date

 

“Are you going to use this in your book?”
Not even a little bit. I had gone out with him because I didn’t have a good excuse not to, and it’s always good to broaden ones knowledge of other humans and the way they think. I have used little pieces of real life- with a fictional spin on it- in my book, but that’s only because you have to write what you know. Imagination is good, but it has to hold some parts of reality to really connect. But, this situation I found myself in, was not going to make it into the book. He had fired a multitude of questions at me in the beginning, and I answered. But, I was uncomfortable, because I prefer to be listening, and not talking, especially when I don’t know a person. So, I asked him to tell me about him, who he was and the things he liked.  He sat there stumped for a few long seconds. “What do you mean?”
I knew right then we weren’t playing on the same field. “Well,” I relented, “what do you do with your free time?”
As he told me stories from his life, I listened to the words, and to the posturing. Everyone tells you what they think you want to hear. I found myself looking at him like I would a client. Judging the veracity of his words, listening to the unhappiness, and yet skilled manipulator that he appeared to be.
I think at some point he realized that he was doing all the talking, and letting out more than advisable, so he asked me about my horoscope sign. I told him what it was, so he went to look up characteristics of a libra. The very last trait listed was “good conversationist”, which he immediately scoffed at.  I smiled pleasantly at him. “You have to get to that point with me.”

I am not one to share my life with people I don’t know. Especially if I don’t trust you or care to have you in my life. And so yes, by this point I had realized that I didn’t want him to know any more of me than he already did- so I was not trying to engage with any more reality than I would with someone who sat at my bar.  Maybe that is one of my toxic traits.

Garrett

 

“I think you’re the only one of my friends that I actually dislike.” He says to me.  I laugh, I know he doesn’t mean it. But, he’s so used to everyone catering to him and his whims. When you have money, there’s an expectation and an arrogance that generally follows.

This evening I had run into him outside the new posh restaurant on Park Avenue called Ava. He’d just left, but ushered me in. We resumed his space at the bar where his unfinished rum and coke still sat. I pulled up their cocktail menu using the QR code they leave visible on the bar tops.  I choose a drink, and then look around the bar. I am getting sideways glances from the other customers, which is not a surprise, I’m wearing a slim red dress that reveals all the curves, and I’m standing there in my heels next to a well known crotchety old man. I see one man ask his friend what I am doing with a man like that. Garrett doesn’t notice and I don’t point it out. It was mere seconds after that, Garrett in the attempt to get the bartenders attention, takes his wallet out and puts it on the counter. He doesn’t believe in using a debit card, so he carries thousands of dollars in cash on him. He likes to pull out his wallet and set it on the bar so that everyone can see the green stack of bills that stuff the cash holder.  The men who had been eyeing me and wondering what I was doing with him, took one shocked look the wallet, a swift glance at me, and then laughed. “Oh! That is why she’s with him.” One man said to the other. They don’t know that I’m watching them.  There is a part of me that is squeamish with the thought- I hate that they have an utterly wrong impression of me.   I could explain to them that Garrett used to be a regular at a restaurant I worked at, he doesn’t have very many friends, and I’m just being a friend to someone who has been kind and generous to me. But, they don’t need to know that. Their opinion of me doesn’t matter. After waiting a few more minutes, no bartenders have come over to see if I wanted anything, so Garrett and I leave. As we leave,  he says to the manager who is standing outside, “There is only one consistent thing about this place, it sucks!” The manager smiles patiently at him, and I am embarrassed. There was no need for that. “Thank you for you feedback,” he says, but doesn’t bother to ask what was wrong. He obviously doesn’t care, but has an image to maintain.

“This is exactly what is wrong with Park Avenue, no one cares how much you spend in their establishment. Customer service has gone down the drain,” he rants to me. “Come on, let’s go.” I think that he wants to go somewhere else on the avenue, but he leads me to his car. I stop. “Garrett, I’m not going with you!” “Come on,” he says, “We’ll just go to Reel Fish.”  I hesitate, I don’t know how much he’s had to drink, and he is known to drink heavily. Not only that, I don’t want to be somewhere that is not walking distance to my car. I don’t 100% trust him. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” I ask. “Yes! I would never ask you to get into the car if I wasn’t.”  Reel Fish is only a few blocks away. If need be, I can take off my heels and walk back. He holds the passenger door open for me, and I step in. 

At Reel Fish we sit down at the bar, the bartender asks us what we want, I order a mojito. Garrett doesn’t respond, and just shrugs. She waits, and I know how she feels. Bartenders are not mind readers. I sigh inside, and then I explain to the bartender that he rarely would ever tell me what he wanted when he was a regular, so I’d usually just make him a rum runner. She looks at him questioningly, “Is that what you want?” He shrugs again, “Sure, I guess.”

He complained about the drink to me after he got it, because it was too strong. He kept needling the bartender, cracking jokes about her name, “Shianne”- and about Massachusetts where she was from. Most of it she just ignored, as any good bartender does.  When I rebuked him for being an ass, he continued his rant about customer service. “A good bartender knows there is alcohol involved,” he excused himself, “and besides, it will be worth it when they see the tip at the end.”

“But don’t you want people to like you instead of just your money?” I asked him. He changed the subject and started telling me about how he doesn’t have long to live. How he feels like 20 years of his life was stolen from him. The regret of having worked narcotics for the federal government- and letting a man go with 20 tons of cocaine simply because of there being bigger fish to fry.  His failed marriages, and kids that didn’t grow up with him around. But, that at least he had money. “Money doesn’t buy everything.” I say finally.  He looked at me for a moment. It was at this point that he told me that he didn’t like me. “And, yes it does!” He retorted.  I grinned at him. “But does it? Are you happy?”

He scoffed. “I’ve never been happy.”

“And that’s my point.” I replied, satisfied.

There were a lot of other conversation bits, telling me how he wants to die before it gets too ugly. He has a girlfriend, and he doesn’t want her to see him fall apart, and doesn’t want to say goodbye either. He just wants to disappear.  I listened respectfully. I believe that everyone has a right to go the way that they want, but I did say that it would be kinder to not disappear without a goodbye, that’s not fair to the people that love you.

When we had finished our drinks, Garrett took the tab, and left $100 on a $23 dollar check. There was a part of him that still rankled from me telling him that it wasn’t right to be an ass, no matter the circumstances. His words “Do you think she’ll like me now?” proved that as we headed towards the door. She had seen the amount he had left, but hadn’t reacted in any way. So, I doubted it, but I just smiled at him.  

He brought me back to Park Avenue, and we went in to Bovine Steakhouse to see my friend Christy. She was just closing up, so we didn’t stay long. Garrett insisted on walking me to my car, I protested, but he thought it was only appropriate. We walked past a homeless man who was talking to himself, and then he started shouting at me. “Who does this bitch think she is? Does she think this is Miami? Look at this old guy following her. Did he buy you that dress, bitch?” There was more, but I just ignored it.

We got to my car, and I get in. As I lean out to shut the door, he leans down, and I asked very abruptly, “What are you doing?”  “I’m just going to kiss the top of your head. That’s all!” I let him. “Thanks for talking to me.” He said, sincerely. “You’re welcome. Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you later.” He nods, and turns away.

What a bizarre evening. People are so interesting.