I think we've passed the statute of limitations on this one.

TequilaCon was this weekend. And also, Grad School Reject had asked for tequila stories. Although there is no actual tequila in this story, the characters herein are tequila-related in my mind. Eventually, I will write tequila stories as well.

1997. My last semester of college. This class is held in one of the university's theaters. I'm sprawled in the third row, legs up on the seat in front of me, listening to the instructor differentiate among power tools and address their various theatrical uses. I take out the plastic container of leftovers I've brought for lunch, mostly consisting of slices of candied yams. He watches me, quizzically.

Fuck. I forgot a fork.

I eat with my fingers.

He watches me some more. Not so quizzically. He tosses in some mention of how this will be tested. I keep eating. And listening. And nodding. Eventually, he stops speaking.

Staredown.

He's not pissed off; he's trying not to laugh.

"You don't seriously think I need to take notes on this? I think I'll recognize the power drill on the midterm."

*****

Late some Saturday night a few weeks later. I'm flopped on a cushy thing near the bar inside of some Pan-Asian restaurant. This piece of furniture could seat three, but right now it's just me and the guy beside me. With some space between us. The place is dark, vaguely shadowy, and I'd probably be able to give more details if I hadn't drunk quite so much vodka. But that's okay, because I'm not the only one in such sorry condition--he's not much better, and neither are the people we arrived with. This is when the sober people show up.

And by "sober people", I mean "high-strung and anal retentive". There are two of them--one man, one woman--and both of them have some strange fixation on my sofa companion. I tell him he ought to start his own cult. He says that it's just a hobby. He'd rather be a designer. At the moment, he's also stuck being an adjunct instructor. Of course, when he says that it's just a hobby, what he really means is that he's done with her, and can't I please stop her from sitting down so he doesn't have to be the bad guy.

I can, and I do. Actually, we do it together. She approaches; he spreads his knees; I grab the inside of his thigh. Then we both look up and smile. Neither she (a grad student) nor the man in denial of being fixated on the man beside me (another adjunct) smile back. How rude.

They pull up two chairs, chat with the drunken posse, and order vegetable sushi. More conversation ensues, people come and go, we drink more.

Here's the next thing I remember:

Drunken sushi-eating female grad student filled with rage approaches the sofa, but remains on the other side of the small coffee table. She carries an immense martini glass.

The martini glass contains the partially-digested remains of her vegetable sushi.

Ceremoniously, she places the vomit martini on the table in front of us--an offering to we gods of we don't give a fuck.

Yay! A present!

She says something. What she says I have no clue, because my male cohort is shifting his body from serving as my pillow, and is searching for something. Feverishly. Checking every pocket. Shifting stuff around in the bags at our feet. He finds it.

A pen.

He pulls off the cap, grabs a napkin, and begins sketching.

The vomit martini.

Sketching. The vomit martini.

"Look at that." He is deadpan, sincerely excited. "That spittle on the side of the glass, hanging down..."

(Indeed, there is a long path of drool dripping to the table.)

"The perfect detail. It fucking makes the shot."

We look on as he finishes. He is practiced--the sketch is quick and accurate. Someone puts her in a cab, our group disperses, one of our friends goes home with the inked napkin. Actually, one of our friends takes another one of our friends to her home, and with them goes the sketch.

Or maybe she takes possession of it later.

Not sure.

Mostly, what I'm sure of is that they all left us alone.

And a glass of vomit isn't as big a distraction as a sober person might think it would be. If you've consumed enough vodka and are too busy making out on the sofa.

And I honestly can't remember at which point the bar staff cleared the glass from the table.

The end.

...but not really, because I haven't even gotten to the tequila yet.

A page from the eX-Files.

Well, more like "the friends with benefits" files, but that's not quite as pithy, is it?

Warning: Flipping through XM radio stations may cause flashbacks.

The song: uber-atrocious "I Love You Always Forever".
The "artist": one-hit-wonder Donna Lewis.
The year: 1996.
The scene: Jill's car, the beach parking lot, summer.
The time: Sometime between nine pm and midnight. This I know because it was dark and we were killing time, waiting for our friends to get off work once the theater closed, and getting a head start on them by finishing off the bottle of whatever it was that I had gifted to my brother and then taken back when he wasn't home.
The cast: Jill and Drew, and I use his name only because it's relevant to the story.

Drew flips through radio stations and stops.

Drew: Listen to this.
Jill: You're not seriously playing that piece of perky pop crap in my car, are you?
Drew: Just listen. You hear that?
Jill: Yes. That would be why I'm asking if you're serious.
Drew: You hear all the you's?
Jill: That's called lazy lyric-writing.
Drew: They could be Drew's.



Drew smiles with great self-satisfaction.

Drew: "I love Drew, always forever."



Drew: And the best part: "Drew's got the most unbelievable blue eyes I've ever seen."



Drew: Come on. Admit it.
Jill: What's unbelievable is that we both fit in the car with your ego.
Drew: Ah, you love it... "Everything I will do for Drew."
Jill: You are so cut off for the night.
Drew: There's nothing left in the bottle, anyway.
Jill: Oh, I wasn't talking about the alcohol.
Donna Lewis: "Say it, say it again."
Jill: I definitely wasn't talking about the alcohol.

Why I Write What I Write, Part II: Weird, Artsy Montage

I see them before me. Each one I love differently, but unconditionally. Even the ones that now I avoid.

Perhaps “am learning to forgive” is a better choice of words. But nonetheless:

The one that hurt me—more and more often than any other in this life. But he was like a child, and I a nurturer. I practically raised him, though he was already eighteen when we met. I don’t really write about him any more. But I did. Omission from this list would perpetrate a lie.

The one that betrayed me, with one act of selfishness that I always knew was coming. Yet there were lessons—as the frog learned of the scorpion.

The ones I would never avoid. Probably because they never hurt me in that way. Because they never had the chance? Not a question to be answered. I have ached in other ways.

The one that came first. Just a boy. Always a friend. Now gone.

The one that stuck around. The words keep coming, and they’re different every time.

The one that was consistent—but whose other lives kept me wary. It was only because heart thievery was a quiet possibility.

The one that was a surprise. Well, one good shock deserves another. And now there are words I never dreamed would come from me.

And then, the one I do not write about. He loves in a way I do not understand. I love him back as best I can.

Things Not to Say to the Man Who Just Bought You Dinner

Wandering through the multiplex, don’t stare too long at the guy with the skull tattooed into his skull, then begin musing aloud about why you don’t find that particular design and locale of body art particularly arousing. This begs the question: “Oh, so you find tattoos sexy?”

Suddenly floating through your mind: images of every piece of body art on any man you’ve ever touched, kissed, slept with, danced with, traveled with, worked with, been friends with, been more than friends with, thought about being more than friends with, ran into on the subway platform and began spontaneously composing poetry about…

Absent from the parade in your brain: the man questioning. He has no tattoos.

Then, by virtue of the two being so closely housed in your mental rolodex, images of the same men’s varied body piercings…

There is no safe way out of this conversation. You are now screwed. Royally.

”Damn, I didn’t know he had one there. Well, I guess I know now.”

“So. You find tattoos sexy.”

You can now only remember the few you found most surprising, or well-designed, or just plain hot.

“Yeah…umm…they can be.”

Shoulder. Upper arm. Leg.

“Really.”

You know what is coming. And you know it is a good idea, in your response, to avoid mention of any man that the man questioning
a) knows
b) has ever run into
c) has ever heard you speak about
d) can find programmed on your cell phone.

“On who?”

Bingo!

Shoulder, upper arm, leg. Shoulder, upper arm, leg. Shoulder, upper arm, leg. "Goddamn. I didn’t expect that to be there. Or maybe I did. Maybe I knew it was there all along."

“Uh…”

Ok, focus. Focus! There has to be a safe choice. An acceptable conversation topic. Brad Pitt? Does he have any tattoos? Even men think Brad Pitt is hot.

Shoulder.

What about Tom Cruise? Most likely gay. Totally a safe choice. Do Scientologists believe in body art?

Upper arm.

Colin Farrell. Obviously, a kinky fuck. A complete masochist. MUST have something, somewhere. But why can’t I remember? Have I been brainwashed? What the hell?

Leg.

Oh. Boy.

“Do you want to share some Milk Duds?”

"C" is for Clueless

Late 1992.
"He's looking."

"Who cares? He's not him."

"And he's looking."

"Also, not him. Do you think he knows?"

"Can you think of anyone else? There's like a hundred guys here."

"Right. So, do you think he knows?"

"Yes. No. Maybe. You act too cool."

"So I should be more obvious?"

"Yes. Try obvious."

Latest 1992
"Do you think I was too obvious? I mean, I nearly spelt it out for him."

"Boys need the actual spelling out."

"Not the nearly?"

"Not the nearly."

Early 1993
"He read me Yeats. So do you think he--"

"Uhhh...yeah."

"But maybe he was just, I don't know, in the mood to recite poetry."

"Right."

"Studying for an English exam?"

"Try again."

"You think he meant it?"

"For someone so smart, you're awfully dumb."

Later 1993
"That's it. Today or never."

A day later, 1993
"Detention. Yep. Detention."

"You're joking."

"No joke. It's a message. From the universe."

"What's the message?"

"Learn to spell."

2001
"So, uh, when did you figure it out?"

"What?"

"You know, that I adored you."

"Huh?"

"Adored you. Couldn't tell you."

"Now."

"How clueless were you."

"Pretty damn. So what about you?"

"What about me, what?"

"When did you figure it out?"

"Huh?"

2005
"So what did we learn from our fiasco?"

"Not nearly enough, apparently."

"Not nearly."

"But I couldn't be more obvious."

"Not nearly enough. Take it from me."

"You would be the expert."

"I am. Spell. It. Out."

"Next time the phone rings. I swear."

What It's Like to Be Me

“What I love about you,” he tells me, “is that you don’t make mistakes. With numbers. Your taste in men—not so good—but your math is flawless.” I study him and try to see what other girls see. He is my friend. I spend most of our time together running interference for him. He would argue this, but he breaks hearts. His eyes are clear and green. He is beautiful. He would argue that as well. The girls are not heart-broken to be separated from his naturally shrewd business sense or his artist's eye. Probably no contention there.

We hug warmly, his arms wrapped around me, his body against mine. People see us and assume the most. None of it is true. In private, he musses my hair—what remains of it after ordering the stylist to chop it off in a fit of post-adolescent frustration over guys telling me “don’t cut your hair.” It is short, pixie-ish. “You don’t need long hair to be sexy,” he tells me. “Wear your glasses. I love hot smart girls with glasses.” My fingers trace the tribal band around his upper arm.

We have no shame about changing clothes in the same room. His boxers are low as he pulls up his pants; fluorescent light bounces off the sharp lines of his bare hips. Aesthetically fascinating—so different from what's under the waistband of my jeans. His angles bring to mind the geometry of the architectural studies he sketches for homework. I wonder if he would rather be penciling curves.


We dance in the lobby of the local diner, to disco songs we sing off key. “Older sisters,” he confirms. “Girls like to see your feminine side, as long as that’s not all they see.” He dances just close enough to make me wish he’d get closer. He knows too much for seventeen. So do I, but that’s because my dance partners are always older. High school boys are afraid to look you in the eyes when you’re dancing. Not him. His eyes are golden-brown, and they match his hair.

He shows up on my back porch and asks me to his senior prom. I say yes. He shows up on my back porch and says we ought to be just friends. I say “I guess.” “But,” he asks, “you’re still coming to the prom with me, right?” I go, because I have a fabulous sequined dress that I want to wear again, and because he can dance.


His lips taste faintly of coconut. It’s not chapstick or anything; it’s him. Always faintly of coconut--sweet but still masculine. I watch as they draw back into a smile and I know without looking up that he is glancing down. That’s what he does when he’s about to cast aside inhibition. He will kiss me again and his eyes will shift to the greener side of hazel, and I will know what he is thinking.


“When you look at me like that, I think of chocolate.”
“Well, we are in Starbucks,” he laughs. “I’ll get you a brownie.”


I know his eyes are cobalt, but I can’t see them. We are on the phone, debating competitiveness and office politics and drive. I ask him leading questions; he makes me define my terms. A screech cuts through the phone signal and for a few seconds, we are kids, giggling, bickering in the school yard. “Was that you?” “No. You?” “Well it wasn’t me.” Boyish. Charming. Then back to business. I ask him questions requiring statistics, and gauge his facility with numbers. I put words in his mouth. He cuts in. I talk over him. He says: “listen.” And I do. I stop mid-sentence. It is a small submission I do not begrudge. He doesn’t call himself a writer, yet he always uses his words precisely. And I want him to talk some more, because the sound of his voice makes me squirm.

He pauses, making sure my abrupt stop is not just instinct. He wants to know it is a conscious decision to yield. I wait--willingly, because he seems aware of the crucial but delicate balance. Without my willingness, his power has nowhere respectable to go. Acknowledge my authority and I will want yours. He modulates his drive as well as he does his voice, something feral only flickering occasionally—in the silences, between his careful phrases, when I catch him off-guard. Always tantalizingly close, but clearly well under his control. I hear assurance in his voice as he speaks of ambition, and imagine how lamplight looks playing across the skin of his bare hips.

Baggage (Part 1)

Jeremy taught me how to pack.

Of course, he didn't teach me until he realized I was bad at it, which was right about when he saw me unpacking in a hotel in Rome. It was my first time out of the US. I was 18. Being taught how to most effectively pack a suitcase might not sound like a particularly formative experience, but coming from a writer who lists "wanderlust" as her favorite word, this is nearly in the realm of the sublime.

Soggy January, 1994. My first year of college, his second. We were on a study trip with a university group. He had packed for nearly two weeks in one large military duffel bag. He unpacked quickly, showered for dinner quickly, met me and my rooming buddy in our room. Two girls with long hair. We were not ready. My clothes were everywhere. And they were wrinkled. Grunge may have been in, but there was no need for wrinkled dinnerwear.

He knocked some idiosyncratic knock that I now wish I could remember. I opened the door and--though I was pretty hot for him--thought nothing of letting him see the mess. He'd known me for three months; if he didn't like my mess, then he didn't like me. His black button-down was wrinkle-free, no doubt due to the miracle of a steamy shower. He strolled on in and took up more space in the room than I would have expected from a guy his size.

"Hasn't anyone taught you how to pack?" A bit more bite in his voice than I'd been hoping to detect. I gave it back to him.

"Why, are you going to show me?" I knew he'd traveled a lot, but I wasn't sure a man could teach me how to organize my own wardrobe.

Great job, Jill. Bait him. Good plan.

What did you expect? I was 18. I hadn't yet learned how to check my ego at the door. (Um...have I fully learned that yet? I don't know.) I wasn't about to take any crap from a know-it-all upperclassman, no matter how turquoise his eyes. Though, if I knew then what I know now, I probably would have realized from the pragmatic way he would arrive in a new city and have a gameplan for us all before we'd even showered, that he was someone to be reckoned with. And that perhaps I shouldn't bait him. His glibness and self-importance notwithstanding.

Seriously, he could make things happen. Like a few months before. In Chicago. It was a weekend trip. I'm not sure what we were supposed to be learning. We'd been seated next to each other on the flight out, as the seats had been arranged alphabetically by last name. Only a few weeks into my first semester of college, I would be spending my birthday with a horde of students I didn't know. It was our first extended conversation.

(Technically we first spoke at the meet-n-greet, wherein the upperclassmen were supposed to welcome the freshmen. Months later, I learned that it was more like the upperclassmen rating the freshmen. Ah, adolescence.)

As we checked in and found our rooms, Jeremy surveyed the people we'd become friendly with. He discovered food preferences, dietary restrictions. He found a guidebook. He located an appropriate restaurant. I think he may even have made reservations. He made plans for after dinner. He figured out to get to the Improv. (And all the while, he took a series of really cool photos which I saw when he developed them a week or so later.)

What, a man with organizational skills?

This was astounding to me. I'd gone to a very competitive all-girls high school. The place was filled with leaders. Girls who could organize a prom in their sleep. Girls who could stage-manage a cast of 50. Girls who could raise $100,000 for the charity of your choice. We didn't mess around. I wasn't used to a man taking charge. (Isn't that ironic? Such is the value of same-sex education.)

I was enamored. Wow. Slight problem, though. Sorta-boyfriend back home. (Eventually, it turned out that the sorta-bf wasn't into the whole "monogomy" thing, and the unbelievable self-control I demonstrated by not kissing Jeremy right in the hotel lobby for his amazing freakin' competence at all things I was just discovering that I found impressive was for naught. But hey, live and learn. Next time you don't kiss someone, think of me.)

So, back to Italy: He folded and rolled and stacked my clothes, tough-love-teasing all the way through. Besides mocking my packing skills, he had to rub it in that his French was way better than my Italian and was more likely to help us out of a jam, even in Rome. Bastard. I wanted to slap him. But I also wanted to kiss him. Again. Which I didn't. Again.

(Still had the sorta-bf back home, who by this time had left me for his ex and came back. You'd think I would have learned my lesson, but no. Good job, Jill. Don't kiss the cute bi-lingual world-traveling intellectual photographer with killer taste in music who makes you excellent mix tapes monthly. Who, by the way, also had single-handedly organized the outing for the evening of your 18th birthday. Good job!)

Tune in tomorrow...or the next day?...for more of "How stupid was Jill at 18?"