The unisex bathroom was a mess of mildew and meanderings, guys soliciting because there was a constant flow of girls in and out. Hell, it was a better place to pick up on ladies than the dance floor. There should have been an air of independence and isolation, a standoffish presence by default. Instead, it was a venerable orgy of closeness and humidity. The foul nature of the whole affair did not seem to be a deterrent, and the females actually appeared more receptive than they do out in the world. If I had to guess, I would say the success rate within the bathroom amongst suitors was around 25%. My typical approximation has male-asking-female and female accepting at around 10%. Probably less, but I only take into account the reasonable males asking the reasonable females. If a drunk jock asks out a Gothic lesbian, that doesn’t count as an attempt. The success rate at that point is predetermined at 0, and thus, I cannot include that sample in my calculations. I would prefer not to admit this, but I’ve already begun, so here it is… My watch stopped again. There I was standing in a unisex bathroom observing my surroundings, taking mental notes to relay to you later in the week, and I kept looking at my watch pretending to be waiting for someone. I wasn’t waiting for anyone. My friends were already on the dance floor whirl gigging about with decreased chances of phone number success. They should have been in here with me. Every time I looked down at my watch I felt a little lonelier. It hadn’t just stopped; it had been broken for years. Despite repeated trips to "On Time" it constantly revisited its past by stopping. Maybe it was out of habit, or maybe because the Kenneth Cole people just didn’t know how to fix watches. I sent it back to the factory, I had the battery replaced, I went downtown and had it blessed in a Siva Vedanta yoga center. I did it all, and yet, here I was with it broken for the fifth, or sixth, or seventh time. Why is this so noteworthy? Because it had stopped last night, that’s why. I had noticed it when I was waiting for my malt with extra malt that had no malt. Like a smarty, I drove away from the drive-through without tasting it. Not entirely true, I tried but it was the incredibly thick variety, so when I suckled the straw only a bit came out and I could not detect whether or not there was extra malt, or even any malt for that matter. Turns out there was no malt at all, and as I drove away, I became steamed. It wouldn’t have been that maddening except I was burning up for a good malt, and so when I got home and fully realized that my malt had no malt, I searched deep within the pantries of reality to find a canister of malt. Success! The jar looked old, but how could malt go bad? Besides, I was ravenous for some malt, so once again, like a smarty, I scooped a scoop of malt into my shake without trying it first. I figured what they hey, because I recalled trying malt straight out the jar years back, and having it taste rather poor. So what good would tasting it do now? I swirled the malt around in the shake with a hesitant hand. It was if I realized my shake had been ruined, and I was the culprit. I almost didn’t even want to taste my malt concoction, knowing that it would be putrid. Well, it was. The malt was from 1990 and fouled up the whole thing. I threw it in the trash and decided that was another in the long line of mini-mistakes that I had made this evening. In place of going out to a nice little house party, I stayed home and jerked around on my computer. Finally when it really got too late to do anything interesting, I drove to the malt shop to get a maltless malt. On the way there I called her, but the ringing lingered and ultimately went to her voice mail. That voice. Damn.
I always thought I was a voice guy. Well, I repped myself as a voice guy, but when it really comes down to it, I think I’m just a girl guy. The sentimental fatalistically optimistic nostalgic manic girl guy, that is. The girls who I have dated, or liked, or dated and liked the last six years [since I really got into my whole "voice" thing], have had a wide range of voices. Some empirically nice, some not, yet they all get me. Especially my ex-lady. I want to hear that voice every second of the day. Maybe feelings will dissipate, and the yearning will decrease, but my interest in hearing her voice will never wane. So I locked my front door and decided to go out for malt attempt number two. By this time, I had a nasty taste for all kinds of things, and it was one of those scenes where a simple fumbled malt had made me miss her more. Even though the prospect of a dessert didn’t really intrigue me anymore, I figured I would take another drive and get a real malt this time, tasting it while I was in front of the window. I should have never thrown it away, then I could have driven back and gotten them to add malt. Actually, I should have never added my mock malt, because it was destined to fail. Backtracking even further, when I got a maltless sense on the way home, I should have turned around and gotten the addition back at the spot. Oh well.
"Hey, weren’t you just here?" "Yeah I was just here, and I ordered a chocolate malt with extra malt." "Heyyyyyy! That’s right! Man, you liked it so much you came back for another one? That had to have been no more than twenty minutes ago! Daaaaa-aaaamn, I told the boys to load you up, you sounded hyped on the extra malt." "Well, the boys didn’t load me. In fact, there was no malt in it at all." "Bullshit there was no malt! The boys loaded you! Julio, Georgey- get over here! Remember the chocolate malt that you made like twenty minutes ago?" "Yeah, extra malt, I remember," Georgey said to Julio. "I loaded that mother!" "Man, this guy says there was no malt in it at all." "No malt?!," exclaimed Julio. "Bullshit there was no malt! It settles in the middle, so you have to swirl it around if you really want to get the essence. Hey man, I promise you we loaded it." So I had wasted my time, my money, and then my time again. Exactly how much time had I squandered on this malt excursion anyway? In addition to the display in my car, which read 10:31, I checked my wristwatch out of habit. The habit, of course, being that I never wear my watch, yet had begun recently. I shouldn’t say "never," because every couple years I get in a watch-wearing mood where I get it going. This was one of those instances, because I had just had it fixed for the fifth time. "9:30?" Oh, good. It’s broken again.
Which leads me to the embarrassing admission about my watch wearing the next night in the unisex bathroom at the club. It had stopped the night before, as noted, yet I buckled it to my wrist the following evening prior to going out with the crew. A few drinks and a few good friends convinced me to break out of my work craze and go out with them for a night. Maybe it would be good for me? I had my doubts, but I had to give it a go just in case. And, honestly, I even cared a little bit for once about smiling and being cool in a forum of alleged fun and females. Some time ago, I read that women first notice a man’s teeth, shoes and watch. I guess independently they exhibit hygiene, taste and money? Sounds about right. So I strapped on my "money" after carefully shining my teeth and polishing my favorite shoes.
It was late and I was pulling into my driveway after a fourteen-hour workday. This kid with a sack full of spray bottles stopped his pursuit down the street to talk to me as I opened my car door to get out. I definitely wasn’t in the mood to talk to a kid with a sack full of spray bottles, and therefore it is a reasonable assumption that I certainly wasn’t in the mood to purchase one of these sprayers, and I could say that confidently without even knowing what was in it. That sucker could’ve been filled with the Disneyland of penile enhancement juice, fit to lengthen me down to the floor, and I still would’ve walked away with my money in my pocket. But this kid had the magical insight. He had one chance to tug at my ethos, and he accomplished the task. "Hey, brother- I gotta bother you real quick. I walked up to your house and moms was eating dinner, so I waved and said ‘keep on eating, moms,’ and I took off." "That’s what happened?," I inquired. "Yeah." A door-to-door salesman who would get to his destination, look in the window, spy prospective buyers, and then walk away out of respect deserved a listen. The cynic in me wanted to think, "nobody eating dinner is going to buy some spray shit anyway, and he knew this, so he bounced," but I’m trying to be more positive and all that. Anyway, he showed me the glory of his special cleanser, but it was difficult for me to get overly excited. I like things clean, but I’m not the cleaning type. Nice, huh? Hopefully I’ll earn enough to have ten full time maids or something. He sprayed my shoe and wiped it, and the result was quite remarkable. It looked brand new. I figured this was some temporary optical illusion type of deal, but it remained impressive nonetheless. "That’s cool, maybe I could help you out. How much?" "Fifteen." "Fifteen bucks? Man, thanks, but I need to get inside." "Kid, you can do anything with this stuff. Clean the windows, clean your shoes, clean the floor- it kills germs and makes things spotless! Check this!!" He sprayed it in his mouth, and swallowed, grinning. "And you can even drink it! No harm!" That’s when I peeled out my money. "You walked away from my mom and let her eat in peace, and now you sprayed the shoe cleaner in your mouth? You got me, here’s my fifteen."
My watch had stopped but it was looking good, my teeth aren’t the blinded-by-the-light sparklers they were when I got my braces off in ’92, but they are still respectable. Now all I need to do is find my special spray cleanser and I can buzz up my hot kicks. Tsh, tsh…ooh, yeah. Lookin’ brand new.
I was all set with stopped shimmery watch, reasonable teeth, and shiny old shoes when we walked in, but I just couldn’t conjure up the enthusiasm that I used to possess. I’ll get it back at some point. Is that what people say when they start losing their lust? "I’ll get it back." Does it come back? I will not take part in the steady deterioration of excitement! I’ll get it back, this is just one of those nights… So I walked into the unisex to conjure up writing fodder, and it was just as I had suspected. The men were The women were And I was Really, I have given this incredible thought, and I definitely was.
Bryan May
[email protected]
Network
