Man of Fashion.
I'm just going to let this gospel song chill on repeat. The weekend went over well, but not without typical, typical glitches and gaffes. Somehow our ship always sails, despite uncertain circumstances. Who knows. It's exhausting. I had to babysit the talent. I was perched outside of the green room, barking orders at an intern to be his personal liaison. I had to coddlingly answer all of his persnickety questions. I had to confer with the crazed waitress that his 20:30 cup of coffee was being brewed at 20:15 and of course he came out at 20:21 asking for it anyway when she was not two steps behind him delivering the damned thing. The turnout was fab, I wore a jaunty seagrass fedora that I purchased last minute the morning we left. I've always loved the look of a chick with her hair pinned up under a fedora. The mosquitoes were fucking biblical. They were in our room, in our cars, I even wonder if I smuggled some in my luggage. That's Mississippi for you. We locked ourselves out of our room Friday night while going on a beerwalk, and had to persuade a male intern with his own room to let us stay in the bed with him. Early that night he had told me I was his favorite, but I already knew.
Sometimes I thrive in moments of crisis. It still exhausts me. On the day of our arrival, there was a lone, age-ambiguous fellow strutting across the field / courtyard at our inn looking delightfully waifish and interesting. I suppose I didn't expect someone in town to look like that. He appeared to be the superintendent, or at least I guessed he worked there. He reappeared Saturday night in the midst of the damage control as our sound tech, and when I heard his name I absolutely shivered. I shook his hand but remained prim and nervous. I promptly relayed the message to my intern-assistant to announce to the other girls that I had claimed him. That's what you have to do sometimes. There was a weird, older British professor who kept ogling me. I wondered about him, but he was a bad dancer. There was a very fratty guy who told me he worked in a bank but had just finished his first novel chatting me up Friday and again Saturday. He wasn't very attractive to me, but witty and well-educated, and he lives in town so I gave him my number anyway. He is like all of the other men here: slightly self-effacing and funny, as if begrudgingly affecting humility, but totally conventional. I wondered if dialogue with him came so easily to me because it's like a script I recite on a regular basis: How To Talk To A Normal Man. I negged him expertly and he promptly negged me back. He closed out the night with another one, though, which was ultimately a coup de grace. I smirked curtly in response and didn't see him for the rest of the night. It was a remark about my dancing. Don't ever do that.
I don't think I had a single moment to myself. Nothing. I would hide behind the podium at the door and eat greasy sandwiches hunched over and silent like a greedy rodent. My over-expressioned face probably betrayed too many things to other staff, because they sort of just stopped talking to me for a while. I recovered later. But I was hustling like a shark. I had the venue mapped in my head, I had three points of interest where I was keeping tabs on fellows, if not just to amuse myself. I couldn't seem to get the sound guy's attention, so I just sort of gave up for a while. My coworker said she'd seen him outside, showing off his Chevelle. I worried that she would go after him. I don't remember how exactly, but at the end of the night I had my chance. I basically cornered him, and then invited myself to ride in his car. I don't know if it was just the whiskey, but I felt like I was getting away with it. I hadn't really felt like that in a while. Not with one that I really I wanted.
Turns out there was an perfectly magical bar right there near the property where we were staying. It was closing up, but he knew the bartender and got us a whiskey anyway. I'm not sure when I first asked him to kiss me, but I always ask because I'm painfully forward when I want something. Unfortunately for everyone, it tends to work for me. He was bored and happy to have his Chevelle back, so we went for a drive. He smokes lovingly like Tomcat, with this expertise and rugged ease, like he could be doing anything-cleaning a gun, riding a bicycle, working on a transmission, while doing it. It reveals authenticity. He's a musician. I never like musicians. We talked for a long time in a repurposed silo. We chugged around downtown, we drove too fast through the soy fields, right at dawn, when the sky was mostly orange except for a stripe of purple fog. He pulled over into a dirt inlet and we got in the backseat like teenagers of another time. It was basically daylight when we re-emerged, and sat on the hood looking out over the fields with the fog burning away, and "Street Fighting Man" played on the car stereo. I slipped into his airstream trailer and went to sleep. It was good to remember all of things I love about Mississippi, and re-experience them in one epic tableau. I looked the wrong way out of the open window, just to sense danger. Just to look at that sky, which is not like other skies. It seems I was just bitching about not having a suitable summer tryst, not having anyone fun or any fields to run through naked. Disgusting creeks to waddle in. Dogs to play with. Something that enables me to behave entirely unlike myself. Something that keeps me from worrying about marriage and careers and what kitchen appliances I don't have. I still require that in the summers of my twenties; I have found it.
Sometimes I thrive in moments of crisis. It still exhausts me. On the day of our arrival, there was a lone, age-ambiguous fellow strutting across the field / courtyard at our inn looking delightfully waifish and interesting. I suppose I didn't expect someone in town to look like that. He appeared to be the superintendent, or at least I guessed he worked there. He reappeared Saturday night in the midst of the damage control as our sound tech, and when I heard his name I absolutely shivered. I shook his hand but remained prim and nervous. I promptly relayed the message to my intern-assistant to announce to the other girls that I had claimed him. That's what you have to do sometimes. There was a weird, older British professor who kept ogling me. I wondered about him, but he was a bad dancer. There was a very fratty guy who told me he worked in a bank but had just finished his first novel chatting me up Friday and again Saturday. He wasn't very attractive to me, but witty and well-educated, and he lives in town so I gave him my number anyway. He is like all of the other men here: slightly self-effacing and funny, as if begrudgingly affecting humility, but totally conventional. I wondered if dialogue with him came so easily to me because it's like a script I recite on a regular basis: How To Talk To A Normal Man. I negged him expertly and he promptly negged me back. He closed out the night with another one, though, which was ultimately a coup de grace. I smirked curtly in response and didn't see him for the rest of the night. It was a remark about my dancing. Don't ever do that.
I don't think I had a single moment to myself. Nothing. I would hide behind the podium at the door and eat greasy sandwiches hunched over and silent like a greedy rodent. My over-expressioned face probably betrayed too many things to other staff, because they sort of just stopped talking to me for a while. I recovered later. But I was hustling like a shark. I had the venue mapped in my head, I had three points of interest where I was keeping tabs on fellows, if not just to amuse myself. I couldn't seem to get the sound guy's attention, so I just sort of gave up for a while. My coworker said she'd seen him outside, showing off his Chevelle. I worried that she would go after him. I don't remember how exactly, but at the end of the night I had my chance. I basically cornered him, and then invited myself to ride in his car. I don't know if it was just the whiskey, but I felt like I was getting away with it. I hadn't really felt like that in a while. Not with one that I really I wanted.
Turns out there was an perfectly magical bar right there near the property where we were staying. It was closing up, but he knew the bartender and got us a whiskey anyway. I'm not sure when I first asked him to kiss me, but I always ask because I'm painfully forward when I want something. Unfortunately for everyone, it tends to work for me. He was bored and happy to have his Chevelle back, so we went for a drive. He smokes lovingly like Tomcat, with this expertise and rugged ease, like he could be doing anything-cleaning a gun, riding a bicycle, working on a transmission, while doing it. It reveals authenticity. He's a musician. I never like musicians. We talked for a long time in a repurposed silo. We chugged around downtown, we drove too fast through the soy fields, right at dawn, when the sky was mostly orange except for a stripe of purple fog. He pulled over into a dirt inlet and we got in the backseat like teenagers of another time. It was basically daylight when we re-emerged, and sat on the hood looking out over the fields with the fog burning away, and "Street Fighting Man" played on the car stereo. I slipped into his airstream trailer and went to sleep. It was good to remember all of things I love about Mississippi, and re-experience them in one epic tableau. I looked the wrong way out of the open window, just to sense danger. Just to look at that sky, which is not like other skies. It seems I was just bitching about not having a suitable summer tryst, not having anyone fun or any fields to run through naked. Disgusting creeks to waddle in. Dogs to play with. Something that enables me to behave entirely unlike myself. Something that keeps me from worrying about marriage and careers and what kitchen appliances I don't have. I still require that in the summers of my twenties; I have found it.