MichaelSichok

The Mistake of "Going Out."

Sooo I get this phone call, around 10:30 last night, an old friend wants to hang out and have a drink. I'm sitting in E'N'P, reading Dostoevsky (for fun) and losing my mind.. I agree, but she's buying- I'm broke. Agreed. Sooo I make my way over to "Manhattan's" and enter. She is with a group of "friends," and since she hasn't seen me in a long time, starts running her fingers through my hair farm. I look around, and feel like an alien.

Ok- so... I'm in my black leather and my hair is long and black, I'm in an old Skinny Puppy shirt and tight jeans with big black clunky Docs. In other words, I am a 1992 dreamboat. I didn't expect to find any adorable "New Wave" girls, ala... Samantha Mathis' "Nora" in Pump Up the Volume... but.. I'm appalled. Immediately, I started getting looks - from frat boy wannabees that wanna try "somethin'" and their girlfriends that want a piece of this industrial boy. Every turn of my head, I see eyes. Not a moment passes, when I start getting the "female bump," when they run into you on purpose, only to say "Hi."

I'm getting annoyed at this music and where is my Rolling Rock, already? A pretty little nothing runs into me, with pilot-light eyes and starts "conversing." She starts some "bump 'n grind" over a hideous top-40 "rap" song, and starts rubbing her rump against me. I pull her away, and say "I'm sorry, but I am NOT a rubbing post... there must be more to you than your ass," and she gets angry and runs off.

"Whatever," I'm thinking. "Why am I here? I hate this!" I continue. A million thoughts race through my head, a thousand songs that I'd die to hear at this moment, to comfort me... everything from Black Flag to Ministry to The Smiths. My friend returns with my Rolling Rock, which I quickly consume, all the while digging through my leather for a smoke and Zippo.

Ok. Everything is fine. Drink, Smoke, Zippo fire. I can deal with this. In a minute, some Thrill Kill Kult will come on, raunchy and evil and perfect. Maybe Sisters of Mercy. No.. wait. That won't happen, nor will the TKK. I'm NOT in Pittsburgh, 13 years ago, I am in Greensburg on a Thursday night. I make small talk with my friend, who whines about "lost love." I shrug. I've had those- I've been with the most gorgeous girls in this world, but was always left behind after a few years. Somehow, I put it behind me.. she hasn't. She's whining about being 37 and how I should "hook up" with this random brunette hottie, for her. She keeps pointing. "She has this tribal tattoo on her back.. there she is, isn't she beautiful?"

I don't know what to say. Yes, I suspose, she is is attractive, but her flamboyancy irritates me. I look at my friend and say.. "No, she can't compare to whom I've been with in the past." Now I'm getting the "MOVE ON" deal. I am ever annoyed. She buys me another Rolling Rock, and I take comfort in simply watching the idiots around me attempt to "score."

Oh, God.. here we go again. Another ASS grinding against me. "Hi, I'm Jamie. Want to dance with me?" I am suspicious. She looks like a cheerleader, and I am not cheap or cheery. I respond with "I don't know. Maybe if a better song comes on?"

"You don't like 50 Cent?"

I'm at a loss. Again, the thousand songs run through me. I'm dreaming now of NIN's "Head Like a Hole." I respond with "Not really- do you like Bauhaus?"

She says "Bow-what?"

I realize I made too "obscure" a referece, sigh. I kick it up a notch.. "Never mind.. what do you listen to?"

"The radio.. mostly country and rap."

I ignore the country comment... blah. I do fire out.. "I like a lot of old-skool rap- Ice T, Ice Cube, NWA, Public Enemy, EPMD..."

"I never heard of that." She is losing interest, I have LONG lost interest and I just give her a Ben Affleck jerk smirk and turn away.

A minute later, she is rubbing her behind on some other guy.

I reach for another smoke. By the time I find my trusty Zippo, she is making out with the guy a few feet behind me.

My friend says... "GO GET HER!"

I look around, again feeling like an alien, and reply "The only thing I want.. is to go home, and be alone."

I leave.

12 hours later, I am sitting under a tree in the park behind my apartment, enjoying the near 70 degrees, in a worn out T-shirt, shorts and sandals, reading Emily Dickinson, and never felt more alive.

I know where I belong.

Posted by MichaelSichok at January 13, 2006 10:37 PM