It was almost 12:30 last night when the phone rang. I didn't think it could be for me because I didn't recognize the cell phone number that showed on the screen, so I didn't answer. Then something told me that it was for me. Sure enough, I saw his name on my caller i.d.
I tried to call him back but our phone was tied up. Shit. That meant mom was talking to him. Now she's usually pretty cool-when she's awake. If the phone woke her up I would probably have to undo some damage. My mind immediately began running, imagining what she had said. I felt like a teenage girl whose mom just said something harsh to the dude she was crushing on.
So I called my mom. "Oh, I told him that you must be asleep," she said. I asked what he had wanted. "He wanted a ride home." There it was. Didn't take me but three seconds to figure out how the night was going to play out.
I thought about not calling him back. But the truth is, male energy in my life is scarce. It was obvious that he was at the bar when he answered. He went outside and said, "I told your mom not to wake you up." I told him I wasn't asleep. "I called you because I need a ride home. And I'm a fucking idiot because that's not very nice. *pause* So I'm sorry. But I did tell her not to wake you up. Just forget about it," he said, sounding like a child who really wants a toy, works up the nerve to ask his mom for it, all the while knowing that he isn't going to get it. 
I told him that I would see if mom would come and sit with the girls, which I knew she would because she likes him. And then I was on my way.
I miss my bar. Not because of the alcohol. No, that has nothing to do with it. It's the people I miss. I adore the owner/bartender. He is very special to me. And the old regulars. It is the first place I sang. It is the place I was hired to sing. The people are just everyday joes and have always been so damned nice and supportive of me. I love them all. It's always nice to go back there, regardless of the circumstances. And it's even lovelier that I could walk in dressed in sweats, a ratty old tee, and a two day ponytail scrunched up on the back of my head like a bun. Oh, and no bra; I wasn't wearing a bra.
He came staggering out the door just as I was about to open it. "I have looked like a hundred times," he said. And he probably had. Then he asked if I wanted to go or stay for awhile. "Hey," he said, swaying back and forth and pointing toward the door, "how about staying and having a beer? Would you like to do that?" And yeah, I would like that.
I walked in, scoping the place out for people I knew. He began going up and down the bar, looking for two stools together. I found one beside my old girl Nancy and plopped down after exchanging hugs. And I turned to my right to look at Joe while he was trying to explain to P-no,  PastMan is what I shall call him- that he would just slide down a stool instead of squeezing another one in.
The bartender pulled his usual trick with me. He always acts so aloof and uninterested. But it took him maybe 20 seconds to make his way to me. A thousand times I've been in that bar, and a thousand times Richard has approached me the same way. Once he was in front of me, he put his hands on the bar, leaned in, looked at me with raised eyes (he's a short guy), and grins a grin that has the tendency to make everyone in the place think that we, at some point, have either been hardcore and welcome lovers or will be that night. And without restraint, I grin the same kind of grin right back at him. (I could write an entire post on the chemistry between me and him. The beauty of it is that we probably could be hardcore and welcome lovers if we could throw away all the inhibitions and "what if"s that have been sitting between us for the past 15 years. And, his name is Dick. No, really, it is. And since I'm being honest, the fact that he's close to a foot shorter than me would be a bit of an obstacle for me too.)
I had a beer. Well, half a beer because PastMan only had a dollar to pay for a two dollar beer, so he poured half of it down the bar drain. *roll eyes* And then I had another beer. In record time. And I was quickly reminded of why I no longer drink. I like it too much and didn't want to ever stop. But I digress....
So PastMan and I sat amongst the crowd though a world apart. And it went exactly as I knew it would. He started asking why he had never been good enough for me at any point in the past 15 years. I began explaining that never in the past 15 years were both of us sober. One has always been the driver while the other one has always been in bad shape. Blah blah blah. "There's just something about you that drives me fucking crazy," he exclaimed. "Yeah, that's usually what happens to a dude when he's around me too long: he goes crazy."
It's a shame he was so drunk because I dropped some heavy and enlightened shit into his lap last night that he will never remember. *snort* We talked about failed love and unrequited love. We spoke of why we had taken seemingly infinite detours because of love, each one leading us around but back around to each other at some point. We keep intersecting. He was all into his why am I never good enough for you space while I was in the perhaps you should approach and try me on during a stint of sobriety space.
I played this repetitive and predictable game of his until I grew tired. Then I played with the bartender for awhile. We talked about the dead inspection sticker on my truck. I knew he would be able to contribute mechanically to the cause *smile*. And he did end up walking outside with me and disconnecting that light I had broken with the girls' bike handles back in September. I no longer have a dangling and glowing red bar trying to hypnotize the drivers behind me now. That's good stuff in my world.
And then we left.
I don't know why I play this game with him. Okay, I lied. I *do* know why I play this game with him. It's because I like him. I have always liked him. Fifteen years ago I would get drunk and he would borrow the bartender's car and drive me home. We would sit outside and neck for hours (literally). Then after a few *very* bad relationship choices on my part, we tried it again years later. I would go home with him from the bar and we would neck for hours. Our intent with each other for the past 15 years has been to have crazy unbridled sex.
We never have. I have spent quite a few hours in his bed, but we've never been lovers.
He's physically beautiful. He truly has an abdomen that you could bounce a quarter on. He is tall and sleek. He is bald these days, but I know his older brother and realize it's genetics. *grin* But he's beautiful. Physically.
As for upbringing, he is probably the only true gentleman that I have ever been in the company of. He insists on opening car doors and bar doors *laugh*. He is all about the chivalry, which is simultaneously refreshing and annoying to me. And he is just...well...sweet. He wants the happily ever after. He wants to be that prince that rides off into the sunset on his white stallion, beautiful maiden's arms wrapped around his waist and head against his shoulder.
And I don't believe in fairy tales.
I do believe in doing things for people I like, and I like him. On some level, I love him beyond the cliche' we're all brothers and sisters worthy of each other's love stuff.I always have and I know without a doubt that I always will. He told me on the way home that he knew how wrong it was to not talk to me for weeks (note: he's the dude that I mentioned in a post the other day--the one who never called back after the madness of talking to me during the girls' bath) and then call for a ride home from the bar. This was said at the same exact moment that the words "I'm flattered to know that you think enough of me to call me and the smile that brought was worth the gas" were leaving my lips.
So we arrived at his apartment at 2:30 a.m. I told him I was going home. And then the waa waa started. "You can come in for 10 minutes. Ten minutes. Let's just sit in silence for ten minutes." That made me laugh. The only time we have ever been silent with each other is when our tongues are tied-- around each other's.
So he kept on and on. I pointed out to him that I had two girls at home that would be up in five hours, not to mention a mother that was sitting up in my living room at that obscene hour of the morning. But he kept on and kept on. And I folded.
Ten minutes. I insisted. And then I bitched the whole time up the stairs. "You're a bully. The only reason I am walking up these stairs is because if I don't, you'll turn this into some kind of I can't believe you don't like me, what isn't good enough about me for you waa waa fest. You're a fucking emotional bully." I didn't mention that I like him, which had a small bit to do with why I was following him to his place. Or that I have been craving male energy for the past week in any shape, so my little visit would satisfy that need. He didn't need to know any of that.
As soon as I walked into his living room I was filled with a sadness beyond belief. The last time I was there, he had a coffee table. This morning, however, he had an empty beer bottle holder. Empties of various shapes and sizes were littered all over the table and the floor. And my heart felt as if it had been replaced with stone.
He was apologizing about the mess. I asked him what the hell was going on. "I'm depressed," he said, shoving bottles out of the way so I would have a place to put my cigarettes.
"This doesn't help, dude. Really. Stop this. You have to. Wow."
He began mumbling about how he doesn't have anything else to do. I began to pray for him.
As I was taking off my coat, I looked down onto the floor and saw a song scratched on a piece of paper. I picked it up and began looking at it. He wanted to be embarrassed about it, but my singing is what he loves most about me. It helps him to imagine that I'm some sort of sultry dark diva; my singing is why I'm sexy to him. So I pretty much told him to get over it and get his guitar.
I played his song. And then I sang his song. And then I did the only thing I knew to do--I played and sang my songs. Every once in a while I would look at him to drive the lyrics home, but most of the time I would stare into nothingness and allow myself to remember the reasons I had written those songs in the first place.
He sat there, humming and complimenting me. Repeatedly telling me that he has always loved me. And I sang. Because I didn't have the fix for him. I knew that trying to *really* talk to him was out of the question. Hell, he was so drunk that he will probably spend a good bit of his time today trying to believe that it really was me that drove him home last night.
My ten minutes of silence turned into an hour of music. Just the two of us. And the elephant in the room. The elephant that held our baggage in his trunk. The baggage of why we had never been anything but 15 years of failed drunken attempts at making love. The baggage of past relationships yet still-like-fresh hurts that has interrupted our attempts of making love.
I don't know how to explain what it is between us. Both of us want the same thing. Both of us are very explicit in that aspect. Both of us have the same thoughts about the other. But both of us have suitcases full of hurt and disappointment.
I am lightening the load of my suitcase every day, taking the hurts out and blowing the dust off of them, remembering them almost fondly and then throwing them in the trash.
His suitcase is filled with the added weight of empty beer bottles of various shapes and sizes. I would be willing to help him carry it. But I can't do much about the elephant sitting in the middle of his chest.