Clearly, I Didn't Think This Through : The Story of One Tall Girl's Impulsive, Ill-conceived, and Borderline Irresponsible Life Decisions (9781101612255) Page 14

  You could tell that he had a particular style honed from years of patrolling thrift stores and specialty shops. He carried around old, dog-eared Bibles from the forties and Russian-English dictionaries in a weathered leather satchel. Basically, he looked like a homeless Civil War veteran. He should be warming his hands over a barrel on fire under a highway somewhere, chomping on a can of baked beans. And, as it turned out, he was the most handsome man I’d ever seen in my entire life.

  “My name’s Anna,” I said.

  “What are you doing after this?” he purred into my ear. I couldn’t breathe. Hell, I couldn’t form a sentence if I wanted to. It was like the English language had escaped my brain. I was rendered mute in his presence.

  “I don’t know,” I managed to stammer out. “I don’t have any plans.”

  “You should go to the RUBA after this.”

  “The what?” I had no clue what he was talking about. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

  “The RUBA. The Russian Ukrainian Boating Association? Ever heard of it?”

  “The RUBA?” I repeated.

  “It’s a club around the corner.” He did a little motion with his hand, like he was trying to show me what around the corner looked like. “I’ll be there after this party. You should go.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you there.”

  I had no clue what the hell he’d just said to me. I would later find out that the RUBA is an after-hours, members-only club tucked away on a side street that was open until four A.M. because it was privately owned and didn’t have to conform to city laws that would otherwise make it close at two A.M. This was great news if you were the kind of person who had nowhere in particular to be the next day and could afford a late night with other restless souls.

  “Excellent.” He smiled, pleased.

  I didn’t go. I was pretty freaked out about meeting him, to be honest. The way he cold-stepped to me, the kiss, the telling me where to go: It was too intense for my brain. I needed to let Clark sink in for a bit. I decided to leave it up to fate. If we were meant to be, I’d surely see him again.

  I guess fate decided that Clark and I were meant to be—either that or Philly is just a ridiculously small town—because I ran into him four months later at a house party. Just as I was about to leave, he walked in looking like a fucking god in a brown leather jacket and perfect black jeans. I wanted to bite my knuckle like Lenny in Laverne and Shirley when I saw him walk into the house. I was stunned when he walked right up to me.

  “Hello, Anna!” He remembered my name, and he seemed genuinely happy to see me.

  “Hey, Clark, is it?” His eyes lit up.

  “You remembered!” I sure did. We talked for a bit and, I’m going to be honest, I have no idea what I said to him. And as it turns out, the shyer I get around a guy, the more outlandish my nervous jokes become. The likelihood of referencing C-3PO, the Naked Gun trilogy, and/or a nineties Saturday Night Live character skyrockets. I probably should’ve had a huge cane pull me away like Amateur Night at the Apollo, but he was a good sport and struggled to put on a brave face even as I blurted out an unfunny Wayne’s World joke.

  After chatting for about twenty minutes, I told him that it was great running into him, but I was heading out. I had my car keys in my hand the whole time we talked, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

  “Would you like a ride home?” I offered. Even though he had just arrived at the party, he agreed to leave with me. I practically skipped to my car.

  In that ten-minute car ride back to his place, I learned that:

  He went to Bible camp when he was younger.

  He has asthma.

  He was a communist in college.

  He uses words like rapscallion and buckaroo.

  He was once a merch dude for a popular rock band.

  To be clear, all of these facts impressed me. He was fascinating. I nodded along as we zipped through the Philly streets. As I pulled in front of his house, he handed me his phone number on a scrap of paper. Honestly, I’m thrilled anytime a cute guy wants my number, but watching him type my name into his phone is routine at this point. It doesn’t feel special when I’m just a notch on his iPhone belt.

  However, I love it when a guy takes the time to write his phone number down on a piece of paper and hands it to me. It’s rad to empty my pockets at the end of the night and see his number folded up among my loose change and gum wrappers. And, it’s fun to see his handwriting, even if it looks like he wrote his name while jumping on a trampoline. If it works out between us, then I’ll tuck this piece of paper away in my shoebox of memories, where I keep all the rad things that guys have sent/mailed/made for me over the years. Yes, that slip of paper has the potential to make the shoebox cut; a sweet relic of our early courtship. I’m getting all glowy just thinking about it.

  Then Clark kissed me again, this time a bit longer. It was just as gentle as before.

  “We should totally hang out sometime,” he said.

  “Cool. I’d like that.” I smiled.

  “Well, I’m around. You know. Like, around. So, yeah. We’ll talk soon!”

  Wait, does he want to hang out with me? Maybe he doesn’t? I’m perplexed! When a guy tells me that he’s “around,” I assume it means that he doesn’t want to hang out. It seems like a squirrelly, noncommitted reply, right? He brought up the part about us hanging out, so why would he end on that nebulous note?

  Where is this mythical place of “around”? Is it on the Internet, tucked away on a chat list? Is it in line at CVS when I’m buying deeply discounted Valentine’s Day candy? Is it on the bar stool next to me when I’m out with another guy on a date? They aren’t the same thing as scorin’ some solo time.

  As he got out of my car, he leaned into the open window on the passenger side. “I’d invite you in but my girlfriend is home.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Yeah. You know.” He flashed a smile. “So, if you call me and she answers, well, yeah, that’s who it is.”

  “Oh.” I told you Clark was a scumbag.

  After he went inside his house, I crumpled up the paper he’d given me and tossed it into the gutter.

  I’m telling you, Clark was a textbook study on being impressed by the worst things on the planet. I could see my family’s reactions now if I brought him home for Shabbat dinner: My dad would ignore him, having no clue how to relate to him. My mom would wring her hands and silently pray that I didn’t get pregnant by him. My little sister would text me from under the table, Are you fucking serious about this guy???

  I backed off for a while, spurning his occasional advances when I’d see him around town. A few months later, on slick black bar stools under low red lights, he confessed that if he didn’t have a girlfriend, he would pursue me in an instant. He said I was his dream girl, but he couldn’t leave his woman. She would crumble, he said. I nodded like I understood, but I didn’t. If he liked me so much, why wouldn’t he want to be with me? He was bad news and I wasn’t interested in a subscription.

  After a while, he moved away to Austin, which was great. I thought he was gone for good and I honestly forgot all about him. So I was surprised to run into him at a dive bar one sunny May afternoon. He was sitting at the bar all by himself, reading a book.

  “Clark?”

  “Hey, Anna! How are you?” He put down his book and hugged me. “Sit down! Please, join me. What are you doing here?”

  “I just popped in for a beer before I headed home. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m just breezing through town. It’s quite boring, actually. I have to renew my driver’s license and pick up some things from my last job, so I figured I’d stop by the old stomping grounds for a few days. Let me get you a drink. What would you like?”

  We caught up for a few hours. He told me all about his life in Austin and how he was getting his act together. He seemed to be turning over new leaves left and right.

  As we were talking, my least favorite bartender
walked past us. I narrowed my eyes. “I hate her,” I seethed. He spun around to get a good look.

  “Well, I hate her, too, then. To hating her!” He raised his glass and we clinked.

  “To hating her,” I echoed. Then we both took a sip. He didn’t even ask me why I hated her! My eyes sparkled at his ability to hate on command. All of those feelings I had for him came rushing back.

  And our banter was off the charts! We were going tit for tat a mile a minute in a heated Ping-Pong match of conversation, like a zipper with two sides coming together seamlessly. Let me tell you, if there were a Boy Scout badge for excellent banter, he’d have earned it. He’d coach the younger Cub Scouts how to banter in specialty workshops across the tristate area. Really, it’s a skill all guys should master, like tying different kinds of knots or shotgunning a can of beer. For a former high school debater such as myself, going toe to toe with this banter champion was pure bliss. Hands down, this was my favorite way to flirt.

  “I’m staying at Franny and Chris’s house for the next few days,” he said.

  “Well, you’re welcome to stay with me at my place in Fairmount. Honestly, it would be my pleasure,” I said.

  “Really? It wouldn’t be an imposition?”

  “Not at all! In fact, I insist.”

  “Yeah, yeah. That’d be great.”

  “Okay, it’s settled: You’ll stay with me.”

  We took a cab back to my apartment, and I happily made us another round of drinks. The only thing I had in my house was some vodka, so we worked with that.

  “Let’s drink these on my roof. You must see the view. You’ll love it.”

  “After you, my dear.”

  My heart fluttered a bit when he called me “dear.” We climbed up onto my roof and sat down on the edge of the deck, so close together that our knees touched. The sky was a deep purple, like a melted grape Popsicle.

  “Come here,” he said as he tilted my chin toward his mouth. We had our first proper kiss under the winking sky.

  “Hold on,” I said as I raced back downstairs. I zipped over to the living room and grabbed an armful of blankets and pillows. As I popped back onto the roof, he helped me arrange the blankets so we could lie down and look up at the stars. Everything seemed perfect.

  We got into a nice little rhythm with him staying at my place: I’d make us dinner, he’d pet my hair as we watched movies. We’d coordinate our schedules effortlessly, with him running errands during the day and showing up on my doorstep whenever was convenient for me. By the third day, it was almost like we were in a mini-relationship.

  I learned so much about him those few days. For instance, I learned that he could do a crossword puzzle in one sitting. He zoomed through it with ease, stopping only every tenth clue to work out a tricky one, which he’d figure out in about ten seconds. I just sat there, amazed at his skill. When he finished, he’d read the lame punch line to the puzzle’s theme out loud to me with satisfaction. Was there anything this guy couldn’t do? It was even hotter that he filled it out in ink. That’s some crossword cojones, right there. His crossword puzzle cocksure attitude impressed me.

  I learned that his scars had good stories. One on his shoulder was from the time a guy pulled a knife on him (!!!!) during a rowdy house party. And another is from the time he lit his eyebrow on fire as a dare. I don’t have any good stories to my scars. I once tripped by a swimming pool and have a nick on my knee. I also have a scar where a kitten bit me. That’s it! Those are the lamest scars ever. I was totally fixated by his stories about his turbulent youth. It was hard to believe that this sweet guy was a teen troublemaker. How cute!

  It turned out that Clark was the perfect movie-watching companion. This is important because besides going out for dinner, watching movies is one of the basic building blocks of a relationship. If dating were the periodic table, going to watch a movie together would be hydrogen (that’s a science joke for all you nerds out there).

  So you’re in the dark snuggled up in a comfortable seat with a dude; what could go wrong? So many things could go wrong. Most guys get fussy and argue about everything. They have weird rules like they won’t watch anything with subtitles or they won’t watch anything they’ve already seen before or they won’t watch something if I’ve already seen it.

  But with Clark, I’d suggest watching one of my favorite movies, like Breaking Away or Sid and Nancy, and he’d happily agree. That’s the thing; he was so open-minded about which movies we’d watch together. And he’d pay attention to the film I chose. He’d ask me to put it on pause while he took a bathroom break because he didn’t want to miss one scene. We’d cuddle on my couch with his arm around me. He’d laugh at all the right places of the film. It was a downright pleasure watching movies with him! It made me sad to think about him leaving in a few days.

  Of course nothing is that perfect. On the fifth day, the last day of his trip, I told him that I had a job interview the next morning, so I had to leave early. I let him know that he was welcome to stay and sleep in my bed while I was gone, which he said he appreciated.

  Don’t get too excited about the interview; the job was a long shot. It was for an administrative assistant position at a trade publication for medical equipment, and even though I had experience at magazines, I didn’t have much experience with medical equipment; I’m sure using Q-Tips in my ears didn’t qualify as medical equipment. But I was prepared to wake up early, don a gray suit, hop on a bus downtown, and make the case that I was the perfect person for the job.

  I set my alarm for seven forty-five A.M. to be at the bus stop by eight thirty A.M. to be at my interview by nine A.M., my portfolio at my side. As I sat in the waiting room patiently until my name was called to see the supervisor, I got a text from Clark:

  Come home now. It’s an emergency.

  Alarmed, I wrote back: What? I’m at my job interview across town.

  Come home. Now. I think I need to go to the hospital.

  I must’ve reread it at least three times. What could possibly have happened? Did he cut himself trying to slice a bagel? Did he sprain an ankle? What injuries could he have possibly sustained in my apartment alone? My mind raced with the possibilities.

  What’s the matter? I texted back.

  Just come home.

  Can it wait? I started to get very nervous. Then, the receptionist called my name, so I put my phone away and stood up to follow her. She led me into the supervisor’s office and I shook the woman’s hand, took a seat and tried to pretend that I wasn’t totally freaking out.

  I did my best to push Clark and his emergency out of my mind as I strained to make the case that I was a perfect fit for the job. I was a hard worker! And a quick learner! And, I cared about the medical trade publication world. (No, I didn’t.) I bombed the interview. The supervisor even looked through my résumé and said that she had “no idea” why I was called in. Thanks, lady. She said that she would let me know what they decided in regard to filling the position, which was essentially a rejection.

  When I finally left around ten A.M., I checked my phone and scanned through the seven urgent texts he’d sent: Please come home. Seriously, I think I need to go to the hospital. When will you be home? You get the gist.

  On my way home, I wrote back.

  Forty-five minutes later, I burst into my apartment, searching frantically for him. I expected to find his blood splashed across every wall in my apartment, dribbling down and staining my beige carpet. Would I get my security deposit back if there was blood on the walls? Wait, Clark was in trouble! There was no time to think about security deposits! He wasn’t in my living room, my kitchen, or the bathroom, and there was no blood anywhere. He was in the last place I looked: on my bed, fully dressed.

  “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?” I panted, frantically.

  He looked up at the ceiling. “I think I’m dying. I need to go to the hospital.”

  “Okay. Why are you dying?”

  “Just take me.”

 
; “Do you have health insurance?”

  “No.” He exhaled loudly.

  “What are you dying of?”

  “Alcohol withdrawal.” He held out his hand. “See, I’m shaking.”

  “Let me get you some water.” I kicked off my shoes and walked to the kitchen, where I saw an empty bottle of vodka sitting on the counter. He had finished the whole thing while I was at my interview. My panic was now replaced with anger.

  I stomped back to my room and saw a glass by his side of the bed. I walked over and smelled it, whipping my head back when the alcohol hit my nose.

  “How can you have withdrawal if you’re drinking right now? That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “I think I’m dying.”

  “You’re not dying, Clark.”

  “Well, can you just come over here and snuggle with me? That’d make me feel better.”

  “I don’t want to snuggle you, dude. You’re acting insane! In fact, I think it’d be best if you leave.”

  “I can’t leave, Anna. I’m dying.”

  “You’re not dying! You’re just drunk. You knew I was at a job interview.”

  “Oh yeah. How’d that go?”

  “Terrible! I had a guy texting me that he had to go to the hospital the whole time.”

  “Oh, about that. I still think I have to go. Can you drive me?”

  “Get out, Clark.”

  “I’m too sick to move. Give me two hours.”

  “Honestly, I think it’d be best if you left now.”

  “How about just one hour?”

  “This isn’t an auction! Get out!”

  “Thirty minutes?”

  “Okay, Clark. You can have thirty minutes. I’m going to leave now. When I come back, I don’t want you here.”

  I kicked my dream man out of my apartment. As I walked outside and the sunshine hit my face and my stupid gray suit constricted around my waist, I felt like a little girl who wanted nothing more than a pony for her birthday. Then I felt like the girl who finally got a pony for her birthday and then realized that not only does it make a lot of noise, but it also takes huge, smelly shits on your floor and sends you bizarre text messages while you are out trying to get your life on track.