I was feeling pretty hot. Standing there in my Dolce & Gabbana jacket wearing boots so high that one false move would send me sailing across the floor into the arms of the bartender and my khakis wrapped snug around my ass like a scuba suit.
I was with my friend Caroline who has that kind of long natural blonde hair that most women, at one time or another, would have considered trading for a lifen without chocolate and pale blue eyes that were so translucent I actually saw right through to her brain once, when the light was right.
We’d just finished a rather extravagant sushi dinner, paying the kind of cash that could have bought the house a round. Our cheeks were rosy enough and our dispositions relaxed enough to send us into a nearby martini bar.
It wasn’t the kind of dark martini bar that might draw suited men smoking illegal Cubans while relaxing in leather easy chairs large enough to comfort them and three barmaids. It was the type of martini bar that served cute little martini epigones with cuter-than-puppyfluff names like “Pink Elephantini” and “Isabella Rosetini” and “Tini Bikini”. The kind of martini bar where the regulation skirt could not exceed more than two inches beyond your asscheeks in length. Where the men wore some form of jewelry besides a watch but there were no wedding rings in sight. Where the music was loud enough to harm dogs walking anywhere within a ten mile radius. Where the coffee tables were lit from beneath with revolving lights in blue, purple, yellow, and green. And where young single-for-tonight-at-least people were standing so dangerously close to one another they must have been counting the pores in each other’s faces.
I turned to Caroline. “I’ve got an idea.”
I was casing the joint and my eyes fell on the tall, dark and handsome fellow with a promising nose and fuck-me eyes that were staring right at me.
“What?”
“Don’t judge me. I’ve never done this before. But I’m going to try to pick that guy up.” I pointed him out with a head shake. He was standing next to a rather earnest-looking man of limited stature who made the duo remind me of Garfield and Odie. The short one buzzing around the Giant like a gnat while fitting too many words into every sentence.
“He’s totally checking you out.”
“I know.”
“I’ll be your wing man.”
“Let’s see what happens.”
We crossed over to the bar to get a drink. Because I refused to subject my lips to some pastel fruit-filled martini impersonator, I ordered a scotch. Neat. The giant was still watching. Not overtly, like he was trying to see through three layers of clothing to my boobs. But slyly, stealing glances like stealing bases.
I felt like a cat, toying with one of those fuzzy inch-long mice. Batting the little sucker around the room like he was my personal toy. I tossed out a look that lingered, then a look away. A hair toss or two. Tons of smiling. Ridiculous amounts, really. Nobody enjoys life as much as I seemed to. By the time the guy walked up to me, my cheeks hurt.
“You have a beautiful smile.” He said. As I thanked him, the gnat joined us.
“Hi! I’m Tony!” Pant pant pant pant pant. Tongue hanging out. We all exchanged names. As promised, Caroline worked the bug while the Giant, whose name turned out to be Jim, bowed his towering head and impressive nose to chat. We had to shout over the thumping music that was shaking the desks of Chinese schoolchildren trying to have lunch 13,000 miles below the dance floor.
“So, what do you do?” I asked.
I went out with a guy once who told me I didn’t need to drink to make myself more fun to be around. I told him, ‘I’m drinking so that you’re more fun to be around.”
Chelsea Handler
“I’m an attorney.” The very instant I learn someone’s a lawyer, the following words involuntarily spring from my mouth like a can of snakes. I can’t help myself. It happens every time.
“Do you know the difference between a catfish and a lawyer?”
He smiled. It was a nice smile. Straight white spinach-free teeth.
“What?”
“One’s a scum sucking bottom dweller and the other’s a fish.”
He came back with the old “smile and nod” like I’d just told him he had brown hair. Yes, yes, his face seemed to say, I’ve heard it all before.
We dabbled in that kind of small talk you use when you meet someone who’s expecting to see you naked within the next few hours. How do you like your work? Are you from the area? In what part of town do you live?
All of these questions seem innocent enough. But everyone knows they are actually designed to size the other person up. Is he happy or a sociopath who is going to kill me in my sleep? Is he an out-of-town drifter who enjoys Rohypnol as much as the next guy? Does he live in a nice part of town or one with too many grab and runs and barred windows?
I eyed Caroline at one point and I’m pretty sure the insect had been causing her physical pain for several minutes. I thought this because, when she looked my way, her eyes got impossibly large as if someone was squeezing her body and trying to make those baby blues pop out of her head and land right in my scotch. I was enjoying my scotch and really didn’t want to fiddle around with her eyeballs, so I pulled her aside.
“Are you dying?”
“Not yet, but getting close. What’s he like?”
“He says he’s an attorney, but he may be lying. I’m trying to test him by using a lot of words like ‘adjudicate’ and ‘caveat emptor’ and all the Latin I know. He also says he lives between here, NYC and LA which probably means he has families in each city.”
“Has he asked for your number?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, he better do it soon or his friend is losing some teeth.”
I chatted with Jim for a few more minutes before he asked for my number. He pulled out his phone and I gave him the digits. Mission accomplished.
“Is that work or home?”
“Work. It’s direct.” His shoulders sagged as he made some kind of “Aw” noise and saved the number. Like I was going to give some bar pickup my home number.
We all said goodbye and the gnat resumed his buzzing noises around the Giant. Jim called within two days. I cut him off saying I didn’t have time to talk, suggesting he call me again. The Caller-ID told me when he did and I let him go to voice mail, never returning his call on either of the two numbers he left.