, willing to carry the pointless conversation the girls insisted on perpetuating. And it became clear to me and Leif that to hang on these girls meant equating ourselves with the two meat-heads. We were all out on the patio behind the building, and it was really nice outside, so I slid away and saw Tiddle leaning against the wooden fence with four periwinkle mop heads draped and drying over the top, and thought, yea, this scene is more my caliber. Leif stayed with the girls, and for a while it looked like he was going to swoop the redhead he was working on from their small circle and from the bar — she kept touching his elbow in a let’s-get-out-of-here kind of way. I mostly wanted to watch Leif show up the other guys, which he did with aplomb and nice smiles. But when the girls went to get their next round of beveys, the cronies went with, and Leif stayed and looked at me and Tiddle, chilling by the mops — kind of him not to say anything about our juxtaposition. So what’s the deal, I said, looks like you have it in the bag? Ah, forget em, he said, they’re going to go home with whoever. I looked inside and saw the redhead with her hand on the back of the taller but equally idiotic of the two guys. To proceed would have meant being nothing more than a willing erection — which is not to imply a role somehow beneath him. Just tonight it is. Leif had already spent the greater portion of the day with his Carlisle girlfriend.

Shea showed up with three friends and immediately began to harass us for being such idiots. He said to Leif, seeing that he had given up on the redhead, I knew you would crash and burn — get back in there, tiger — that guy’s got nothing on you, laughing his loud head off. Shea turned to me and said, with an almost endearing Brooklyn accent, how you doin’. Shea and I hugged. It was nice to see him. Hey, does your shirt say ‘HEAD’? he asked. I looked down and saw that my jacket was covering the T and half the R of what should have read, in big white block letters across the chest of my blue shirt, ‘HEART’. I opened the jacket and read aloud and slowly, accentuating the T. You should have kept it covered up, Phil, I was about ready to buy you a drink! Shea bought me a drink anyway, halfway expecting, most likely, that some head might be in his future, or that he might convince me or enlighten me to the reality that I’m gay, and that I’d brave that homosexual world with his seasoned prick in my hand. One of Shea’s friends showed up with a grab bag of gifts that he won which included sparklers, lip-shaped band-aides, weird kinds of chewing gum, and two wooden cooking spoons — all presented in an empty pink four-pack that once carried readymade cosmopolitans. I didn’t ask what he did to win this cornucopia of delight, but immediately grabbed a sparkler, and someone smoking flicked his lighter and got me going. Soon enough a ring of eight drunkards, including several people I hadn’t met yet, were writing and drawing with their sparklers, or just holding them in the same hand that held their drink. And it was bright between us all for a few moments, and we could see each other’s faces becoming orange and warm and inviting.

Filed under: Composition, writing   |  1 Comment