Besides being undignified, a night out with those two was as predictable as finding cockroaches under her kitchen sink. Both would get themselves stewed to the gills, inevitably going home with whomever they determined to be the evening’s best catch, leaving her to fend for herself. And there was always the strong possibility Darlene would take offense to an insulting remark—real or imaginary—and get the lot of them thrown out.
“But see, that’s the reason we got all dolled up,” Rochelle countered, undeterred. “The three of us will look so fabulous, one drink is all we’ll need to buy—the rest will come from our flock of admirers.” Priscilla arched an eyebrow and turned a questioning eye to Darlene, who merely shook her head.
“Oh c’mon, Darlene—you know we only had to buy two drinks each all night, and that was only because we weren’t so dressed up and the place wasn’t very crowded. It’s Friday night, the place will be packed with rich, hunky men, and we look like a million bucks,” Rochelle said defensively. Darlene shrugged.
“I haven’t got any better ideas,” she said to Priscilla. “Besides, Rochelle’s right—there’ll be men galore, all of them on the make. Let’s just go, have a few drinks, check out the prospects. We’ll spot your drinks until we tap into Rochelle’s goldmine of men. What have you got to lose? It sure beats the hell out of sitting around this place all night.”
“No, I really can’t. I’ve got a ton of laundry I need to do—”
“Do it on the weekend. The only good thing about working at that dive is having weekends off, so why waste a Friday night on something you can do on Saturday?” Darlene argued. “We’re not leaving you, so if you won’t go, we’ll sit here drinking rum till we pass out on your sofa.” Priscilla got the distinct impression this was no idle threat.
“Yeah, Sammy—let’s find something wild and sexy for you to wear and then we’ll blow this joint,” Rochelle said.
Priscilla hadn’t yet agreed to going, but at this point there seemed little reason to fight them any longer. She took another swallow of rum for bravery, and then hopped out of her chair in an effort to head Rochelle off at her closet. She was crazy to hit the streets with Darlene and Rochelle, but she wasn’t stupid enough to let them dress her.
“You mind if I put on some music while you get dressed? It’ll help to put us in the right mood,” Rochelle asked, her inner rhythm machine already making her body jiggle and sway.
“Sure, put on anything you want,” Priscilla said, thankful for the diversion. She was poking through her closet when she glanced over her shoulder just as Rochelle picked out an Absent Among Us CD.
“Wow, I haven’t listened to these guys in ages,” she said, showing the jewel case to Darlene, who had relocated herself to Priscilla’s bed.
“On second thought, anything but that. I’m a little burned out on them at the moment,” Priscilla said, relieving Rochelle of the disc and stashing it at the end of the row.
“Oh, for sure. Those dudes are so late-eighties,” Darlene said dismissively, as she checked her makeup in her compact mirror. She added more taupe and white eye shadow, then thickened up her eyeliner for good measure. Rochelle found the only CD left behind by Brawny, by a band so passé, the few first chords set Priscilla’s teeth on edge.
“Darlene, could you please assist Rochelle with the music selection?” Priscilla asked, barely resisting the urge to stick her fingers in her ears.
“Gladly. Girl, you got lousy taste when it comes to tunes,” Darlene said, as she moved a gyrating Rochelle out of the way.
“What do you mean—this is good stuff,” Rochelle said, insulted that her choice of music had been preempted twice.
“I’m glad you think so—you can have it,” Priscilla said, shedding her jeans in exchange for her all-purpose black pants.
“Really? Cool.”
“I’m surprised you’d even have something like that,” Darlene said, popping in a disc that finally won Priscilla’s approval.
“It was Brawny’s, not mine,” Priscilla said, pulling her T-shirt off and slipping a gray V-neck sweater over her head.
“We saw Brawny last weekend,” Rochelle said from the bathroom, where she was fussing with her bleached-blond mop.
“Yeah, he was with that Beverly chick. I don’t like her. I don’t think Brawny really does, either,” Darlene added. “Soon as she went to the restroom, he told us how much he missed you and how he’d take you back in a heartbeat.”
“How magnanimous of him,” Priscilla said dryly. “When did you say you saw him?”
“Last Thursday or Friday, at Symanski’s Pool Emporium.”
Priscilla eyed herself in the mirror. Well, that explains his surprise visit the other day, she reckoned as she removed the clip from her dark brown hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. She ran a brush through it quickly before twisting it up in a messy topknot, which she then held in place with a chopstick.
“He’s not so bad,” Darlene said, as she leafed through one of Priscilla’s magazines. “I think it was a mistake to give him the heave-ho. Good men like him are hard to find.”
There was a peculiar tone in her voice that Priscilla found amusing. “Oh, please. The guy drove me nuts. You’re welcome to him if you think he’s so great.” Priscilla watched Darlene’s reflection in the mirror, noting her sly smile as she received Priscilla’s blessing to move in on her ex. To women like Darlene, a good body and a decent face were all that mattered. Priscilla applied a thin coat of lip-gloss and grabbed her denim jacket. “Okay, let’s get this over with,” she said.
The looks her bland attire generated told her she had a tough battle ahead of her. Darlene searched her closet until she located a black miniskirt, while Rochelle unearthed a black lace top from the depths of her dresser.
In the end, the only thing that survived the revamp was the denim jacket. Both fashion experts agreed it looked “stylishly funky” with the dressier black things. Even her comfortable platforms were vetoed, replaced by black pointy-toe pumps she hadn’t worn in years. Her patience wore out completely when they came at her with their battery of cosmetics. Wisely, her well-meaning but taste-impaired friends backed off. With one yank of the chopstick, they declared the look complete.
The cocktail waitress set down their drinks with ill-concealed disdain. A tiff nearly ensued when she insisted on being paid rather than running a tab, but Rochelle was quick to fork over the cash, giving her a conspicuously large tip for her trouble.
“To girls’ night out,” she said, raising her Cosmopolitan to Darlene’s Long Island Ice Tea and Priscilla’s Margarita. Rochelle took a curious sip, having never ordered that drink before. She didn’t particularly care for the taste, but it had a very sophisticated sound to it and it was a lovely shade of pink. It made her feel quite ‘cosmopolitan’ herself to be holding such a cocktail in a high-class watering hole.
Darlene was unusually quiet; Priscilla figured the run-in with the waitress had probably stuck in her craw. For her part, Priscilla was relieved to find the place they’d chosen to be far more evolved than the hootenanny joint they had dragged her to last time, though she felt just as out of place here. Whereas they had stood out as ridiculously over-dressed at Abner’s, here they were regarded as wayward ‘bridge and tunnel’ slags—impossibly low-class, but doable in a pinch.
They had already received many cursory glances from men who automatically relegated them to the ‘last call’ emergency list. Apparently Priscilla was the only one of the three who picked up on the vibes their entrance had generated. Vexed that she had not managed to circumvent this degrading situation, she decided to hang tight and cut out once the others found some new playmates for the evening.
Though Rochelle’s Cosmopolitan was not exactly to her taste, she did manage to dispense with it in short order. As the glass became lighter, she began to cast about for possible benefactors. She had been disappointed that there had been no room at the bar; she caught sight of Matthew, the bartender she was sweet on, but she
had been unable to catch his eye.
After a few minutes of casting hopeful but unreturned glances, Rochelle took her almost empty glass to stand near the bar, where she received the sought-after offer in practically no time.
Darlene’s mood began to improve as she sipped her heady concoction, while Priscilla virtually disappeared into the upholstery, absorbed in her own thoughts. Just as Rochelle was being led out to the dance floor by a tall, chino-clad Yuppie, Darlene received a tap on the shoulder by a guy who exemplified her ideal man: tallish, broad across the chest, longish hair, minimal I.Q., and as much out of his element as she was. With a wink to Priscilla and one last slurp of her cocktail for confidence, Darlene was gone.
Priscilla sat on the high-backed banquette like an orphaned child amidst the crush of bodies and a pulsating din, wondering idly how long to wait before she bolted, and whether it was really necessary to let her friends know. They would only talk her into staying and she was loath to be in that environment a minute longer.
She was on the verge of escaping, when the sight of a man she mistook for Phil froze her to the banquette. She was greatly relieved when the man turned and looked right through her. But soon the feeling of relief was replaced with a vague sense of disappointment. Damn, she cursed herself, how did I let a guy like Phil get under my skin?
Losing Phil’s patronage was a blow to her. Without his foolhardy generosity, she wouldn’t have the financial cushion, the first she’d had in a long time. But there was more to it than the loss of roughly four hundred dollars a month. As curious and slightly embarrassing as she found his prolific placemat art, it was going to feel strange not to find these little offerings in her purse at the end of the day.
And what was she supposed to do with her massive collection now? It was one thing to save personal mementos from the dustbin when the one who’d given them to her was still very much in her life. But what would it mean to hold onto the relics of an acquaintanceship that never really got off the ground? It would be pitiful, that’s what it would be; a sad show of sentimentality.
Priscilla sighed and took a sip of her watery Margarita. If she was going to come clean with her feelings, she’d have to confess she’d become fond of Phil’s oddball ways. There was something endearing about the way he doodled on placemats like an overgrown child in a tailor-made suit.
To be fair, there really wasn’t anything wrong with the guy, except that he was nowhere near her type. He was a nice man, with a nice kid, and nice clothes, and nice manners, and probably a nice house, too. So, what business did he have asking someone like her out on a non-date? It didn’t make her feel any better to realize he was the only person in her life who beamed at her whenever she came near. It was hard to dismiss that kind of flattery, especially when there was such a dearth of it.
Well, no reason to waste time rehashing the way things turned out; Phil wouldn’t be back to Frank’s again, she felt it in her bones. It was just as well, she thought morosely, for now it would only be awkward for them both. Though his overture of the day before had truly irritated her, she couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him now. The idea of Phil sitting in some vacant theater or wandering the zoo by himself made her unjustifiably sad.
Maybe Frank’s Coffee shop had grown too confining, she reasoned as she took stock of her current circumstances. She had only signed on there on a whim, rightly or wrongly interpreting her predecessor’s departure as a doorway to a new beginning. It had seemed a benign enough choice, with only a few motley regulars and the odd drooling loony.
She had to laugh at herself; it was her distinct lack of courage and her phobia of actually charting her own course that allowed her to end up in these unsatisfying circumstances. Not once in her whole life had she made up her mind to achieve a particular goal, or for that matter, never had she hoped for more than she had. She knew she wasn’t mentally vacant, merely impaired when it came to imagining a happier existence.
As if to illustrate her failure to act on impulse, Tobias Jordan suddenly came to mind, stirring a completely different form of self-incrimination. It was irksome to realize she had let this chance encounter with the famous musician seep into her psyche.
Yet it wasn’t his faded celebrity that attracted her to him; somewhere in their limited interaction, Priscilla had found something quite compelling about him, as if the notion of having a soul mate on the airwaves had not been farfetched after all. But Tobias Jordan had merely passed through her life, not she through his.
Though deflated by this knowledge, it made her smile to think he’d been driven to her realm of the truly misfortunate, circled four times, and freed himself of failure. That thirteen-dollar tip told her he had broken his downward cycle and was once again headed for greatness. They would never cross paths again.
You don’t see me
I am the mountain in your vista
Behind a foggy veil
I am the pathway lined with roses
That leads to no avail
I am the truth you are avoiding
The life you are eroding
I am a name without a face
I am gone without a trace
You don’t see me
I don’t see you
Even if I recognized you
As the hope I dare not have
Even if your words could penetrate
And heal me like a salve
Even if I walked right through your heart
Tore your life apart
Even if you laid down right beside me
Did your best to hide me
I don’t see you
“There are probably quieter places to meditate.”
It took Priscilla several seconds to realize the remark had been directed at her. The man who had made the droll observation waved his hand in front of her face, as though trying to break through her trance. Had she not caught herself in time, she would have taken a bite out of that hand.
“Oh, good. We haven’t lost you.”
Priscilla glared at the man who had planted himself so casually at their table. Well, if it isn’t Mr. Suave himself. His suit, which seemed overkill for the hour and the place, hung from his frame as if it were paid to make him look good. A quick estimate told her it cost more than her rent and utilities for six months.
His hair was perfectly groomed and his skin was so clean, it looked as though it had been polished. She had detected his scent even before he spoke, though it had not been distracting enough to break her concentration. It was an overly clean smell, the smell of someone who had just taken great care to remove all traces of the human condition. Even with all the extraneous sights, sounds and smells, his cleanliness stood out sharply, a badge of his mental, physical and financial superiority. If she hadn’t such a keen nose, his smirk alone could’ve conveyed the same message.
Priscilla supposed she and her friends were of such low standing, any regular swell who saw fit could move in on them or their territory at whim. After all, weren’t they there expressly for the pleasure of these uptown folks? Wasn’t the main objective to meet, drink with and bed one of these fortunate few?
If her own willpower hadn’t been so low, she would’ve never let herself be dragged into a place like this. Well, that was the risk she took when she threw her life at the fates, allowing herself to go with the flow, waiting for the next wind to choose her path. Open as she was to change, she realized a new life was not going to begin in this bar or with this man or anyone else in that den of snobbery. Therefore, she had no reason to stay.
She grabbed her bag and began to scoot out of the booth. She didn’t get more than a foot away from the interloper when he grabbed hold of her forearm. The look she shot him would’ve given most people pause, but the cocky stranger merely smiled. Slowly he loosened his grip and let Priscilla’s arm drop.
Once again in possession of all her limbs, Priscilla stood up abruptly, silently debating whether it would be more satisfying to strike him with her purse, pour her large
ly untouched drink in his lap, berate him with any number of insulting observations, or simply turn and walk away. She had no time to act on any of these options, as she was suddenly surrounded by Darlene, Rochelle and company.
“Hi! How’s it going?” Rochelle asked with a meaningful look at the man who had invaded their table. Priscilla didn’t bother to answer. She pushed straight through them, her patience thoroughly spent. “Hey, where ya goin’?” Rochelle tried again, as she endeavored to keep pace with her friend. “Sammy, wait!” Priscilla spun around, startling Rochelle with her intensity.
“What’s wrong? Who’s that gorgeous guy at our table?” Rochelle asked conspiratorially.
“He’s a prick, that’s who he is.”
“Why, what’d he do? Do you know him?” Rochelle asked, confused.
“I’ve never seen him in my life, but I can tell you he’s the kind of guy you want to steer clear of,” Priscilla said, resuming her exit.
“Wait, Sammy—where ya goin?”
“I’m getting the hell out of this place.” Priscilla worked her way through the crowd, unaware that Rochelle was right behind her, until they finally emerged from the writhing throng out into the refreshingly cool night air. They threaded their way past the crowd that was now waiting to get in. Priscilla stopped in the nearest alleyway to say goodbye to her abductor.
“I’m sorry you didn’t have a good time,” Rochelle said, shivering in her exposed skin. “We thought getting out somewhere nice like…NYCE would do you good.” Priscilla’s expression challenged this remark. “Well, you haven’t dated anyone since Ryan…have you?”
“No, but I’m not really in any hurry to, either.”
“You can’t avoid men forever, Sammy. Just ’cause none of your relationships worked out the way you wanted them to doesn’t mean they’ll all be that way,” Rochelle said earnestly.
Priscilla marveled at Rochelle’s wealth of hope. To hear her talk, one would think Rochelle had cracked the love conundrum and was happily married to the man of her dreams.
Alligators in the Trees Page 9