First impression: Self-important nobody band guy.
Two days after the phone call from #133, I was feeling feisty. After
being out to dinner with my friend Fred and his girlfriend, we headed to
Arlene’s Grocery to see a band. Fred was especially excited
because he was also meeting up with an old friend from California who he hadn’t
seen in over a year.
We were late to hear the band, but Fred must have quickly found his friend because a minute after we got there he was talking to someone I didn't recognize. The man, clad in a black leather jacket and
jeans, had an overly staged look of cool. There was nothing baggy or flimsy or
cheap about him. As soon as the band ended, we headed outside, congregating
again on the sidewalk.
Fred introduced me to his friend properly.
“Oh, Tara, this is my friend, [Mr. Unavailable #134].”
I got a better look at him. It was worse than I thought. Other than the
snazzy clothes, it was his hair. Jet black and shiny, it was longer than short but
not exactly long and, parted on the side, swooped along his forehead above his
blue-blue eyes and curved back nearish his ear, as if to suggest it had spent
some time there. There were no obvious traces of product or spray, but it was all
perfectly done. He’d had to have spent some time on it. And that bothered me.
It was cold outside Arlene’s and Fred and #134 started catching up,
with #134 using a lot of band-related phraseology, as in, “Yeah, I heard he was
on tour” and “He’s on the road.”
I couldn’t help myself. “Which road?” I said, blinking coyly. They
laughed.
“Did you say you played here once?” I asked #134.
“I played here dozens of times,” he said, as if the mere thought of it
exhausted him.
I internally rolled my eyes. “With any bands I’ve heard of?” I
challenged.
“With a lot of different bands,” he said. “I was kind of the guy who’d
fill in for whoever.”
“What do you play?” I asked.
“I’m a drummer,” he said.
“Oh, so you’re the guy in the band whose name nobody knows,” I said.
He laughed. “Yup, I’m that guy.”
Fueled by the laughter, I’d become extra plucky. I was also
becoming slowly frozen. A down coat I’d ordered had arrived in the mail that
day at work. I’d had it in my backpack all along, so I pulled it out and, silently
handing the coat I’d been wearing to Fred, began to put on the new one. They
stopped mid-conversation and giggled as if I’d pulled a rabbit from my hat.
“Where did that come from? Ya got another one in there? ’Oh, let me pull
another outfit out of my bag,’” Fred mocked.
A puffy plastic heart was attached to the zipper of my new coat and it
rode up as I zipped up.
“Hmm, what do you think? Am I supposed to leave it on?” I asked no one
in particular as I held the heart and looked from #134 to Fred to his girlfriend.
#134 took a step toward me and touched the heart. “I like it. I think
you should keep it,” he said as he zipped it up the extra inch or two I’d
missed.
Was it me or did me and the band guy just have a moment?
We all headed toward Pianos, a bar down the street from Arlene’s, and
#134 and I walked together, discussing things that were not band-related like
the great lie of California weather (it’s not that hot) and his friendship with
Fred (going on 30 years). When we got to Pianos, there was a huge line outside
and me, Fred and his girlfriend decided we weren’t up for it. #134 said he wanted
to check it out. We hugged good-bye.
“It was really nice meeting you,” #134 said.
“It was nice to meet you, too,” I said.
The three of us turned go.
“He was really nice, actually” I said to Fred as we crossed Allen
Street, feeling a tiny bit wistful.
“Yeah, he’s a great friend. I’ve known him forever. You should watch
Saturday Night Live tomorrow night, he’s gonna be on it.”
“Doing what?” I asked, imagining him as an extra in a skit.
“Playing drums,” he said.
I imagined him playing drums with the house band during commercials. “Really?”
I asked, trying to picture where he’d fit on the cramped stage.
“Yeah, he’s the drummer in Maroon 5. They’re the musical guest tomorrow
night.”
“He is? They are?” I stopped in my tracks as my mind raced backward
trying to recount all the cheeky things I’d said. I regained my senses long
enough to ask, “Is he single?”
It turned out he’d been with the same girlfriend for years and they
even had kids together. “She’s awesome,” Fred said. Of course she was.
Signs of Hope: I thought we had a moment, anyway.
Red Flags: The long-term girlfriend.
Turning Point: There were two: 1. My possibly imagined moment. 2.
Finding out about the girlfriend.
Diagnosis: For him: An extremely successful and annoyingly well
put-together nice guy with a girlfriend—and kids, i.e., unavailable.
For me: Apparently, I judge first, ask questions later.
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