I went down to Madison for an extended weekend, ostensibly to try and find an apartment for next semester, but mostly to finally get some alcohol in me after a few months of sobriety and solitude.
I worked 7:30 to 3:30 on Thursday, then drove down afterwards, to stay at a friend's house. Despite the plethora of friends I have in the city who stayed for the summer for internships and summer school, the trip was spur of the moment, and by the time I made up my mind that I was heading down, it was Wednesday, and everyone I called was out of town for the weekend, or celebrating a boyfriend's birthday, or working weird hours, and I was left with only one friend in town.
For those of you who are fans of vintage Sex and the City, you'll probably remember Skipper Johnson.
My friend is kinda like that. He's really nice, really sweet, doting, a great friend, he teaches chorus to K-3. However, he's also balding at 25, with back hair and a penis that, well, isn't really worth mentioning. When people complain that all the good ones are taken, his name is always on the tip of my tongue, and yet I never say anything because, well, looks matter more than anyone dares to admit. He'd make a great boyfriend for someone, probably a better boyfriend than I am, but he's not for me.
I get to Madison around seven, and he said that was out to dinner with some friends from work. I was hungry, and since he wasn't at home and no one else I knew was in town, I didn't have much else to do. They were at this sports bar a few blocks from his place, and their table was at the back, and there were all these... old women sitting with him. Women like, in their... forties.
I'm already imagining the angry comments I would recieve if I start saying things about how old 45 year olds are, but they were old. There's a generation gap that might be fine for coworkers, and even casual friends, but not going out to dinner as a gang, and not on a regular basis. One of them, who looked remarkably like my mom minus the glasses, had a child who was entering college in the fall, and another talked about her two kids in high school, while one showed pictures of her first grandchild. A few were teachers, but the bulk were from a department store which he works during the summers to supplement his income/pay off the rest of his student loans. They were lifers, women who spend decades in Childrens department, folding and putting things on the hangers properly and snickering under their breath as the little kids try on something and it looks
horrible.
When he said he was going out to dinner with friends, I was expecting guys in their 20s, early 30s, gay, probably not all that cute but still, you know, decent. Birds of a feather flock together, you know. I know it takes all kinds, and that if they're his friends he must see something in them, but I just wasn't expecting to bump into my mom. I don't really want to be hanging out with women my mom's age on a regular basis, especially when closeted. How is he supposed to pick up cute guys that way?
I sat down, and immediately ordered a drink (Bacardi Razz and Sprite) and then had another. As he went around the room, introducing people, giving off the top 10 names for little girls from the year 1958, he whispered into my ear "They don't know I'm gay, so try and keep that in mind."
To recap, I had worked for 8 hours, driven for three, to listen to women my mom's age complain about Mexicans who don't realize that they're signing up for a credit card, and now I was back in the closet. To top it all off, the drinks were really weak.
I barely talked during dinner, tired from the drive, bitter that I was hanging out with fascimiles of my mom, bored by all the shop talk, apprehensive about doing anything too fey that might raise eyebrows and remind all these women that he's almost 26 years old and has yet to mention a girlfriend. They spent most of dinner bitching about people in the department, and new protocols, stuff so dreadfully boring I actually paid attention to the Yankees game that was on the jumbo television. Yes, it was so boring, I watched a baseball game to stay awake. I mean, Jesus Christ.
I was barely paying attention to what they were saying when I heard my name. I instintively said "Yes" in an "I heard my name and I acknowledge you" manner and not in a "Someone mentioned something about bowling and am emphatic to go play" fashion. My 'yes' definitely didn't sound a thing like that. But it didn't matter. I was suckered in to bowling. My phone started doing the "I'm out of battery" beeps as I sat down to dinner, so I couldn't even call someone up and beg them to get out of work early, or go downtown and walk around until he returned from bowling to let me into his place to crash for the night.
I can illustrate what a dive the bowling alley was with two scenes.
1. After we put on shoes, some people went to pick out a bowling ball, others went to put people's names in the computer, and like the good homosexual I am I went to the bar. I was having an awful night, sticking out like a sore (though well manicured) thumb, and it only tripled in a place like that. I get up to the bar, and order a drink, and I am denied. They don't serve drinks, just beer on tap. No vodka, no rum, no Jack Daniels, no gin, no whiskey, nothing. Just Bud, Bud Light, Miller, Miller Light, Michelob, and a few others. I ask if they have anything else, like a lager or a cider or an ale, or something,
anything that would allow me to drown my sorrows without resorting to empty calories and a extra layer around my midsection. And I was denied. I asked if it had something to do with their liquor license, because how could a bar in its right mind not have vodka? No, they told me. It's just that mixed drinks never sold well enough to bother restocking the bar.
2. The people in the lane next to us were so beautifully stereotypical I could have screamed. Three guys, and a girl. She was pregnant, and wearing a white wifebeater and acid-washed jeans, while smoking. Her roots were at least an inch long, as were her fake nails, and her eyeliner was increduous, as was her distinctive lip liner and obviously fake 'beauty mark.' She never bowled, instead just walking around barefoot watching the other guys, occasionally sidling up to the overweight one. They were dressed in white wifebeaters, and one had on an oversized short sleeve button up shirt. Their oversized jean shorts went to their calves, and I noticed at least once that their baggy pants became a problem for their bowling. They wore baseball caps and gold chains around their necks. One of them had a gold tooth.
I don't know if I've ever felt so out of place in my life.
The people I was with really got into their bowling. A few of them called their husbands, who joined us, and they were incredibly into it. On teams into it. Seriously into it. Unironically into it.
Sure, I've bowled a few times in my life. In fact, I think my 8th or 9th birthday party was held at a bowling alley. The few times I've gone since puberty, however, was strictly tongue in cheek, ironic bowling. We'd bowl granny style for the hell of it, and make up elaborate dances as we prepare to fling the ball down the lane, and have more fun pointing at the mullet or the ugly flashing neon lights than from the actual bowling, and our joy at a strike or spare was always exaggerated because no one could seriously care so much about ten chunks of wood getting knocked down by a large ball.
But they can care. They can seriously care, and pay attention to the tips given on the computer screens on how to pick up that spare, and discuss strategy, and switch balls depending on the pins remaining and oh my god I'm bored even writing about it. I mostly just stood around feeling awkward, sipping my Miller light reluctantly. It was classic uncomfortable behavior, with arms crossed, awkward smile to everything, glances around the room, legs askew, dead eyes. I was dead inside.
I scored a 98, not bad considering my feelings on the subject of organized sports in which chubby balding men dominate, but about half of what everyone else got. Even my friend got into it, and I quickly and quietly shrunk to the background, feeling kinda sorry at myself and reminding myself that I was so much better than all of them put together.
After two games, the alley was about to close, but everyone could stay and drink at the bar. I took a long time putting away my shoes, and excused myself to the bathroom, and waited in the lobby for everyone to finish. In addition to not having a place to stay without my friend, I was now the designated driver, so I couldn't just leave. Plus, without my phone, I couldn't return when he needed a ride, I had to stay.
I know I sound like a snob, but I just couldn't go into that bar. It'd been a terrible day, from working at 7:30 in the morning to driving for 3 hours to worrying about accidently outing my friend, from the weak drinks to the idea of hanging out with my mom's friends, to bowling with sincerity. I just couldn't go in there and drink more beer and listen to people complain about asking every customer if they'd like to open a charge account via the store. This is not a world I am a part of. This is not a world I would like to be a part of. I am not in my own skin. I just couldn't do it. I'm better than that. I have to believe that I'm better than that. I couldn't go into the bar, instead reading every damn poster in the place and humming songs in my head, staring at the vending machines and tying and retying my shoes, fighting back the tears of lonliness and disappointment. It was pathetic, yet, but I couldn't bring myself to the alternative.
Finally they came out, we all went home, and I got to go sleep for a while. A bitter, restless, angry sleep where I pretty much convinced myself that I am better than everyone else on earth.
Oh, and it turns out that it's a bad idea to try and get things done on a Friday in the summer in a college town. Every apartment housing place had taken a long weekend, it seems, and with my phone not working, I couldn't call to schedule an appointment or to reply to sublets in the local paper. I put my tail between my legs and drove home that afternoon, with no apartment and no fun had. It was an incredible waste of gas, time, and energy.
I have often complained about my weekends this summer, and how nothing happens since none of my friends are in town, and I'm not allowed to drink, and I don't have a car so I can't excuse myself late at night for casual sex, but compared to this weekend, sitting around at home watching DVDs from the library on my 12 inch screen while my sisters bicker in the background sounded like paradise.
