These were the thoughts that drained Gabby of the steakhouse’s wooden handle butter knives, the snappy and accurate waitress, and Tonic’s “If You Could Only See” that played over the ceiling’s loudspeakers. Her expectations were ill advised, both in appearance and happenstance. And for as much as she would embrace true love’s uncertainty, she wanted the certainty of those supposed romantic moments and the promise of a Dermot Mulroney smile, a Clark Gable elegance, and the Greek god bod that falls under the category of “welcomed, but not necessary.”
She sat there, pondering an excuse that would save her from this night, and maybe all those that would follow. But before she could concoct a decent way with which to unveil period cramps, Jeff Konisky walked back from the bathroom.
“They got one of those hand dryers that you put your hands in and air just shoots at ‘em. It’s like, futuristic and shit.”
While an interesting depiction, Gabby was uninterested, and in a moment of panic, slid out of the booth and said-
“I have to go. It’s my… I’m sick.”
She threw down a 20 dollar bill, as if the monetary could soften this blow, and walked out just as Sixpence None The Richer’s “There She Goes” began to blare its irony.
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It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. Gabby was caught in the middle, having spent countless hours choosing the appropriate wardrobe, finding the right topic to discuss, and deciding whether or not she was going to put out on the first date, pending the time gap between her last sexual encounter and the grading scale of how much she was enjoying the company of her date.
Four months had passed without so much as a kiss on her face. She had a good face, but a handful of less than perfect dates.
There was Darren Kimmel with whom she was simply smitten. Not because of Darren’s intelligence or humanitarian efforts or even sense of humor. It was Darren’s dimples placed on gorgeous olive-skinned cheeks. It was his dark hair that shadowed mysterious eyes. It was the fitted suit that most men his age couldn’t afford or realize was pertinent to having an “it factor.” But then he spoke-
“I sort of think it’s sad how some people never make it out of the United States.”
In some way, that statement was true, but digging back to it’s origin was the truth that Darren felt he was better than everyone else. And he did. His summer vacations were spent in the Tropics. His winters were hibernated in upstate New York. And when he spoke of sailing or white water rafting or dining with “so and so”, you were not as impressed as you were nauseated.
Then there was Kyle Lofton. He did have a sense of humor and the humble beginnings that breed grounded, kind-hearted people. He wasn’t self -minded like Darren, but perhaps he was a bit mindless. There was no door held open, no chair pushed in, no “You look great” with charming grin. Kyle Lofton apparently had not paid attention to the chick flicks or magazine quizzes, because he was clueless to date etiquette and possibly even human etiquette. This was made clear when Gabby noticed his thumb graze the sauce off of his manicotti plate, sucking his finger clean but leaving a minor print on the corner of his mouth. It should have been cute, but it wasn’t.
And who could forget the tall tale of Blake Freebie who made the leap from talking about his dead dog, Quentin, to slinging his tongue toward Gabby’s unprepared mouth. It didn’t make contact, thank God, but it reminded her that the inventory of dreamy suitors may have run dry. Dream had become the operative.
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“Where have all the gentlemen gone?” asked Gabby, plopping herself on the couch. With sweatpants, a workout tank top, and unwashed hair, Gabby had almost given up men in place of key lime pie flavored Yoplait Whips and Modern Family reruns.
By this point, most of Gabby’s plights and pains of grumpfests past had fallen on deaf ears, but Monica did not like to see Gabby spend her Friday nights with a plastic spoon and Netflix instant streaming.
“Gentlemen still exist. You have to find them. If a good man wasn’t a rarity, he wouldn’t be good.”
Gabby took in Monica’s true statement then discarded it with the plastic spoon, boomeranged to the coffee table below.
“Yeah, that helps me,” said Gabby.
“Well maybe this will,” replied Monica, setting a small card on Gabby’s shoulder.
“My boss gave me a gift card to Macy’s. While I could use it, I don’t need it. And you need to get out of this effing apartment.”
Monica slammed the door in punctuation of her statement. Gabby knew Monica had only a month before moving in with Greg. She knew that their last month together would be spent with coming and going, and that if they were only to see each other momentarily, it shouldn’t be filled with bitching and bereavement. Then again, Monica had her gentleman. The least she could do was the Macy’s gift card.
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Immune to the impromptu shopping spree and the joy of a free gift, Gabby settled on a hat that she’d never wear and the same face she wore on the couch, only an hour prior.
On her way out the revolving door, a dirty blonde head of hair followed with an intended jog, soon calling after her with an “Excuse me” and holding out Gabby’s gift card between two fingers like a cigarette.
His eyes were icy blue. His smile was contagious. And his jaw line wasn’t fair.
“There’s still about 30 dollars left on this card.”
Gabby finally understood the placement of this gift, and that it led to so much more than needless headwear.
It led to a date the very next night, with strong conversations and truthful answers that may have surprised both parties. They laughed with the heartiness of their meals and were genuine with the pleasantry of their actions. There were no grandiose moments of shoes fitting heels, suit coats covering puddles, or upside down kisses from crime fighters. It was reality that Gabby wanted but hadn’t experienced. Maybe the Greg and Monica days weren’t far off.
That night, she woke Monica up to relay the events of the evening, from the way he spoke about his mother to the fact that he didn’t have a Facebook to the way he ordered two desserts for them to split. How could he know she liked key lime pie?
Spinning and swimming in romance, and the potential for a truly turned leaf, Gabby could hardly sleep – especially when she found his driver’s license in her coat. She had gripped it in deep laughter for his expression of surprise, and his “hair don’t” that had since become a hair do. But she had apparently forgotten to hand it back.
Maybe it was her endless thoughts of him disguised in “he needs this to drive.” In any event, she found herself headed to the license card’s given address the next day to return a card to him just as he had to her. It was spontaneous, it was impulsive, it was full circle – and thus, monumental.
When she reached his downtown apartment door, it was answered by a Vietnamese teenage boy with a joint in his mouth and a birdcage in his hand. “He’s in the family room.”
Gabby couldn’t even smile. The hallway was dark, the music was faintly electronic, and the stench was thick like a dust covered, chain-smoked comic book store. Did this guy still live here? Does he know the creepy Asian kid with the birdcage? Was she walking into a rape?
She walked into another birdcage on the floor of the family room. The patchy, ratty carpet was covered in birdcages. An old wooden boxed TV set sat on the floor, playing a muted scene from a pornographic film. The music was no longer faint, rocking an electronic beat with a twisted violent vocalist. The coffee table had used cigarettes, a string of condoms, a gallon jug of Hawaiian Punch, and a mirror of lined cocaine.
Mr. Right of last night fame was sitting in a pair of white underpants on the leather couch. His nostrils raw, his icy blue eyes dulled, and his smile wilted to a mouth with a red stained fruit punch stache.
“Did you bring the birds?” he asked, immediately laughing and realizing, “I know you!” he shouted, tossing the mirror as a frisbee and shattering it against a nearby radiator.
Gabby just turned, a speed walk turning into a run, passing the Vietnamese dude, who looked vaguely sympathetic toward her revelation.
|||||
Waiting for the bus at Kedzie, Gabby was back into the habit. Facing the outside world with her Yoplait and sweats, she no longer cared, or at least fought to maintain that very stance. That’s when Monica pulled up and opened her passenger side door.
“You want a ride?”
And in this act, Gabby was reminded that she would miss Monica’s presence, however helpful, and that this ride to work meant far more than the Macy’s gift card.
“Do you want to call in sick to work today?” continued Monica, almost looking teary-eyed but smiling.
“No, I’m fine. Still recovering, but… wait. What about you? Aren’t you spending the weekend at Greg’s parent’s place?” Gabby inquired. A tear now formed and fell from Monica. The smile also turned to a painful laugh.
Greg had cheated on her and nobody, maybe Greg included, had seen it coming. So that day, Gabby and Monica were in search of a distraction. They took the train around the city of Chicago, partaking in a much needed pub crawl that would end in them vomiting up cheesecake.
The gentlemen were put on hold, but it was always when they were not looking that they were found.
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Next time on The Hindsight Bridge: “To Austria in Loving Memory.” Robbie Pieschke constructs the story of the well-to-do David Westlock, who, after his grandmother’s passing, is flown from LA to the Alps to inherit her furtive condo in the mountains. Quickly, David discovers that traces of his grandmother’s life are not unappealing and may be reinvented. Revisit on July 25th for more! Also, be sure to add us on Facebook for updates, announcements, and spam pornography…just kidding about the updates: http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Hindsight-Bridge/191503444224012.
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