Maybe I should stop telling her about my favorite bands.
Once again, my friend Karly has thrown herself at one of my heroes. And once again, one of my heroes fucked her.
It’s stunning the frequency with which this keeps occurring. I generally find a way to fall in love with two or three new bands every year. Now, these might not be new bands, but new to me.
But anyway. It seems that every time it happens. It happens for her as well. And it always starts with me sending a silly message.
It used to be myspace. But that died. Now it’s facebook. Which is dying.
Maybe there won’t be a replacement for that one. We all know better than that, though. The collective nonsense that is trying to be a collective consciousness won’t allow such a thing, will it?
Or I could just stop telling her about bands I love.
Or stop thinking that maybe, one day she’ll get tired of star fucking and fall for me. I’ve seen the way she looks at me. She knows we’re very similar creatures at heart. It’s just that I have bad teeth and can’t get up on stage and sing.
And I know this. I’ve known it since less than four minutes after we finally met. After flirting via messages and phone calls for months. All it took was a few sips of beer, a smile and some very nervous in person conversation. We both came away disappointed.
By the end of the night, however, only one of us was.
That was the first time I saw her in action. She didn’t want to go up to the band. She was scared, even. It is pretty much the only time I’ve seen her vulnerable. Well, that and another time. Sitting on the couch in the house of a mutual friend’s parents.
But that night, she and I were getting ready to leave the club. Go hit up a drinking spot she knew of in the heart of New York City. This was really the first time I’d been out and about in the big city. I spent the entire day leading up to the show wandering around. I found the Joe Strummer wall in the East Village. And then I stumbled into a tourist bar inside the Empire State Building. Without even knowing I was inside of it.
Go figure.
But instead, I coaxed her, like I always seem to do. I’m a good coaxer. I help the one’s I dig become better in some way. It’s a gift and a curse. Encouraging those I love to chase their dreams while I put mine on hold or just forget about them. I once wanted to be a reporter at a decent metro paper. I gave up on that. I thought about being a writer. Short stories, mostly. I know I don’t have the kind of dedication that it takes to write novels, so why not? Fizzle. Not for lack of want. But for lack of sane mind.
Now, here I was with a chance to take Karly out for a night on the town. Just me and her, basking in the glow of the her concert virginity being busted. But, instead, I uttered these words: “Go ahead, they’re cool guys. They’ll talk to ya. Trust me.”
I knew this because after my first show, I said hi. Got to chat a little. I wasn’t cool. I wasn’t weird. I was just me, trying to shake the hand of my hero. The guys who wrote the songs that kept me from killing myself less than two years before.
What harm could it do?
Well, I went over to the bar and got a drink. Drank it while I watched her flirt with, first the lead singer, then the guitar player.
Eventually, she came back over with the keyboardist. “This is Rick,” she said, introducing me to someone I knew, but had never “met.”
“How ya doing?” I muttered, sticking out my hand. We shook and then he lost interest in both of us as another woman came over.
“I think we’re going to hang out with them tonight!” Karly said excitedly.
I looked at her eyes. Saw the brightness in them. The sheer joy in them. One thing I cannot resist is eyes. And when I see that much bliss, no matter what it means to me, I do what those eyes want. A curse? Nah. It's just me.
“Awesome,” I mustered from deep inside. “This should be interesting.”
She scampered off. Soon, I found myself walking the streets of New York City with a girl I had a thing for and the band I loved.
We went to one bar, then another. I kept drinking.
Finally, we stayed put. I was long past gone.
I sat at the table with my heroes. Just kind of staring at them. Listening to their conversations. I tried once to get in to it, but failed miserably. And just slumped into my chair. The keyboard player wasn’t drinking. He gave me the look of “kid, you need to wake up.”
I looked around. She was gone.
Here I was in the biggest city on the East Coast, drunk off my ass. Could be worse, I guess.
Then I saw her. She was making out with one of the guitar players.
“Shit,” I said.
Rick looked at me, grabbing my hand as I tried to stand up.
“Don’t do it.”
“I’m just getting another drink,” I slurred elegantly.
The table watched me walk in a perfect diagonal to the bar. My eyes must have spoke a million words as the bartender already had a bottle of Jameson in his hand pouring before I got to the wood.
“Here ya go buddy,” he said. “It’s on him.” He pointed at the guitar player. Holding up a glass. Karly was too. Smiling.
I picked up the glass, tilted it back and shot it down.
Next thing I remember I was in a cab. With Karly. Apologizing.
Something that has repeated itself with her three times now.
Tonight, I get a text.
“AA was awesome tonight. They kicked the headliner’s asses.”
This, a couple weeks after I took her to one of their shows here in North Carolina. Finally got her in my state, maybe that‘s some kind of progress, I told myself. All during the show, I was extolling their virtues like I do.
She was converted.
And she talked to the guitar player from my favorite band, who were the headliners.
“Wow, they’re in Texas now?” I thought to myself.
A few hours later, another text came.
“The guys from AA just showed up at my bar!”
I knew what would happen. The lead singer of AA writes songs about girls. That’s it. Good ones. Bad ones. And every kind in between.
The last text I got was simply…
“Thanks for telling me about AA. J.B. is awesome! XoXo.”
He’ll be writing a song about her next. And I’ll buy it, knowing it’s my fault.
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