Everyday Psychopaths Page 10
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My best friend Mike, alias “Cupid”, is waiting for me outside our favorite Starbucks on Upper East Manhattan. I'm surprised to find him looking more tired than I do, and I look like road kill. But I'm also very happy to see him, as there's something very comfortable about hanging out with Mike. He's a safe card no matter what mood you're in and a great person to have as a best friend. We don't hang out as much these days because of his dedication to Joanne and the amount of hours I work, but I've managed to wrestle him free for a coffee today. He's of course curious about my blind date with Gwen, a blind date he's more or less responsible for.
Mike is almost always clean and tidy, but today his baby blue shirt is wrinkled, his face has day-old stubble and his gut looks surprisingly soft and doughy. I haven't noticed the weight gain before and it doesn't become him. Belly fat is okay when you're 50, but not before. He needs to take better care of himself and the first weight he should lose is Joanne.
“What hit you?” I ask him, “A train of donuts?”
“Very funny, Jack. I haven't slept that’s all. You know I can't sleep when Jo is out with the girls (Joanne's loud and immature friends who I also despise) so I stayed up working all night and now I'm completely exhausted.”
You see what I mean? Mike has a heart of gold, but balls of…well, let's say he doesn't have any. I go on the attack.
“You know why you can't sleep when your girlfriend's out? Because you can't trust her, that's why!” I say this too loud and get unwanted attention from a Pakistani-looking hot dog vendor across from us.
“I can trust her. I just worry if she's alright or not.”
This is bullshit, but before I tell him what his real worry should be, we enter the doors of the green-white coffee chain. They're making bucks like stars these guys, because it's always packed. The good thing with this coffee shop is that I know my Americano will be made to perfection. Besides, I like the guys behind the counter - they crack me up. “They” are a trio of people from very different backgrounds: Richie - a white rocker dude, Nick - a latino with a gold tooth, and Rhonda - a black woman with a big butt and a laugh that could scare a group of school children from across the street. Together they’re always loud, entertaining and constantly throwing jokes at each other's expenses. It might sound like something from a Broadway musical, but it's just how life can be when chemistry finds company.
When Rhonda sees us walk through the door her eyes go big and she shouts, “Ooohhh, here come some extra fine customers! Whaddaya two gentlemen want? You looking fo' some big black lovin? I bet ya’ll too weak to handle it,” which she accompanies by a satirically sexy pose and a booming laugh. It turns a few heads, but I recognize many as regulars here, so they know it well.
“Nah, Rhon, we're just going to have two blueberry muffins and two coffees and be on our way. Thanks for the offer though.” I smile at Rhonda, because how could you not? The woman is a laugh riot.
“Too fancy for our little establishment? I knew it,” she says and turns to Richie, who's half-Italian and has more tattoos on his arms than I have hair, and gives him our standard order of one Venti Latte and one Grande Americano. He acknowledges it with a wry smile and starts preparing our coffees. As we take our cups and say goodbye, I feel a bit better already. The hangover has gone from a base drum to a gentle tap, which means I'm slowly but surely recuperating. We head over to the park again, which is starting to get crowded on a fine day like this. A group of Japanese tourists is heading our way, all of them with over-sized baseball caps and cameras hanging from their necks. The world is full of clichés. We spot a nice bench in the middle of the park boulevard and sit down. The sun’s beating on our faces and I'm suddenly feeling hot, the alcohol starting to pour from my pores. Mike’s already slurping on his coffee – he just loves those lattes. I hate milk myself and would never drink anything you have to stroke out of an animal.
“So, tell me about last night. Gwen's nice, right?” Mike looks like he's expecting me to thank him.
“I bet she's nice if you're old enough to have a hearing aid and can turn it off.” I say, immediately putting any misconceptions to rest.
“What? It didn't go well?” Mike’s actually shocked. He's a bit like Gwen himself when I think about it - he should date her.
“She almost bored me to death. She's definitely not bad-looking, but when she talks...gaaaah! I wanted to stab her with my cutlery! Always going on and on about her father and her friends. Who gives a fuck? And her voice, it's so horribly nasal it digs a hole down to your brain and starts picking on it like an evil woodpecker. That woman should come with a mute button.” I'm exaggerating a bit, it's a characteristic of mine.
Mike’s offended. He has this sad kitty look and I'm instantly sorry to disappoint him.
“So what happened?”
“We went to this fancy French place on 52nd street, ate some mediocre miniature food and drank some expensive wine. She yapped on about nothing and I made sounds to acknowledge I was still awake. After a while I couldn't take it anymore and asked her flat out if she wanted to fuck and then we went to my place.”
“What?” Mike almost shouts this. I thought Mike knew me and my sometimes less gentlemanly ways.
“You slept with her?”
“Yes, I guess so, I can't remember the details. I think I drank half a bottle of scotch when we got home, got pretty drunk and the rest is hazy. All I know is I woke up next to her snoring like chainsaw. She can't even keep quiet in her sleep, goddammit.”
“Wow,” he says in disbelief, “I didn't think Gwen was that kind of girl.”
This is Mike in a nutshell. He thinks the world is one big yellow submarine and that everyone has good intentions. I admire his positive outlook in a way, but it wouldn’t hurt him to be a little less naive.
“Judging from the way she talks, she's not a girl, Mike, she's an old lady. And I’ve yet to know a girl who will say no to sex just because it's too “early”. We're in the 21st century - sex is just sex, it's not a precious gift for women to give up.” I'm a strong believer in this and have the record to prove it.
“Well, that's your way of seeing it, Jack. You've been with lots of women (Mike, on the other hand, hasn't), but you usually see the same kind of women. I thought Gwen would be a refreshing change.”
“What do you mean the same kind of women? You think I only hook up with stupid girls?” I'm starting to get really annoyed now. I don't have a long fuse and when I'm hungover it's about half its normal length.
“So you’re saying you usually go out with mature and intelligent women? I mean, come on! They're mostly 20-year-old wannabe reality show celebrities. Gwen's a lot more interesting than that.”
I know there’s some truth to what Mike’s saying, but it doesn't mean I like it.
“What the fuck, Mike! I go out with lots of different women! And even so, I’d ten times rather date those hot twenty-somethings than be pussy-whipped by that bitch you live with. If I'm going to get serious with someone I don't want to apologize for breathing, ask for permission to leave the house and spend sleepless nights playing the exciting guessing game called “Is My Girlfriend Sleeping With Other Boys?”.
Suddenly he rises from the bench and says, “Fuck you, Jack. And don't you worry - I'm not going to recommend you to any other women. You're such an asshole, you deserve to be alone.”
While Mike races off in anger, I'm again reminded of how fragile he is and how easily provoked I am. I was never good at controlling myself and lately, with my work/age crisis, even less so.
I lean back on the bench and close my eyes, the sun still burning my face. I’ll call Mike and apologize later and we'll be fine. We’ve done this charade before. But I'm starting to worry about what's going on with me, why am I such a dick? My mind has lived a life of its own lately, I'm having strange dreams, sweating more easily during the day, and my breathing is sometimes forced and constricted. Am I going through some kind of middle-age crisis or male menopaus
e? Or is it just my fading career fortunes that are fucking with my head? I sit on the bench for a while, finish my coffee and let my head drift to work. Work, where things aren’t going the way they should. Work, where I once was king, but now feel like a ghost.
This makes my headache triple in force, my chest is suddenly tightening and I'm feeling dizzy. I'm almost afraid to stand up, but after a while I manage to and I walk home slowly, step by step, while trying to push the dark thoughts away.
When I get home the apartment is empty and there's a note on the kitchen table. It says: “Call me! xox Gwen :-)” Her number is carefully written below.
Some people have no self-awareness.