Cal: Eyeless Ears

Sitting across from each other in a booth at the Power House, there’s Shelly beaming at some short-haired GQ ad sitting at the bar.  Earlier he mosied on by and grinned at our table.  From their exchanged "Hi’s", barely spoken but clearly formed from their mouths, I could tell they’ve already met and wanted to fuck each other as soon as possible.  I looked past Shelly’s shoulder to the next booth, hoping to find another girl sitting alone that I could talk to.  Instead I found Jack Sparrow, flirting with a biker looking chick that showed plenty interest.  It was disgusting, he was doing the voice and the things with his hands too.

I plowed on with the one-way conversation, but it wasn’t long before I was seething because I would catch her eyes flitting back to GQ.

"I just want to be adored," I told her in a near shout, making myself audible over the jukebox.

"That sounds pretty selfish," she said, not even offering a glance.

"It’s not selfish.  I know the only way people will adore me is if I kill myself.  Then they can say, I KNEW Cal, he was a fucking genius- I ADORED him.  Besides, you want to be famous right- you’ll get to say how great I am on television when they’re doing my tribute, so really- this would be a gift to you."

"Ha!" she said.  "Go ahead and kill yourself and see what I say."

"What would you say?  I should’ve paid attention but I was too busy ignoring him?"

She looked at me and shook her head.

"What," she said, her smile not dropping, but her voice was lower.

"If you want to fucking go just go."  She took a deep breath as if to say, "are you gonna be a bitch about it?"

"Promise not to kill yourself first."

"Pff.  You know I don’t have the will power and I’m not that complex."

"So promise me."

"I’m not gonna do it, but maybe something tragic will happen to me where it might start to seem appealing."

"Well then, if you don’t MIND, I’m just going to the back for a smoke…and if I’m not back in five minutes- don’t wait up for me."

"Yeah, sure."

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

"all right."  She kissed my cheek.  "Good luck on your tragedy."

"Good luck on yours," and I motioned to the bar.  It didn’t really work as an insult because she just gave me a weird look.

She walked over to the guy and asked for a smoke.  He said something and got off his stool. She followed him, but first giving me a quick, "Haha!" look.

I wish at that moment I was getting head from a supermodel so I could give the HAHA look back. 

Instead I’m an idiot sitting alone with an empty glass, chewing on icecubes and bobbing my head to a shitty Bob Seger song.