Musical Mum #1
I started counting the tiles on the ceiling and then moved to the floor. Little tiles (Greek?) in the shape of a flower lined the floor of the bar I was in on the Upper East Side. I never thought that when I moved to Manhattan I would end up feeling so lonely that I would sit in a bar drinking the same drink for two hours counting floor tiles. All this so that I wouldn’t have to back to an empty apartment with that blinking cursor taunting me, yelling out all my failures as a journalist with a simple and steady blink that started to feel in rhythm with my heartbeat. It was when I had that thought that I knew I had to leave or risk death.
I was at 502 when a beautiful woman walked over to me.
“Are you counting the tiles?” she asked with a perplexed look her face that was flirting with amusement at how pathetic I was.
When I didn’t respond immediately, and then continued to stare at her I realized (too late) that I was sitting down as she was standing up and I was eye level with her breasts and that look of amusement quickly faded into a lip sneer of creepiness.
I stammered, “ No, I’m not counting, just deep in thought.”
“Oh, well, it looked like your lips were mouthing numbers and I just assumed…. Anyway (she says it like N E Way), don’t you remember me at all?
“I honestly don’t.” I said stunned. Beautiful women never come up to me in bars and say they know me. I thought to myself; Is that a pick up line? Because, I always believed, I am the kind of guy that is a dime a dozen in New York. Dark hair, clearly Jewish, decently dressed, but nothing to get excited about (no labels), mid-20’s and a semi-employed writer who can barely make rent (I’m sure people can see this when they meet me. But, that is just my insecurity talking. Or, my mother. Probably both.)
“Well, I remember you. We worked together one insanely hot summer on the Steinman campaign.”
I have no idea what she is talking about; I have never worked on campaigns in my life. I am registered as an independent and in the last election I actually went to the polls and voted write in for Mickey Mouse. Yep, I’m that guy that makes it possible for 24-hour news networks to get use zany line, “And, in this years election 10 people voted for Mickey Mouse to be President. hahaha. (Fake smile) Now, back to you, Jim.” But, this sure as hell beats counting ceiling tiles so I fake it.
“Oh yeah,” I said feigning recognition with a classic head bob, “ How crazy was that?” I asked. (I had no idea if it was in fact “crazy” but I figured that crazy is the perfect word for situations like this, it could mean crazy as in awesome or crazy as in horrible.)
She smiled (good) and swayed a little bit on her heels and that is when I saw that she was pretty drunk. Wasted in fact. I was so into the floor tiles I completely missed all the tell-tale signs of (certain) drunk women; blurry eyes, smiles too big, talks a lot with her hands, always trying to get just a little bit closer to you. In addition to being drunk she looked incredibly haggard; bags under her eyes, and too many forehead crinkles for such a young girl. She was beautiful in the conventional way; brown hair with highlights, big blue eyes, and medium build, decently dressed. But, there was this sadness to her that made her more interesting.
“Pretty crazy. Well, I can’t believe I even brought up that campaign. Now that, that is a summer I want to forget ever happened.” She said with the kind of forcefulness that can only be learned by living in New York for too long. She was hiding the sadness people typically allow themselves to feel, but here in this City where your life is your work and people exist solely as bar mates and possible hook ups, there isn’t a lot of time for genuine emotions.
“Why is that?” I asked gently, testing the waters to see if she felt comfortable telling me how she really felt.
“You know,” she said pondering, “I think I will tell you. It’s been 5 years, it would be nice to let someone that was there know, even if it is just you.”
At this point I started to wonder if that was a good or bad thing that she was telling “just me.” I wonder what the person is like that she thinks I am; is he a loser? Does she think I am a loser? I have these thoughts in a matter of seconds and quickly forget that I should be listening to her. Another product of living in New York for too long is that you tend to think mostly about yourself since your existence, especially in your mid 20’s, is primarily solo.
“You know Paul right?” She asks. (I nod and try to convey, sure Paul! Everyone knows Paul!)
“What am I talking about, of course you do; everyone knows Paul” (Phew.)
“Well, anyway, so you also know that he is married. With children.” She lingers on the with children part and then takes a gulp of her martini.
“I also had this massive crush on him, as I am sure every girl did on the campaign. There was just something about how passionate he was; his intelligence and take control attitude and how he was always the last person to leave he worked so hard. And, of course his amazing arms.” (She paused here hoping I would smile, but I didn’t.) “Anyway, (I notice she says this when she is uncomfortable), so we worked together a lot because I shared a desk with his assistant. We got pretty close and as time went on we were spending late nights together working at the campaign.”
I figure I know where this story is going and start to get bored. Aren’t I missing the Yankee game that’s on tonight? How can this bar not have a TV? But, then she continues.
“The thing is, we never did anything. All those nights no touching, no kissing, no anything. I thought for sure that he wasn’t into me and started to accept it. So, I thought nothing of it when he asked me to get a drink with him after working late one night.” She stopped here and downed the rest of her martini; I knew she was gearing up for something big.
“We went to the bar and things were normal. We talked about how depressing our jobs were, how we would be unemployed after the campaign for as long as we could stand it. I drank my drink too fast, or at least I thought so because it became really hard to focus on anything. I started to talk but my words were all slurred and I realized that his hand was around my back and my legs were falling out from under me.”
Her eyes were darting back and forth replaying the memory and her intensity showed me that I was the only person she had ever told this story to.
“And, then I heard him assuring the other people in the bar that I was fine, just had too much to drink and that’s the last thing I remember. I woke up the next morning in the office. All my clothes were on but not quite right, my bra was snapped wrong, my underwear were inside out and I could feel that I had sex the night before. Well, not sex.” And, when she said this, she looked me right in the eyes and said deadpan, “He raped me.” Her words hung in the air and I was amazed she didn’t even care that the random dude in the corner probably heard her.
“He raped me and then pretended like nothing happened. He thought I couldn’t remember anything and when he saw me the next day at work he just told me I had too much to drink the night before. I must have been a pretty good actress though because he never suspected that I knew. I wanted to pretend because it was easier than feeling the truth. I actually babysat for him once afterwards. Isn’t that sick? What is the matter with me?”
I am surprised she isn’t crying, instead she just telling me this story very matter-of-factly-like a news report. I half expect her at the end to say “And, that’s the way it was.” But, I could tell that part of her was relieved. Someone finally knew and she wasn’t alone anymore. Sure, things weren’t “better” but how could she be?
I wanted to care more, I wanted to hold her and tell her that I was sorry. I wanted to be like one of those people who takes her to a counselor and then waits outside whiles she talks and then takes her home afterwards and doesn’t force her to talk about any of it. I wanted to be there for her, but I knew that I couldn’t. I lost the ability to care about her, or anyone else. I hardly cared about anything anymore. I ended the conversation as normally as you can end something like that, (“Wow, oh my god, I had no idea,” followed by awkward silence) and then headed home. Maybe I could still catch the last half of the game.
I was at 502 when a beautiful woman walked over to me.
“Are you counting the tiles?” she asked with a perplexed look her face that was flirting with amusement at how pathetic I was.
When I didn’t respond immediately, and then continued to stare at her I realized (too late) that I was sitting down as she was standing up and I was eye level with her breasts and that look of amusement quickly faded into a lip sneer of creepiness.
I stammered, “ No, I’m not counting, just deep in thought.”
“Oh, well, it looked like your lips were mouthing numbers and I just assumed…. Anyway (she says it like N E Way), don’t you remember me at all?
“I honestly don’t.” I said stunned. Beautiful women never come up to me in bars and say they know me. I thought to myself; Is that a pick up line? Because, I always believed, I am the kind of guy that is a dime a dozen in New York. Dark hair, clearly Jewish, decently dressed, but nothing to get excited about (no labels), mid-20’s and a semi-employed writer who can barely make rent (I’m sure people can see this when they meet me. But, that is just my insecurity talking. Or, my mother. Probably both.)
“Well, I remember you. We worked together one insanely hot summer on the Steinman campaign.”
I have no idea what she is talking about; I have never worked on campaigns in my life. I am registered as an independent and in the last election I actually went to the polls and voted write in for Mickey Mouse. Yep, I’m that guy that makes it possible for 24-hour news networks to get use zany line, “And, in this years election 10 people voted for Mickey Mouse to be President. hahaha. (Fake smile) Now, back to you, Jim.” But, this sure as hell beats counting ceiling tiles so I fake it.
“Oh yeah,” I said feigning recognition with a classic head bob, “ How crazy was that?” I asked. (I had no idea if it was in fact “crazy” but I figured that crazy is the perfect word for situations like this, it could mean crazy as in awesome or crazy as in horrible.)
She smiled (good) and swayed a little bit on her heels and that is when I saw that she was pretty drunk. Wasted in fact. I was so into the floor tiles I completely missed all the tell-tale signs of (certain) drunk women; blurry eyes, smiles too big, talks a lot with her hands, always trying to get just a little bit closer to you. In addition to being drunk she looked incredibly haggard; bags under her eyes, and too many forehead crinkles for such a young girl. She was beautiful in the conventional way; brown hair with highlights, big blue eyes, and medium build, decently dressed. But, there was this sadness to her that made her more interesting.
“Pretty crazy. Well, I can’t believe I even brought up that campaign. Now that, that is a summer I want to forget ever happened.” She said with the kind of forcefulness that can only be learned by living in New York for too long. She was hiding the sadness people typically allow themselves to feel, but here in this City where your life is your work and people exist solely as bar mates and possible hook ups, there isn’t a lot of time for genuine emotions.
“Why is that?” I asked gently, testing the waters to see if she felt comfortable telling me how she really felt.
“You know,” she said pondering, “I think I will tell you. It’s been 5 years, it would be nice to let someone that was there know, even if it is just you.”
At this point I started to wonder if that was a good or bad thing that she was telling “just me.” I wonder what the person is like that she thinks I am; is he a loser? Does she think I am a loser? I have these thoughts in a matter of seconds and quickly forget that I should be listening to her. Another product of living in New York for too long is that you tend to think mostly about yourself since your existence, especially in your mid 20’s, is primarily solo.
“You know Paul right?” She asks. (I nod and try to convey, sure Paul! Everyone knows Paul!)
“What am I talking about, of course you do; everyone knows Paul” (Phew.)
“Well, anyway, so you also know that he is married. With children.” She lingers on the with children part and then takes a gulp of her martini.
“I also had this massive crush on him, as I am sure every girl did on the campaign. There was just something about how passionate he was; his intelligence and take control attitude and how he was always the last person to leave he worked so hard. And, of course his amazing arms.” (She paused here hoping I would smile, but I didn’t.) “Anyway, (I notice she says this when she is uncomfortable), so we worked together a lot because I shared a desk with his assistant. We got pretty close and as time went on we were spending late nights together working at the campaign.”
I figure I know where this story is going and start to get bored. Aren’t I missing the Yankee game that’s on tonight? How can this bar not have a TV? But, then she continues.
“The thing is, we never did anything. All those nights no touching, no kissing, no anything. I thought for sure that he wasn’t into me and started to accept it. So, I thought nothing of it when he asked me to get a drink with him after working late one night.” She stopped here and downed the rest of her martini; I knew she was gearing up for something big.
“We went to the bar and things were normal. We talked about how depressing our jobs were, how we would be unemployed after the campaign for as long as we could stand it. I drank my drink too fast, or at least I thought so because it became really hard to focus on anything. I started to talk but my words were all slurred and I realized that his hand was around my back and my legs were falling out from under me.”
Her eyes were darting back and forth replaying the memory and her intensity showed me that I was the only person she had ever told this story to.
“And, then I heard him assuring the other people in the bar that I was fine, just had too much to drink and that’s the last thing I remember. I woke up the next morning in the office. All my clothes were on but not quite right, my bra was snapped wrong, my underwear were inside out and I could feel that I had sex the night before. Well, not sex.” And, when she said this, she looked me right in the eyes and said deadpan, “He raped me.” Her words hung in the air and I was amazed she didn’t even care that the random dude in the corner probably heard her.
“He raped me and then pretended like nothing happened. He thought I couldn’t remember anything and when he saw me the next day at work he just told me I had too much to drink the night before. I must have been a pretty good actress though because he never suspected that I knew. I wanted to pretend because it was easier than feeling the truth. I actually babysat for him once afterwards. Isn’t that sick? What is the matter with me?”
I am surprised she isn’t crying, instead she just telling me this story very matter-of-factly-like a news report. I half expect her at the end to say “And, that’s the way it was.” But, I could tell that part of her was relieved. Someone finally knew and she wasn’t alone anymore. Sure, things weren’t “better” but how could she be?
I wanted to care more, I wanted to hold her and tell her that I was sorry. I wanted to be like one of those people who takes her to a counselor and then waits outside whiles she talks and then takes her home afterwards and doesn’t force her to talk about any of it. I wanted to be there for her, but I knew that I couldn’t. I lost the ability to care about her, or anyone else. I hardly cared about anything anymore. I ended the conversation as normally as you can end something like that, (“Wow, oh my god, I had no idea,” followed by awkward silence) and then headed home. Maybe I could still catch the last half of the game.
posted by Musical Mum at 7:09 PM
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