January 15: I Met a Girl

Letter: Mix
CD Number: 11
Track Number: 20

Song: “I Met a Girl” by Wheat off the homemade mix Plan: DIEGO

Rick is coming down the stairs of an old, but update three story brownstone. As he hits the final step he begins to speak.

RICK (Monologue directly to the audience, gesturing to the apartment behind him)

My buddy Derrick lives in there. Second floor. Nice place.

Pauses. Grimaces as he shouts/grunts.


Collects himself.

Between you and me…I’m pretty pissed at him. Don’t be telling him that though. It’ll pass by tomorrow I’m sure and there’s no need for him to know I was angry with him for some 6 hours one random Friday night. Okay?

Begins to walk down the sidewalk, with eyes on audience.

We were out tonight. I give Derrick hell all the time for not coming out because I’m single, he’s not, and it is the job of single people to make their coupled friends feel like being in a couple has made them either—

He pauses and ticks them off on his fingers.

A.)   Not cool anymore. This one’s easy: “Man, remember that time we closed down the Peg Board every night for a week. That was awesome! I think the last time we did anything like that was before Jillian was on the scene, right? Damn, you were fun back then. I mean, you are fun now, too. Just…different fun.
B.)    Selfish. “Dude, I know you’ve got a woman and that’s great because all of us love her, but I’m single and so are a lot of the other guys and we miss you man! We’ve just got our friends, you know…I got that having sex with a woman you love is magical and special and stuff, but come on. We’re still your buds and you’ve been totally ignoring us just to satisfy your conjugal needs, man.”
C.)    Whipped. This one’s ugly and plays upon stereotyped gender roles, but what do you want? Being single means lots of playing by stereotyped gender roles to get what you want or need. “No, I get it man. It’s cool. I don’t blame you at all. I know she’s in charge. I get that.”

I’m not proud that I do these things. I’m just aware and honest. That doesn’t make me a hero, but, you know, maybe it should.

Stars to walk again, in the opposite direction, still talking. After a few step, realizes his error and turns around walks the way he was initially going, without comment.

In any case, my passive aggressive moves eventually got to Derrick and he told his lady he was going out tonight. So away we went to this dive down the street, The Plank. I think it used to have a pirate theme when it first opened, but the sole traces of that are two wooden parrots that sit on either side of the bar and a sign in the men’s room that reads, “Shiver me timbers.” Which, admittedly even when the bar still had its theme intact, was kind of an odd signage quote and location choice.

Rick pauses to contemplate this, shrugs, and moves on.

So, we are out and we are having a good time. We talk about the old days, we talk about our exes and our sex lives with them.

Pauses on that for a moment

And we do so in a very reverent manner because woman are deserving of respect and kindness and we would never wish to besmirch their legacies by speaking crudely of our intimate times with them.

Pauses again, turn directly to audience and shrugs a bit.

Right then…good, good. That’s out of the way then. Back to the bar.

Begins to walk once more.

We are in a groove and it just like old times. This is fun. Real fun. More fun than I’ve gotten to have with Derrick in awhile. And then it happens. Over Derrick’s shoulder, I see…her.

Rick mock faints before popping back up to his knees.

“Here” is this beautiful girl. Just absolutely beautiful. She has like…like perfect cheekbones. And her hair is this striking auburn shade. I am guessing it’s not her real color, but who cares? I pluck my eyebrows, you know. We all have are ways of trying to alter evolution or genetics or destiny or whatever to stick out. Heck, when you come right down to it, diet and exercise are acts of body modification. So let’s not be holier than thou, alright?

Completes getting back to his feet.

Anyway, the big deal with the hair wasn’t even the color. It was the style. Her hair was in ringlets. RINGLETS! Does anyone even do that anymore? I don’t know, I’m no expert. But it kills me. Just slays me. So sexy…don’t know why, it just is.

So Derrick’s talking, right? And I think he’s moved on to talking about his current lady. It’s like 12:15 and we are both 4 or 5 drinks in, so the timing makes sense. And normally, I would want to hear this. I know that’s weird, but there it is. I have always been intrigued by the way my friend’s girlfriends and wives—yes, I have to say wives now…so very old—are in the sack. I have no interest in finding out first hand...that would be wrong. But there is something undeniably interesting about it.

But I can’t concentrate on what he has to say because I am just following this woman around the bar. And it is making me even more infatuated with her. She’s s bouncy.

Stops, looks directly at the audience, shakes his head.

Not like that. You’re better than that, people. I mean, personality-wise. At one point, a friend of her’s made a joke and this gorgeous lady blushed. Just. Perfectly.

I’m not usually one who just sees a girl at a bar and is like, “Hot.” Honest…that’s not me. I’ve never been good at the bar scene and I rarely get drawn in without some sort of conversation, but this woman…I was just sideswiped.

Long pause.

But Derrick was there, you know? Derrick who I’d harassed for at least three weeks to get him out and drinking by himself. Derrick who was currently using his hands to demonstrate a sexual position that I was very unfamiliar but certainly seemed to be something worth practicing going forward.

Another pause. Claps hands together.

So...I didn’t go over to her. I let her be. I stayed with Derrick because…I don’t know…loyalty? Derailing future guilt? Doesn’t really matter, I suppose. I sat with him and I still had fun. I did. But forty minutes later, I looked up just in time to see her slipping into her jacket and walking out of the bar.

And that’s why I’m mad at Derrick. Which is dumb. And which is why I know I’ll be over it tomorrow.

In a week, her face will get little fuzzy in my mind, I won’t remember what color her shirt was—magenta—or what I believe was the smell of her perfume when she leaned over the bar some 10 feet away to order a drink. In a month…she’ll probably just be a hairstyle. In a year, she’ll just be another woman at a bar one night who I can remember I thought was attractive but couldn’t tell you why. Just another “almost.”

Long pause, rocks on his heels. Turns away from audience and begins to walk off. Stops. Shakes head

I tell you though. That blush. Those ringlets. Damn…just damn.

So, what do you think? Enjoy it? If so, feel free to follow me on Twitter (@UnGajje) for various bon mots and links directing you to the newest updates on this site as well as my other various writing gigs (Marvel, Complaint of the Week at the Living Room Times, and New Paris Press, set to debut shortly although information may be available before then here). If it was not so enjoyable for you, feel free to tell me that too. And still check me out at all those things above. One of them you are bound to like more.

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