As Tiny and I headed to the address Yankee Jim had sent via text, I was still reeling from our hardly paranormal but verge-of-magical experience with the toothless, braless, drooling palm reader. My hopes of having a head-over-heels-into-hangover night with Jim was exceedingly (as well as unrealistically) high. From the bullshit of Billy Blue, to the babysitting incidents of Jason, to the intermittent dates with Burrito Boy and Mr. Born-and-Bred Upper East Side, I was far overdue to meet a spectacular, single, successful man with a few morals and somewhat of a personal hygiene routine.
Upon arriving at the “venue” where Jim had directed us, I swiftly descended from the la-la-land of fairytale endings to the grim reality of a dirty side street in the heart of Greenwich Village. I looked shamefacedly at Tiny, wondering how quickly I could transport us to either the Upper East Side or some sort of fairytale Wonderland where it was completely acceptable to constantly pop pills and feed your pet cat marijuana, considering my fairytale hopes were currently being washed down the sewer alongside a drunk NYU student’s vomit.
The “venue” was allegedly a music hall, littered with what I at first believed to be homeless people, but upon closer inspection, realized that they were actually the musicians whom were about to perform as the evening’s headliners. Jim rushed out to meet us at the door, where we were demanded to pay a ten dollar cover by a Neo-Nazi-type bouncer.
As we handed over our cash, Jim repeatedly apologized about there being cover, yet never offered to cough up an extra ten spot or two on our behalves. Considering Tiny and I had just paid that same small fortune for an ancient troll to stroke our palms and blindly speculate what our futures held, I was completely fine with contributing another ten dollars to the homeless musicians who desperately needed a shower, as well as new black eyeliner (to enhance their stage presence, of course)—but I was most certainly not fine with the lack of chivalry from Jim. I wasn’t expecting him to present me with a dozen roses and a bottle of Veuve, but I had traveled through many zip codes to meet up with him, even after his numerous flake-outs the weeks prior.
With our hands stamped and skeptical attitudes in full check, we saddled up to the bar. Jim gripped his half-full Bud Light with his back to the bar, making it very clear that he would not be ordering another drink anytime soon either for himself, his date (me, or so I thought until this point), or his date’s friend. Tiny and I ordered our own round and quickly let the chugging process begin—it was time to get our blood alcohol levels back up in order to endure whatever musical performance was about to begin in this unfamiliar environment of dirty, unbuttoned flannel shirts and cheapskate dates.
As the band started their first set and my Bud Lights began to flow through my veins, I warmed up to Jim, attempting to have a somewhat interesting conversation over the screeching guitar and squealing lead singer's vocals that some might call music.
“So when did you graduate?” I asked, about twelve octaves louder than I typically spoke, directly into Jim’s eardrum, just to ensure our conversation would not come to an awkward halt and we would have to either uncomfortably stare at each other or nod our heads to the off beats of the band.
“2008, from Fordham,” Jim bellowed back.
“Wait, I don’t think I heard you,” I awkwardly laughed over the clamor of the homeless rockers. “Did you say ’08 or ’98?”
“2008” he confirmed, as he held up a peace sign to indicate the correct decade as I about fell off my chair. “And I just got back from China about six months ago—I was doing Teach for America over there.”
Well this explains a lot, I thought to myself. He’s hardly legal and has been paid in rice and bamboo for the past eighteen months. No wonder he couldn’t spring for our cover or our beers. I was surprised he wasn’t thinner, given his financial circumstances, but I do suppose a diet of rice, beer and high sodium soy sauce over a year’s time would slightly bloat just about anyone.
Jim clearly was not concerned about my age, because rather than continuing our conversation, he leaned over and kissed me. When in the Village, do as the Villagers do, I thought as I kissed him right back.
Before I knew it, we were in a cab, headed back to the Upper East Side. I knew as soon as my ass hit the taxi’s pleather seats that this would be a one-night-only, rob-the-cradle special. Clearly I wasn’t going to find my Prince below 59th Street, so why not ride this out ‘til “The End” and wake up in a proper neighborhood?
Monday, May 31, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Lucky Letter J
It was another Tuesday at Mad River as I strolled in at a quarter to eight, sweaty from an intense session of squats and cycling at Boom, smelling of sweat mixed with a spritz of my signature Lanvin Eclat D’Arpege, ready for my weekly Alex Trebek-inspired trivia night stint. And who do I see leisurely lounging at a table in the back, Yankee hat slightly sideways, sipping a Coors Light draft from a plastic cup, but Yankee Jim.
I internally rolled my eyes and sighed, ready for the awkward Groundhog Day conversation that was about to ensue, as I obligingly approached his table for a courtesy hello—he was one of my most consistent Trivia Tuesday groupies, after all.
“Hey Bacchus, how are you?” Yankee Jim somewhat tautly asked.
“Oh hey, what’s going on?” I replied as I tried to play it off that I hadn’t seen him from the moment I walked in and was simply walking by.
“Listen, I’m sorry I never called last week. I ended up going home to see my mom.” he explained.
Although New Jersey was a somewhat uncouth and undesirable destination (in my book of travel preferences, at least) I was most certain that it was at least civilized enough to have reliable cell phone service, considering that the cast of the Jersey Shore seemed more than capable of texting, BBM-ing and Foursquaring from their mobile devices.
“Oh, no worries.” I waved off as I headed back to the kitchen to give my weekly “que tal” to the cooks and pick up my turkey burger and side salad.
Jim’s attempts to make engaging conversation and witty comments between rounds over the next two hours were both noted and dismissed. After the previous week’s bullshit antics from Jim’s across the board, my interest in Yankee Jim could have been equated with a gay man’s interest in a NASCAR race.
As I packed up my belongings and said my goodbyes after the evening’s games had come to an end, Yankee Jim stopped me before I could sneak out the side door.
“So what are you up to this week? Do you have plans Thursday?” he inquired for approximately the fifth time in the past six weeks.
“Umm, probably just happy hour with some co-workers. Nothing notable,” I offhandedly replied.
“Okay, well I’ll call you and we can meet up for some drinks, okay?” he eagerly suggested.
I raised my eyebrows and literally laughed out loud as I said goodbye and walked outside to hail a cab. At this point it would have benefited both of us to revert our conversations to weekly trivia-girl-to-patron/patron-to-trivia-girl courtesy hellos in an effort to save both time and oxygen.
Fast forward to Thursday happy hour with Tiny and Lindsay. As I was bitching about the frustrating week of love I had had the week prior, I suddenly received a text message from none other than Yankee Jim, asking if I wanted to meet for a drink.
The fear of bad karma for speaking too soon mixed with the two dirty martinis that I had knocked back in a matter of forty-five minutes, I responded with a yes, on the condition that I would be bringing a wingman.
Of course, Jim was inconveniently well below 59th Street, but the vodka flowing in my veins had put a little adventurous pep in my step, so Tiny and I hopped in a cab and headed down to the unchartered territory of theVillage, a neighborhood ridden with hipsters and falafel stands.
As we headed to where Jim and his co-workers were happy hour-ing, we passed a palm reader, who beckoned us in, waving through her window. She was old, overweight, toothless and bra-less, but only charged $10, so we un-soberly couldn’t resist to see what our futures held.
As she grasped my wrist with one hand, caressing the lines of my palm with her other, she asked, while intermittently spitting through her gums, “Do the letters M, S, or J mean anything to you? They hold something very powerful and important in your future.”
M was for my nephew, S (I hoped) for sex, and J—could it be for Yankee Jim?? I excitedly paid my oh-so-economically appropriate tab, grabbed Tiny, and headed to meet Jim, ready for my magical future of M’s, S’s, and J’s that would for certain bring me a good man and multiple, magical orgasms.
Ends up, magical wasn’t exactly how my night ended up…
I internally rolled my eyes and sighed, ready for the awkward Groundhog Day conversation that was about to ensue, as I obligingly approached his table for a courtesy hello—he was one of my most consistent Trivia Tuesday groupies, after all.
“Hey Bacchus, how are you?” Yankee Jim somewhat tautly asked.
“Oh hey, what’s going on?” I replied as I tried to play it off that I hadn’t seen him from the moment I walked in and was simply walking by.
“Listen, I’m sorry I never called last week. I ended up going home to see my mom.” he explained.
Although New Jersey was a somewhat uncouth and undesirable destination (in my book of travel preferences, at least) I was most certain that it was at least civilized enough to have reliable cell phone service, considering that the cast of the Jersey Shore seemed more than capable of texting, BBM-ing and Foursquaring from their mobile devices.
“Oh, no worries.” I waved off as I headed back to the kitchen to give my weekly “que tal” to the cooks and pick up my turkey burger and side salad.
Jim’s attempts to make engaging conversation and witty comments between rounds over the next two hours were both noted and dismissed. After the previous week’s bullshit antics from Jim’s across the board, my interest in Yankee Jim could have been equated with a gay man’s interest in a NASCAR race.
As I packed up my belongings and said my goodbyes after the evening’s games had come to an end, Yankee Jim stopped me before I could sneak out the side door.
“So what are you up to this week? Do you have plans Thursday?” he inquired for approximately the fifth time in the past six weeks.
“Umm, probably just happy hour with some co-workers. Nothing notable,” I offhandedly replied.
“Okay, well I’ll call you and we can meet up for some drinks, okay?” he eagerly suggested.
I raised my eyebrows and literally laughed out loud as I said goodbye and walked outside to hail a cab. At this point it would have benefited both of us to revert our conversations to weekly trivia-girl-to-patron/patron-to-trivia-girl courtesy hellos in an effort to save both time and oxygen.
Fast forward to Thursday happy hour with Tiny and Lindsay. As I was bitching about the frustrating week of love I had had the week prior, I suddenly received a text message from none other than Yankee Jim, asking if I wanted to meet for a drink.
The fear of bad karma for speaking too soon mixed with the two dirty martinis that I had knocked back in a matter of forty-five minutes, I responded with a yes, on the condition that I would be bringing a wingman.
Of course, Jim was inconveniently well below 59th Street, but the vodka flowing in my veins had put a little adventurous pep in my step, so Tiny and I hopped in a cab and headed down to the unchartered territory of theVillage, a neighborhood ridden with hipsters and falafel stands.
As we headed to where Jim and his co-workers were happy hour-ing, we passed a palm reader, who beckoned us in, waving through her window. She was old, overweight, toothless and bra-less, but only charged $10, so we un-soberly couldn’t resist to see what our futures held.
As she grasped my wrist with one hand, caressing the lines of my palm with her other, she asked, while intermittently spitting through her gums, “Do the letters M, S, or J mean anything to you? They hold something very powerful and important in your future.”
M was for my nephew, S (I hoped) for sex, and J—could it be for Yankee Jim?? I excitedly paid my oh-so-economically appropriate tab, grabbed Tiny, and headed to meet Jim, ready for my magical future of M’s, S’s, and J’s that would for certain bring me a good man and multiple, magical orgasms.
Ends up, magical wasn’t exactly how my night ended up…
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