It starts

In which our hero steps outside his element, and wishes he hadn't.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

 

A young man sits in a quiet parked car, waiting, smoking, idling fiddling with the electronic devices on the dashboard and on his person. He’s restless; constantly surveying the horizon, checking the mirrors, firing off unnecessary text messages.

That’s me. I live in the tight fractal space between his blue eyes, and the back of his messy blonde hair. Call me Robbie. I was waiting for a man to bring me weed, a little something to fade the razor sharp edges of reality into impressionist hues. I prefer Monet’s world to Escher’s, vivid blurs of color over the mathematical abstractions that come more naturally to me.

The man arrived and we made the transaction. We smoked, we talked, and we shared the affinity of two addicts simultaneously sating their hunger. Like two chefs savoring a rich meal, fully able to appreciate the delicate nuances of every dish. We finished and parted ways, and unsurprisingly I was hungry.

I loathe chain restaurants, every experience calibrated to be exactly the same. When Americans fully adopted Henry Ford’s ideals they somehow got the idea that you could manufacture and mass produce art. Then we exported the idea to the rest of the world, and we wonder why they hate us.

I decided to try the “Urban Spoon” app on my phone. It’s a slot machine style interface which randomly selects a restaurant in your area by price and style of food. I shook the phone and it selected English food in the ten to fifteen dollar range. The name of the place was The House of Windsor. I imagined a British pub, the kind of place with things like brains and kidneys on the menu. I decided I could go for some fish and chips and a warm homebrew. Why not?

I arrived at the address after passing it twice. The restaurant is located in a strip mall hidden amidst a row of identical store fronts. Right next to the kind of local dive bar where happy hour starts at 11:00 AM, with two for one specials during Bronco’s games. I should’ve gone there, I’d have acclimated better.

I approached the door already feeling hesitant. You don’t see two bars right next to each other much this part of town, but I was already there and how bad could it be, right? Right? 

Pretty bad it turned out, I found as I walked through the door and into another world. Aside from a couple old ladies who were probably on hormone replacement I was the only human in there who knows what testosterone tastes like. I was surrounded by little girls in party dresses, women who drive SUVs, and elderly ladies in floral print dresses and ridiculous hats who think plastic fruit is a fashion accessory. I didn’t belong there, and all the perplexed expressions turning to face me revealed that.

Two steps into the door, I was already concocting more exit strategies than Barak Obama. Chief among them were; pretending I was in the wrong place, and pretending I was there to purchase something for my mother. But I stayed, out of curiosity, I guess.

“Lunch for one?” The woman behind the counter asked cheerfully. Her skin was dark, her smile was bright. She was in her mid thirties, I think. She was dressed like a librarian, or more like a librarian from a 1950’s musical, conservative, and that starts with “C”, and that rhymes with “P”, and that stands for pool.

I looked like I had just finished smoking weed in a parking lot, which I had. My eyes dull, blood shot. I was feeling shy, sullen. I was dressed in thick layers to ward of the December chill of a Colorado winter. It used to get colder before human’s fucked up the weather. I used to be cooler before they fucked up my head.

 “Sure,” I said quietly, conscious of being the center of attention, a cockroach that freezes momentarily when the lights come on before scurrying to a shadow. She guided me slower than I’d like to a table along an inner wall. My back faced the window; my front, unfortunately, faced a large tea party in full swing. Four girls aged maybe 11, and their mothers, all glancing at me and wondering why this strange man who smells like smoke is eyeing their daughters.

The walls were painted with childish murals of what kids think England looks like; Buckingham palace in bright colors.  With the queen’s guards all wearing huge welcoming smiles in complete defiance of historical accuracy. They got the silly hats right, though.

The place was crowded, too many tables to navigate easily, all of them surrounded by women having a nice little lunch during a pause in Christmas shopping. Except for one table at which sits an uncomfortable young man, generating an aura of awkwardness people visibly step around.

The server ignored me, right up to the point of actual rudeness. I met her eyes every time she passed, more annoyance revealed in mine each time, until she had no choice but to serve me. I ordered a pot of earl gray and a chicken salad sandwich. With scones, I like scones.

After waiting longer than it can possibly take to boil water she returned. There was already an empty cup in front of me, but she brought another. She moved them both to wipe away crumbs I hadn’t noticed. Then she walked away, taking both cups with her. I now had a pot of tea cloaked in a charming knitted reindeer cozy, but nothing to drink it out of.  Figures.

I sat quietly and eavesdropped on the table in front of me. Children’s voices are cute provided you don’t listen to what they’re actually saying. They were horrible to one another, deliberately ostracizing one poor child whose grave sins were unapparent to me. They’re mothers were worse, making the girl feel like even more of a leper when the rest of the girls went to the bathroom without her. I hated it, I hated that place, but I stayed.

The librarian from the counter approached me. I figured that here was my chance to get a cup. She asked me how I was and I lied. She asked me if I’d been there before, and I replied I hadn’t. She casually slid her sleeve up, revealing an amateurish tattoo. “So”, she said, pausing significantly, “You’re a House of Windsor virgin”, licking her lips lightly.

She wasn’t unattractive, but the last thing I wanted at that particular moment was to have to try and flirt. However I am nothing if not a performer, so I smiled slowly, “I suppose so.” I said, “Please… be gentle with me.” I’ve got a deep voice, it’s probably my most attractive feature, and on the word gentle I slipped into an even deeper register. It wasn’t a clever line, but delivered that way it oozed sexuality.

She grinned and went to get me the cup I'd asked for. I couldn’t help but enjoy how quickly I had stolen the wholesomeness of the place. I still wanted my sandwich. I still wanted out of there.

The waitress brought me my meal eventually, and it was good, celery and grapes in the chicken salad, Devonshire cream on the scones. I consumed it quickly but by the time I’d finished the place was nearly empty.

I headed to the counter to pay, and met my clumsy seductress. She said I was no longer a virgin. I replied that no, now I was more experienced. My heart wasn’t in it though, and I could tell she noticed. She tried to keep the conversation going, asking if I lived around there.

“No”, I quickly replied, as though she had suggested I lived in a slum, “I live in Denver, Capitol Hill.” I could see the disappointment in her eyes as she read between the lines. She read, “I won’t be back.” She read, “I don’t belong here.” I hope she didn’t think I thought I was better than her, but I’m having a hard time caring.

It’s so much work to shape the thoughts in someone else’s head, like painting in the dark, and, at the end of the year depression tends to sap my energy. I skulked away.

 

Author's Note

Please be honest, I'm really trying to grow as an author, and it helps to hear from people with no reason to love me.

Reviews

[Floornine]

You are a great writer; you don't need to say things like "he's restless" or "feeling hesitent", you are too good a writer to say those things when you have already shown them or could show them.
I love the beginning! I love this perspective. Most people would find it awkward to put in such a transition... like an out of body experience, morphing from 3rd person to 1st person. But I absolutely LOVE how you descibed this man- just a common observation, then put yourself in that (your) body.
I love your distain and your little allusions and your meshing of poetic detail and blunt facts.
Thanks so much for the great read!

[nostal]

Nice.

[S]

You never mentioned the chica at the House of Windsor you puta! Early on you give away your impression of the place in an introductory sentence. You should re-write those lines so the readers can realize your dislike for the place as they read along. You sexy baritone...

[T]

You captured and stole my attention...ah you had me at the title...enjoyed!!!

[Ignacious Lamont Crowle..]

Good begining. I kinda wonder where Robbie skulked off to...