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hey, watch it (2000)
this guy at the store invited me to an industry-only opening-night party at a new studio, like a month before the party. he approached me by name. i didn't know him, but he had seen my work & he had read my stuff. he told me about the studio. it sounded incredible. i was included cuz i'm in the biz. ha. but, he said, there's also the party your publication is having that night. fuck, no one told me about that. the weeks went by, & i heard nothing of the party. the most senior guy there, somehow left off the list. this has always been the case. i'm the guy who didn't get a t-shirt. yep. so i go into the office on the day of the party, to pitch a work—a profile/preview of some hard dudes they know are friends of mine, i bet they wont even run it--& suggest a deal with the store. i hear the party mentioned, & ask if there was a reason i was left off the list. no. so here i am. i don't know anyone who likes me. i walked in the winter cold, so i'm wearing crappy cords & a crappy shakerknit sweater. yep. i walk in. a guy recognizes me from the office today. i gotta work on my memory. he grabs me to tell me a name-tag gets me drink tickets. he gives me four. thanks man. i stash my gear & wander. i find the mini-buffet, fill a plate shamelessly, sit by myself. i go to the bar and wait. a guy asks me about the meaning of the position, CONTRIBUTOR, written on my name-tag. i tell him "writer". oh yeah, he says, so it's not like The Writer.
no.
he buys that.
i turn the other way & see a guy i met a year ago. some snappy-dressing loser who gets the chicks but doesn't get it. he used to get drunk & and cut me up. i made short work of him most of the time. you're wrong, buddy; it would take FOUR of me to take you. still, he drove me home. he was friends with the friend of a girl i was hard for. so there he is, a girl between us again, this time at the bar. his roaming gaze lingers on me for that nano-second. i say classlessly hey! i know you! he looks.
Babe!
shitty small talk ensues, a question about the girl i wanted, who ended up stabbing me in the back in my own home. what am i doing? he asks. Working. Paying Debts. he's with some company that does videos & animations. right on, man. he's enjoying it. it probably paid for that ribbed sweater. animations. wow. related to his post-secondary education. great. i bail out, saying i'm waiting for a drink.
a well-formed bartenderess, shorter than me, curvy, great glasses, hears me. she tells me that she thought i was just chilling out there. yeah, i think, with ribbed-sweater-animation-boy. i laugh, ask if i can get a scotch with a ticket. she thinks. "a house scotch." bring it forth with most haste. she turns to get the scotch, i get a phone call. it's from my friends who are connected but not quite THERE, just like me. i want to get them into tonight's industry party at the studio. they say they'll come. we'll see what strings can be pulled.
another gorgeous bartender girl approaches me while i'm talking on my yup-phone. i gesture that i'm okay. yep. a-ok, that's me. fuck. then my bartenderess comes back while i'm still on the phone. yeehaw. what a dork. she tells me she made me a double because i had to wait. she wants me. i had to yell WHAT?! cuz i couldn't hear her. well, she wanted me. i sit with my scotch, eat a radish slice, some celery. i gather up my celery & abandon my whole plate. i have no appetite. damn. i wander around, see name-tags from other organizations. i'm confused. i meet a girl my age who i grew up with, off & on. she was boyish, then a dirty hippie, now she's gorgeous & hard & sports the only tattoo i've ever liked. dark-skinned girl. the real deal. fuck the man. long tattoo all the way around her arm. i'm a grubby pedestrian poseur. fuck. she talks with me, laughs, leaves. she's working. i go to the front of the bar, ask about the nature of the event. it's a party for everyone who matters to the publication. i matter, i am told, since i was invited. thanks. damn this city.
while i am writing, this cutsie hot blonde with short hair keeps eyeing me from beside her boyfriend. or from beside the guy who has her hand on his back. he makes her laugh a little with his antics. done it. old. she knows. she can smell the scotch on my breath, all the way from her table, she squirms under it as it burns away her hair product, her make-up, her respect for herself for having a guy who can get her into parties. she knows what's under the pills on my sweater, the mop on my head. the worst thing is that she can't ditch cutie boy & talk to me. fucking E-town chicks. so stuck. damn. where does that leave me?
i was told this is the bar's opening night. i didn't know that. i would have known that, a year or two ago. now i'm just not plugged in. are these people plugged in? does handling the advertising for a publication like this plug you in? there's one guy here who has been on the scene FOREVER. man, when i first blipped onto the scene's periphery, he tried to edge me out with brutal & obvious hate-mail. good try. i don't know what the fuck he does in this town, but he's always ratting around at music events, etc. he edged in on my own mag, then on my paper. once i was training at a campus radio station, on the air, & he shows up & edges me out. at least he wasn't totally rude. to me. anyway, he's here, & he knows a ton of people.
there are some beautiful little ladies here. how many of them are hooked up? have men? i bet a lot of them are dying for a fuck. a hard one. i could lay it on them, but i'm not good enough. fuck, this town just kills me. kryptonite, man. in any other town i could clean up. well, probably. so many people trying to feel important. i'm gonna go back to the bar & use all my little drink tickets. that's right, honey, i write for this thing. no one likes me, but i write, & i'm here to drink your doubles, write, & leave. i used to be soooo good at these damn things.
i get a scotch, i hover around Alvin. Alvin is a funny man. sharp as a razor too. he's talking to various people about various things. the blondie girl comes and talks to him. she's from that clothing store. the very store that is contributing to the corruption, strangulation, & putrefaction of our ave. i chat her up. Cherie. i'm on a roll. i have her laughing a good one. no antics, just straight-faced quips. she asks me what i contribute to. i say the downfall of society. or does Alvin say that? i say mostly music, some sex, since i got some this year. i'm just a general guy. infantry. she nods. i blew that one. she thinks. laughs. "infantry! ha!" ok. point.
yeah, i tired to get them to write FUCKER UP OF SHIT on my name-tag, but they wouldn't.
she digs that. ya see? she could smell the scotch from her table.
soooo… you're from that store, eh? so THAT's why you're dressed so well.
another point.
i, too, usually dress well… why didn't i tonight? oh yes, that's right, because IT'S SO GODDAMN COLD!
"yeah, i wore this and a coat, i was like fuck! fuck! fuck! the whole way here."
i love girls who do all that for my sake. it's great, you freeze, i get the treat. it's all good.
"hey, watch it. That's my dad." Alvin. damn.
hey, i got nothing to hide. but i'm still gonna go drink myself to sleep now.
another point, but it coulda been better.
i was wondering what a pretty girl like you was doing talking to a this old man.
she smiles. "well, i'm gonna go get a beer and say hi to Ted."
okay, Cherie, i'm gonna go get a scotch &… uh… hang out.
the same bartender woman who gave me my last scotch gives me this one. "Where are you getting your tickets?"
uh, the publication.
"k, cuz you were only supposed to get two."
well, someone didn't want theirs. (YES.)
"how many did they give you at the door?"
two. (well done.)
that first bartenderess? no glasses. just hot. a good amount there. style.
a favourite Beck song hits the p.a. a slow, trippy one. suddenly i'm the centre of a music video, Brit-rock style. everyone faking around me, & i'm alone at a little table in front of a half-filled page and a half-emptied scotch. & a shitty sweater. for three-and-a-half minutes. all this circular sexual movement, all sorts of antics & movements all for sex, & i'm the centre, the eye, untouched, uninvolved, unfucked.
this all feels like the parties five years ago, but corrupt now. tainted. sour. where is my Katherine? it's terrifying to think that i have gone nowhere since then. so i think it. she's married now, i'm alone with a pen & a scotch & a shitty sweater, in a place where i would have taken her five years ago, & i would have been so proud. people would have said is THAT your girlfriend? yep. you bet. damn. fifty at twenty-four. what happened, babe? i don’t know, you tell me. it's all tits and cash these days. sad.
i don't even try anymore. i don't throw my hat in the ring. there is no hat. the only time you notice that you're trying is when you fail.
things just aren’t the same. of course they aren’t the same you sappy sad fuck. it only matters when they aren't the same as a time that was a hell of a lot better than now. stay healthy so you can really feel the world's shit fall on your head.
i put on my coat, my scarves, my gloves. i went out into the burning blade wind, walked down the ave to the next party. then back to my basement. |
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