Don't Look Back, Angel
(Another writing exercise)
I perch on the wobbly stool, my back to the bar of the seedy Irish Pub that shamelessly promotes Guiness but does not sell it. Mark is to my right. Ken is on the stage to my distant left. My hands are wrapped around my Budweiser, which I am sipping slowly, trying to pretend as though I am involved in the conversation Mark is having with this guy Mike, from the band Rooftop Suicide Club. I have met him before, I'm pretty sure, at shows in Providence. But I don't know him and he doesn't seem to recognize me, when Mark re-introduces us. So I remain the silent observer.
There is a commotion. A haggard tower of girl comes rocking in the door. She seems flustered. Strung out. She is asking about 'Chris.' "Where is he? Have you seen him? We just had a massive fight."
Mike responds that 'Chris' is supposed to be here, but no one has seen him. A few moments pass. A guy walks in wearing an orange sweater and jeans. His hair is buzzed too-close to the scalp.
'Chris' has arrived.
There is some energetic movement as people greet him. I have no idea who he is, and I don't particularly care. I know he's another one of the guys from Rooftop, but I have seen them play, and I don't remember being too impressed. Besides, I'm here to see Ken.
Mark introduces me to "Haskell," which is apparently his last name, and the one by which his is most commonly referred. We shake hands and lock eyes. I am almost disturbed by the color and intensity of them. They are a shade of turquoise that I have never seen on a living thing before. I consider, momentarily, that he is moderately attractive.
"Wow," he says with a lopsided expression. "That's quite a firm handshake y'got there. You're like...Robocop!"
I falter, completely taken off guard. Did this guy, who I have known for a total of 30 seconds, just call me "Robocop?" Seriously?
I do what I do best. I scoff. My expression equal parts surprise and aggression.
" 'Robocop,' huh? Nice to meet you too."
He laughs, turns to Mark and company, starts talking about Karaoke at some bar nearby. Mark looks to me.
"You want to go to Karaoke later?"
No. I don't. I don't know these people, and I came here to see Ken. But Mark is doing me a favor by accompanying me tonight, and its clear that he is not at all interested in Ken (who, truthfully, is subpar, at best). He wants to go to Karaoke.
"Maybe," I say. He turns back to the group. I turn to watch Ken. "Haskell" appears at my side. He stands too close to me. Its as though he has no concept of personal space. It does not seem to phase him that we are strangers to eachother, and our only interaction this evening has not exactly gone smoothly.
"Do you want to get out of here and go do some karaoke?"
I laugh, trying to be nice, despite the "Robocop" remark that I haven't totally let go of yet.
"Ha. Did Mark put you up to this?" I ask.
"No. I put myself up to it. This guy sucks."
I am, once again, thrown by his brash, forthright attitude.
"Oh, come on." I say, using as much restraint as I can summon. "Be nice. He's not that bad."
"Yes. He is. I know this is a friend of yours, but he sucks."
I am now getting upset. This guy-- "Haskell"-- has alot of balls.
"Well, he's not exactly a friend of mine," I say, attempting to reroute the conversation. "He's the music teacher at my school."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Haskell snorts.
Now, I'm pissed. He's an asshole. He's just being a dick for the sake of being a dick. Who does he think he is?
"Hey, you guys can go to Karaoke. I'm not stopping you. But I'm here to see Ken."
My tone makes it clear that I am done talking to him. Fuck this guy.
Over the next half an hour or so, I catch glimpses and snippets of the conversation among "Haskell" and his cronies. Its like watching a bunch of highschool jocks gossip about the scrawny kid in gym class. They are undoubtedly making fun of Ken and Haskell is the obvious ringleader. I've had it.
I look him right in the eye.
"Look..." I fire, "I'm not sure what you feel your obligation is to stay here, but you can go at any time."
There. Gotcha.
Now its his turn to be caught off guard. To be given a dose of his own foul-tasting medicine. With a single glare, his expression changes from amusement to hostility. Without another word, he downs the remainder of his beer, slams the bottle down on the bar, and leaves--with far less pomp and circumstance than that with which he entered.
His friends look at me. I have clearly upset some balance. I can't tell if they are pissed at me for what has just transpired-- and frankly, I don't care.
I slug another beer, and am starting to feel drunk. Things seem okay with Asshole's cohorts. They are chatting with me. I apologize for being mean to their friend. They don't seem concerned.
"He was already having a bad night before he got here. Don't worry about it."
But....I am a little worried. I'm not sure why. I am definitely still agitated. I definitely still think he's an asshole. But part of me feels guilty. Maybe I was too harsh. He did start the Karaoke conversation off nicely.
Eventually, the Rooftop guys leave. Mark and I are alone. We chat. We close the bar waiting for Ken. Ken and I talk a bit, and Mark and I hit the road shortly after 2 a.m.
I bitch about Haskell the entire ride home. Mark, characteristically, remains neutral. Of course he does. He's fucking Ghandi.
The next day, I am surfing Myspace. I happen across Haskell on Mark's page. Something seizes me. Everyone I know seems to like this guy. He appears alot cooler on the internet than he does in person.
Maybe I should extend an olive branch. Its likely I will see him again at shows. No need for there to be any lingering hostility between us.
I send him a message:
"Hi. This is Amanda from the bar the other night. I just wanted to apologize if I came off as bitchy. Its just that Ken is a friend of mine, and I am of the opinion that if you have nothing nice to say about somone's friend, say nothing at all."
And thus , it began.
I perch on the wobbly stool, my back to the bar of the seedy Irish Pub that shamelessly promotes Guiness but does not sell it. Mark is to my right. Ken is on the stage to my distant left. My hands are wrapped around my Budweiser, which I am sipping slowly, trying to pretend as though I am involved in the conversation Mark is having with this guy Mike, from the band Rooftop Suicide Club. I have met him before, I'm pretty sure, at shows in Providence. But I don't know him and he doesn't seem to recognize me, when Mark re-introduces us. So I remain the silent observer.
There is a commotion. A haggard tower of girl comes rocking in the door. She seems flustered. Strung out. She is asking about 'Chris.' "Where is he? Have you seen him? We just had a massive fight."
Mike responds that 'Chris' is supposed to be here, but no one has seen him. A few moments pass. A guy walks in wearing an orange sweater and jeans. His hair is buzzed too-close to the scalp.
'Chris' has arrived.
There is some energetic movement as people greet him. I have no idea who he is, and I don't particularly care. I know he's another one of the guys from Rooftop, but I have seen them play, and I don't remember being too impressed. Besides, I'm here to see Ken.
Mark introduces me to "Haskell," which is apparently his last name, and the one by which his is most commonly referred. We shake hands and lock eyes. I am almost disturbed by the color and intensity of them. They are a shade of turquoise that I have never seen on a living thing before. I consider, momentarily, that he is moderately attractive.
"Wow," he says with a lopsided expression. "That's quite a firm handshake y'got there. You're like...Robocop!"
I falter, completely taken off guard. Did this guy, who I have known for a total of 30 seconds, just call me "Robocop?" Seriously?
I do what I do best. I scoff. My expression equal parts surprise and aggression.
" 'Robocop,' huh? Nice to meet you too."
He laughs, turns to Mark and company, starts talking about Karaoke at some bar nearby. Mark looks to me.
"You want to go to Karaoke later?"
No. I don't. I don't know these people, and I came here to see Ken. But Mark is doing me a favor by accompanying me tonight, and its clear that he is not at all interested in Ken (who, truthfully, is subpar, at best). He wants to go to Karaoke.
"Maybe," I say. He turns back to the group. I turn to watch Ken. "Haskell" appears at my side. He stands too close to me. Its as though he has no concept of personal space. It does not seem to phase him that we are strangers to eachother, and our only interaction this evening has not exactly gone smoothly.
"Do you want to get out of here and go do some karaoke?"
I laugh, trying to be nice, despite the "Robocop" remark that I haven't totally let go of yet.
"Ha. Did Mark put you up to this?" I ask.
"No. I put myself up to it. This guy sucks."
I am, once again, thrown by his brash, forthright attitude.
"Oh, come on." I say, using as much restraint as I can summon. "Be nice. He's not that bad."
"Yes. He is. I know this is a friend of yours, but he sucks."
I am now getting upset. This guy-- "Haskell"-- has alot of balls.
"Well, he's not exactly a friend of mine," I say, attempting to reroute the conversation. "He's the music teacher at my school."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Haskell snorts.
Now, I'm pissed. He's an asshole. He's just being a dick for the sake of being a dick. Who does he think he is?
"Hey, you guys can go to Karaoke. I'm not stopping you. But I'm here to see Ken."
My tone makes it clear that I am done talking to him. Fuck this guy.
Over the next half an hour or so, I catch glimpses and snippets of the conversation among "Haskell" and his cronies. Its like watching a bunch of highschool jocks gossip about the scrawny kid in gym class. They are undoubtedly making fun of Ken and Haskell is the obvious ringleader. I've had it.
I look him right in the eye.
"Look..." I fire, "I'm not sure what you feel your obligation is to stay here, but you can go at any time."
There. Gotcha.
Now its his turn to be caught off guard. To be given a dose of his own foul-tasting medicine. With a single glare, his expression changes from amusement to hostility. Without another word, he downs the remainder of his beer, slams the bottle down on the bar, and leaves--with far less pomp and circumstance than that with which he entered.
His friends look at me. I have clearly upset some balance. I can't tell if they are pissed at me for what has just transpired-- and frankly, I don't care.
I slug another beer, and am starting to feel drunk. Things seem okay with Asshole's cohorts. They are chatting with me. I apologize for being mean to their friend. They don't seem concerned.
"He was already having a bad night before he got here. Don't worry about it."
But....I am a little worried. I'm not sure why. I am definitely still agitated. I definitely still think he's an asshole. But part of me feels guilty. Maybe I was too harsh. He did start the Karaoke conversation off nicely.
Eventually, the Rooftop guys leave. Mark and I are alone. We chat. We close the bar waiting for Ken. Ken and I talk a bit, and Mark and I hit the road shortly after 2 a.m.
I bitch about Haskell the entire ride home. Mark, characteristically, remains neutral. Of course he does. He's fucking Ghandi.
The next day, I am surfing Myspace. I happen across Haskell on Mark's page. Something seizes me. Everyone I know seems to like this guy. He appears alot cooler on the internet than he does in person.
Maybe I should extend an olive branch. Its likely I will see him again at shows. No need for there to be any lingering hostility between us.
I send him a message:
"Hi. This is Amanda from the bar the other night. I just wanted to apologize if I came off as bitchy. Its just that Ken is a friend of mine, and I am of the opinion that if you have nothing nice to say about somone's friend, say nothing at all."
And thus , it began.