Tales from the Vault - NDA

I have a date. I don't call it this, though. She's freshly removed from a relationship, not trying to rush, and I'm clearly not in a space for deep feelings or sentimentality or attachment, but I think she's cool and enjoy her company.

The best way to get over one is to get under another. I have heard this mantra since I was a pup, and whether true or not, it has been one of my easier codes to live by.

We haven't decided on what we're going to do, but I think a Jazz Club would be cool. I relay this thought to my prospective non-date and she thinks it's dope. After two weeks finagling this non-date into reality, we finally have plans.

We meet up outside of work. 

“This is going to be so cool,” I say, “I hope Poppa Burgandy shows up, his Flute game is magnificent.” She doesn't get the reference; I watch too many movies.

On our way to the Jazz club, Non-date scoffs at our plans for a musical evening, tossing me a proverbial curveball instead.

"I really wanted to check out these art galleries in the Lower East Side." She says this while rummaging in her pocket and removing a sheet of paper with a list of names on it that I assume are art galleries, “You game?”

I have a brief moment of annoyance at our plans changing last minute, but she is smiling and I am a softy. I tell her I was born game. We detour towards the art galleries.

I ask her where'd she get this thorough list of spots. Non-date says a friend gave them to her. After a little poking and prodding on my part I find out this friend is a love interest. 

Whatever, I think, She doesn't belong to him. I remind myself she doesn't belong to me either.

We are in a gallery of muted photos. I'm unimpressed. Until we get to a photo of a sea of empty, white lawn chairs facing an imposing, granite-colored mountain. Not a soul in sight to witness it's greatness. I think of my junior high years. The empty seats. The moments when I was the lonely mountain. I tell her this is a masterpiece. She can't relate.

We are in a world of color. This I like. She and I have stopped at two paintings. In the first she tells me she sees war. I tell her I see a sea of fire. In the second she says she sees a woman. I think, no shit but don't express what I feel the painting represents. The artist walks up.

"I see you were staring at this painting," she says, "What do you see?" Non-date says she sees a woman. I say I'm staring at the garden of eden and it's beautiful. The artist says that's the title, beaming proudly. She then points to the sea of fire. Non-date says she sees war. I say I just see fire, I apologize for not seeing more. The artist stares at me impressed.

"That's very good, it was a volcano erupting! You have an eye. Are you an artist?" she asks.

"I'm a writer." I reply.

"That's art! Different medium, same thing."

"You're right,” I say, smiling, “I cut my wrists open and bleed all over paper. Different paint, same outcome." She laughs genuinely. We take a photo in front of the sea of fire. I tell her how much I enjoy it and go on to say once I make my first million I'll be giving her a call.

I have no plans on being a millionaire.

Non-date tosses the second curveball while dropping a line casually. 

"You know what's crazy, me and this guy I'm talking to we're really into these scenes and we run into each other randomly at places like these."

I'm not stupid.

"If he's coming let me know, I'll go. This isn't my world anyway."

She ignores my comment. Two of her friends have just walked in and sidled up to us. I'm admittedly confused. Are this guy and girl involved? What's happening?

"Did you plan this?" I ask annoyed. She doesn't answer.

I am begrudgingly introduced.

And still woefully unimpressed.

And surely more surly than a little bit.

I feel set up. She is chatting with the guy. He whispers something she can't hear, so he leans in to repeat it. When he's finished telling her this secret, he leans in further and bites her ear playfully. Only him pissing on her leg could make the situation more obvious.

That curve was Doc Gooden wicked.

I am "fry an egg on my face" hot.

I am "eight year old me's 'I just bought this ice cream cone' as it tumbles to the ground" bothered.

They walk off and now I'm standing with her stranger friend, caught looking within a baseball metaphor that's now playing second fiddle to my own crushed ego.

"So, how do you know Non-date?" She asks. I answer, and am forced to listen to her prattle on about how she's a photographer and painter. I ask her if she does calligraphy too. She doesn't know what that is. 

I'm not surprised. 

I excuse myself politely and begin meandering towards the exit; if I Houdini this just right, I'll make it home in time to drink this night into amnesia. 

I am inches from the door and reach out for the handle when Non-date comes up to me. She says she doesn't think we'll be friends anymore because she won't let me hit. I swallow the baseball reference dancing on my tongue and respond to this statement I view as self-absorbed with honesty.

"No pun intended," I start "but don't try and paint me as that guy. I sleep alone when I want to and don't when I don't. You got me standing here like a sucker when you know you had this planned from the start. And I asked you if it was going down like this specifically to avoid it. Why am I even here?"

She listens. She supplicates. I don't buy it. I'm convinced she knows I'm about to walk out the door and wants to save face. 

Everybody's an asshole but no-one wants to get caught being one, I think to my self. Then I think about the bridge I almost torched last week. I decide to stay.

We are walking back to the first gallery. Her non-boyfriend can talk. Somewhere between him telling me he's a photographer and not wanting to show me his portfolio, I realize that I dislike this guy. Why? Well...

Hernon hates where poetry is nowadays.

And the third Godfather movie.

And thinks Curb Your Enthusiasm was great, but Seinfeld is just "meh."

And calls Kylo Ren "a little too Jew-y."

When he tries to bash a book he claims Chuck Palahniuk wrote, I cut him off in feigned confusion.

"I don't know a lot about a lot," I say, "and I'm not the most well-versed on much, but I gotta say this book you're talking about, I've never heard of it, and when it comes to that man, I know what he's doing."

Hernon reaches into his pocket for his iPhone to look up the book he's talking about. Just as I figured.

"That's the wrong Chuck bro." I say this with no hint of malice. He guffaws and apologizes stupidly. I tap my head with my pointer finger. 'Big brain, bro. I better know my authors like you better know your Peter Parkers."

We are back in front of the portrait of the Lonely Mountain. To regain some of his coolness,  Hernon goes the predictable route of declaring Fight Club the book more enjoyable than the movie. I can't abide this either.

"Everything ain't for everybody, and apparently you don't really like anything. You say the book is better than the movie, except Chuck himself says the movie was what he was trying to achieve when he wrote the book in telling the love story between The Narrator and Marla; which is one of the main themes of the book. Their love story and how the Narrator can’t handle the fact he's beginning to put someone else before himself, but y’know, whatever." 

He goes silent. I leave him standing in front of the lawn chairs. I'm sure my piss on his leg will dry up nice.

We exit the gallery. I tell this shitty little troupe I'm making my exit. They insist on walking me to the train station. I say I'm a big boy, but Non-date won't hear of it. My phone is buzzing repeatedly in my pocket; it's her.

"You look like you just want to scream 'Shut the fuck up!' To him."

I tell her I don't. That I can respect a person's opinions even when they differ and I know what it's like to be in love with your own voice. However, I make sure to stress the voice should actually be saying something.

I light a cigarette, smoke it quickly, and flick the butt into a nearby sewage drain. Two hugs, one handshake later, and I'm finally free of this madness. Non-date tells me to text when I'm home.

I have a sneaking suspicion that isn't going to happen.