The guitar melds together with the piano. The two strangers combine, lyrically folding into one. They strike a familiar cord. Fate has brought the pair together. Netflix has brought them through the television and into my bedroom, my memory.
My eyes begin to well up. My throat becomes tight with grief. They summon what I’ve struggled to forget. Yet again, another version of two reminds me of the one; my “the one”.
A surge of regret follows, reminding me there may never be another winner won, another the one.
My “one” has vehemently held his status for years now, stoically averting the possibility of any bogus replacements---anything less, quickly becomes an undesirable contender. Thus, I am left with Netfilx nights. Alone.
The duet is finished. They effortlessly move to the next scene---leaving me slumped in emotional disarray on the floor of my bedroom. My tears have morphed from single droplets into a relentless stream that scars my cheeks with reminders. And once again, like it was yesterday, I am back at square one.
In my head, over and over I’ve made promises never to tell our story---to never share my private dance.
What if he comes back one day? I wonder, as I wipe the snot and tears with my t-shirt. He’ll be mad I told. Mad I put my mouth where our money was.
But I need to cut my losses, need write him off. Literally.
-----------------------------------------------------
For nearly a year after he left, I kept the dollar bill plastered to the refrigerator door between two photo magnets: one from Breakfast at Tiffany’s and the other a beauty shot of Elizabeth Taylor. Like those people who proudly display the first dollar earned over the cash register of their store---a reminder of that first day, that first sale---I waited for him to return and reopen our relationship. I wanted back, business as usual.
Eventually I took the dollar down. But I saved it. It was the first thing he ever gave me, the first night we met: his 39th birthday.
………………………..
For Los Angeles, the night was balmy, the air sticky with desire.
After dinner with a friend, he opted for home. But I couldn’t go in. I couldn’t face alone. So I walked. I talked myself into needing a book. But really, I wanted a boy.
The bookstore was teeming with men and I wasted as much time as possible. Still, it wasn’t enough.
I have my book I thought. Now what?
Again I couldn’t face inward or alone.
Instead, I became the person I swore I never would: I went to a bar. Alone.
Alone with others was better than by yourself alone.
…………………………….
Nervously I sipped my gin and tonic---sucking the bitter liquid through the tiny red straw---while concentrating on the massive TV screen above me. My body plastered to the bar, I scrutinized a dated video of Madonna Vogueing.
…they had style..they had grace…Rita Hayworth gave good face..
“You don’t look like you’re having much fun,” said a nasally voice into my right ear.
Before I even turned to look, I knew he’d be offensive: I could already feel his breath on my neck and the scent or Polo permeate my skin.
While lost in my awkward focus, a man in a yellow polo shirt with a big smile and even bigger hair had planted himself beside me at the bar. Due to his inappropriate proximity, his face seemed as if I were viewing him through a fish tank. .
“Oh, no…I’m fine” I said, taking a step back. “My friends got stuck at dinner and they’re not gonna make it. So…I-I-I was just grabbing a quick drink.”
I hurried to finish my drink while he made small talk. As I plunked my glass on the bar, he made a motion to the bartender and presented me with another.
“Here” he said, “This should make you feel better!”
I didn’t want to be a dick, so I took the drink.
I sipped and counted minutes. He rambled on. Somewhere between the rambling and sipping, the revolving door to the bar spun like a roulette wheel and instantly it felt as if my luck had changed.
Spit out into the crowded room and looking a little disillusioned, appeared the sexiest man I’d ever seen. As if in slow motion, from across the congested bar, our eyes locked. Zing.
And just like the movies, everything seemed to fade, rendering me deaf with infatuation. All sounds vanished as I watched him travel through the bar, his eyes locked to mine. Eventually he began circling yellow shirt man trying to assess the situation.
I shot him a defenseless look while yellow shirt man checked his cell phone. He volleyed with a smile, walked past and planted himself someplace behind me.
Letting my arm fall to my side then around to my back, I playfully wiggled my index finger. Contact! Then a squeeze---sparks, and he was off again, folding himself into the inebriated crowd of men.
“I’ve got to pee” I said, and left yellow shirt man at the bar along with my book.
…………………………….
Squeezing my way through the tight crowd, overhead the big television screens play spliced clips of Joan Crawford slapping people, while Alison Moyet belts out an old Yaz song.
I rub past him while he talks to his friends. Another look, another smile.
Eventually I reach the bathroom area and wait against the wall---my heart pounding a mile a minute. Seconds later he appears from around the corner.
In that moment it was as if someone had flipped a switch, releasing two Eveready bunnies; clanking symbols they bang their fuzzy, pink bodies together. Beautiful music happens, everything changes. They can go on like this forever. Lifelong batteries.
He is beaming, radiating. I feel good in his light.
“Hi I’m Bill!” (We’ll call him Bill)
“Hey Bill…nice to meet you!”
“What’s goin’ on?”
His voice is deep and soaked in whiskey as if it belongs to an African American man twice his size. I think of Lou Rawls, of Marvin Gaye.
“Nothing.”
His face is scruffy with sandy stubble, his smile gleaming. Both accentuate the sparkle in his eyes.
We are matched in size and hunger.
“You here with that guy?” he asks, cocking his head toward the bar.
“No, I just came in here to have a drink. I was next door buying a book and it was too nice to go home. I never come in here. What about you?”
“I’m here with a few friends. I never really go out much…but my friends made me. It’s my birthday.”
“Oh! Wow! Happy Birthday! Can I buy you a drink?”
“Sure, that’d be great. But what about your friend?”
“Oh him? I don’t even know him,” I offer shifting my eyes to my feet and then back to his. “Don’t worry.”
When I return to the bar, I’m soaked in confidence. Yellow shirt man is texting--- frantically punching into his cell phone.
He pushes up beside me at the bar and everyone becomes invisible. I feel as if I’m sunbathing, soaking up his vitamin E.
We exchange the usual tidbits of our lives.
I buy him a drink. Yellow shirt man leaves.
Time passes, the bar begins to empty.
“Well…it looks like things are winding down” he says.
“I walked here” I say, holding up my book as a reminder.
“Well…can I walk you home?”
“Why? You lookin’ to get your birthday candle blown?”
As soon as I said it, I felt stupid.
“No.” His face wrinkles at the eyebrows. “Actually I like what’s happening. You seem like an interesting guy, and, ummm, I’d love to go on a date sometime….if you’re into it.”
“I’d really like that. But, still, it is you’re birthday. Want another drink, or some ice cream or something? Maybe we could find some Twinkies at the drugstore on the walk. Anything?”
“I donno know…maybe a go-go dance sometime.”
“Done. But I never dance for free.”
“I’ve got a dollar,” he says with a smirk.
--------------------------------------------------
The apartment is dark when we arrive. A large block of moonlight cuts a rectangular grid into the living room carpet. My two cats, still groggy from their interrupted sleep, appear at the landing to investigate the unfamiliar intruder.
“Do you want something to drink? I have a full bar, I can make you anything.”
“Naw. I’m good. I should probably drink some water instead.”
“Suit yourself! It’s your birthday.”
“Yes, It is.”
From his spot against the kitchen counter, he watches me move around the apartment turning on lights and kicking things under the sofa. The walk has sobered me up a little. Having him in my house has added a reality to our rendezvous’.
I’m gonna put on some music…ok?”
“Sure.”
On the landing leading up to the roof-deck, while I search the massive wall of books and music, the cats weave and purr around my feet, eventually returning their attention to the new stranger.
As I scan the wall of music, everything starts to look like a who's who of music for lovers: Troy---The Cocteau Twins; Jeffrey—the E’s: Enya, Enigma; Craig---George Winston; Jim---Debussy…..
Bingo, I find the perfect companion: Bryan Ferry.
“Hey…what a ya’ doin’ over there?”
I twist around the corner. He’s in the same spot looking sexier than I remembered. I’m more inspired than ever to perform.
“Just putting on some music,” I innocently offer back.
I feed the CD into the mouth of the player and return to the living room.
“…. They said iiit’s your birthday! Ner-ner-ner-ner NER-nerNER! It’s my birthday too!” I lyrically croon curling my lip, pulling off my t-shirt and throwing in across the room. The cats to run for cover under the couch.
The smirk on his face has gone from a knowing curl at the corner of his mouth to a full-frontal smile.
“It’s time to ante up birthday boy! One dollar please!”
He digs around in the pocket of his jeans and produces a rumpled dollar bill.
Now toe-to-toe, rippling from the waist, I roll my torso into his. Our faces are the last to meet, our lips the final bond. I can taste the blend of intrigue and awkwardness as our pheromones mix together.
In the background, the seductive rattle begins, breaking our silence. This is my queue. With only one index finger curled into the belt loop of his Levis, I peel myself from his body as the song begins.
I could show you in a wooord…if I wanted to, A window on the world…with a lovely view…from close up inside..a single room…with an opened book beside..like you read in schooool..soooo easy, belieeeve me..when you need fun..I’d do annnnything to turn you on …annnnything to turrrn you on….
I move in and take his free hand.
“I need to see the dollar again.” I request. “To make sure it’s not fake.”
Still silent, he displays the rumpled bill in two hands---like a judge from Dancing with the Stars---flipping it over to authenticate its value.
Grabbing both legs I lift him up and onto the kitchen countertop. He’s silent, but his eyes are stuck to mine; they’re talking a mile a minute.
…Is it rainin’ in New Yoooork …on Fifth Aaaavenue…And off Broadway after dark..Love the lights don’t you….
Piece by piece clothes peel off my body and hurl through the air, eventually landing in various corners of the living room. I’ve never been a private dancer. I like how his eyes cover my nudity with a blanket of confidence. It feels natural---like I’ve been doing it for years.
…I could leeeave you as you were….If I waaanted to….Then I wooonder iiis it fair…Now you’re ooon your own…Who caares about you…Except me…God help me….When thiiings gooo wrrrong…I’d do aaanything to tuuurn you ooon…
I stop at my underwear. But not before revealing a few tan lines.
“Happy Birthday” I coo, snatching the bill from his fist.
We laugh and kiss. Somewhere into the wee hours of the morning he disappears through the doorway and fades into a slice of hallway light.
He never calls.
My hopeful outlook fades along with the weekend.
Monday morning arrives. Nothing. I’m convinced I’ve been placed into freak category. I’m back to alone.
Grumpy, I begrudgingly tend to the flashing light on my office phone.
“Hey. It’s (Bill). I tried to call you over the weekend, but you only gave me your business card. I even came back to look for your building, but it was dark and late and I couldn’t find it again. So…ummm…I just got paid, and um, I have a few extra dollars to spend. What to see if you want to have a real date?”
As I jot down his number, I feel like a million dollars. Below it I scribble another reminder: Salvage Bryan Ferry CD from trash.
------------------------------------------------------------
I danced in Euphoria for over a year, my earnings proudly displayed on the refrigerator door. Like a cocky lottery winner I was giddy with my prize. I’d finally found the one I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with. I’d finally won the one.
Then things began to break down, little pennies thought to add up, stopped making cents.
Every man outside of our blissful bubble became a threat, a possible tryst.
Little pennies began to add up wrong. Good signs turned to bad. Investments turned to jealousy. Dancing turned into something dirty---the steps moving him further and further away until my patience went bankrupt.
Every year, near his birthday, when the weather turns balmy and the boys come out, and I’m faced with alone, I reconsider my dollar---my investment, my losses.
I wonder how rich I’d be if I had a dollar for all the times I’ve watched a movie, or gone for a walk, or listened to music then choked on the memory---holding my head back just to keep the tears from draining onto my face.
If I had a dollar for all the money I’ve spent trying to recap my losses: the disconnected dates and dances and drinks.
If I had a dollar for all the nights I thought about the night I won the one---my one dollar Bill---I’d be a rich man.
The movie is over and the pair each goes their separate ways: to separate lives, forever changed. The television now silent, once again I find myself standing in front of the blank refrigerator door. I’m back to alone.
One with my thoughts, I reassure myself: What’s the point in having all the money?....
……If you haven’t earned it, you can never truly understand the value of a dollar!
Labels: earned interest, Ex Boyfriends, Money Memories
