if you haven't read this story yet you might want to scroll down to version 2.0. as it is worse, I mean better.
Usually the short stories come pretty easy to me, all I have to do is get them from my head to paper and not fuck it up or when I have done that go back and fix all the things I have fucked up. But this one was has been a big struggle and I am suffering it. I don't like the pace, lots of the sentence structure or the ending, or beinging (or middle that much). But I think there is something there that can be saved. All help with typos and other shit will be a great help. And if no one likes it I'll scrap the thing. Oh and if you read it you will notice I got a lot of this story form the current posts on Pax Acidus so I have all of you to thank. It's not your fault it kinda sucks.
Matthew McCutcheon Pape word count: 1,400
309 E. 18th St. 3C
New York, New York
10003
home phone: 212.979.5776
cell phone: 917.337.1659
email: matt@eworksinc.com
website: paxacidus.com
Romantic Comedy
Wednesday nights I DJ. After my set I have a ritual; I head to the bar down the block and play Galaxie 500 on the jukebox and chill with a few pints of Guinness. I usually stay until the 4AM closing and then go to the deli across the street to get a sandwich before grabbing a taxi home. Back at my apartment I'll crawl into bed with a beer and my sandwich and put The Office on the DVD. I'll watch a few episodes until I finally fall asleep. The show is a reminder to keep my days free.
A few weeks ago I spun for 6 hours straight and hadn't eaten all day. I was on wobbly legs, slowly sipping a pint down at the bar. In between jukebox songs I went outside to have a smoke. I asked a couple leaning against the wall if I could get a light.
“Are you drunk?� the girl asked. She sounded drunk.
“No, not really,� I replied. “Just tired and stuff. I haven't eaten all day.�
“Looks like you could skip a meal.� She said.
“You really are from LA,� the guy said to the girl. Maybe they weren't a couple.
“What?� said the girl defensively, “He's puffy.�
“Fuck off,� I said.
I went inside and sat down on my stool. I was going to finish my pint and get the hell out of there. The girl came up to me and slapped me across the face. I fell to the floor.
“Don't tell me to fuck off,� she screamed.
“All right that's it.� Said the bartender. “Get out of here.�
He was talking to the girl, not me.
The girl jumped on me. I prepared myself for another attack. But instead of getting hit again she started French kissing me, sloppily sticking her tongue in my mouth and all over my face.
“I didn't mean it, you are so cute. I have struggled with weight issues of my own,� she said. “Before I came out tonight I made myself throw up for two hours.�
“Eww.�
I wiped away her slobber with my sleeve. The girl was lifted off me and shown the door. I finished my pint and lugged my records to the curb and hailed a cab. I skipped the sandwich.
The next day I went to watch a soccer match. I didn't eat, but had about four beers. After the match I went to my local pub on 2nd Avenue and sat outside at the sidewalk tables with a Guinness.
I thought of the night before. The girls' comments really bothered me. I enjoy and respect the movies of Michael Moore, but I don't want to look like Michael Moore, if you know what I mean. I personally don't care what he looks like. But I know people judge. We all do it. I do it too; my pet peeve is bulimic chicks from LA who French kiss me.
I've always been sort of fat. I was the kid at the beach who didn't take his shirt off. Friends called me potato because I was round. I handled being teased when I was young, because that's what happens, you get teased, but at the age of 35 I hadn't expected to be reminded of those painful taunts.
In my teens and twenties I stayed fit by running six miles a day and playing soccer and tennis even though my diet was mostly liquid. For the last fifteen years I have drunk like a true dipsomaniac. A year ago I blew out my knee and was sidelined to the bar stool for ten months, where I quickly gained twenty pounds. It didn't really matter because I was in a comfortable relationship where I got comfortably numb and rotund. That relationship is now over. I should have known better than to ever have gotten that satisfied.
For the last two months I have been able to start running again, but the weight isn't coming off. My metabolism has taken a nosedive. I could cut down on the drinking but that is easier said then done. I want to get fit. Not to impress any girls, least not at the moment. But I do want to have sex again in my lifetime. I want to be naked with another human being who wants to be naked with me.
It was one of those hot humid days in New York were it is unbearable to be outside. Everyone else was sitting inside with the air conditioning. But I didn't want company. I sat drinking, sweating, just getting drunker and fatter.
That is when I saw her walking down the street. She was effortlessly perfect. Out of my league. Just another one of those ‘most beautiful girls in worlds' you see about twenty times a day in this city.
She smiled at me. Or at least I think she did. She was wearing sunglasses so I couldn't see her eyes. To my surprise she turned and walked into the bar. As she passed she said hi.
“Hi,� I muttered.
Now I wished I was also sitting inside. It would be stupid and obvious if I went in and followed her. Then she came out and sat down at the next table. We were facing each other. She took off her dark glasses and her eyes shined. I shivered in the heat.
“Would you like to join me?� I asked.
“Sure.�
She came over to my table. We started to talk.
“What are you contemplating about out here on your own?� she asked.
“Oh, how I need to get in shape,� I said without thinking. Something about her lowered all my defenses. Shit, what was I saying? Sure I might be ‘puffy' but I had self-worth. I loved music and reading and writing, even if I didn't always love myself. And besides, one thing I've learned from years of failed relationships is that girls don't like guys who lack confidence. At least not the girls I liked.
“I think you are very handsome.� She said.
“Thanks, that's nice to hear coming from a woman who looks like you.�
What were these words coming out of my mouth? I had to play it cool. But she just smiled. She knew how great she looked.
And then we started talking and it flowed easier than any conversation I've ever had. There was no small talk or awkwardness between us. I felt I had come home to a place I never knew existed. We talked politics and pop culture. We were concerned for the woes of the world. We both laughed out loud at our jokes. The only time we paused in two hours was to look into each other's eyes. I saw the light hair on her arm stand up. I wasn't the only one who got the shivers in this evil heat. She had a meeting at St Mark's church. She belonged to a group whose sole purpose was to get George W. Bush out of office. I would have gone with her but I had to attend a birthday party that night.
“We have to see each other again,� she said.
“Of course.�
“I'll give you my number.�
“Okay. I'll write it down.�
“Matt�, she said. “You seem like the kind of guy who might lose the piece of paper. Enter it into your cell phone.�
“Okay.�
She gave me the number. I entered it; I even made a big production of showing it to her.
“You have to call me soon,� she said looking deep into my eyes. “I want you to prove to me that you feel this was as magical a meeting as I think it was.�
“Of course I'll call,� I said.
Then she had to go. I reached out my hand to shake. She leaned in and gave me a quick powerful kiss.
“Bye.�
“Bye.�
My heart fluttered. The rest of the night I was bad company. At the birthday party I didn't stay long. All I cared about was calling her.
The next morning as soon as I woke up I reached for my cell phone. Her number was not there. What? Was it a dream? Did I really meet her? I retraced all my steps. Yes, of course I met her. Then I remembered. In my joy I wasn't fully functioning. I didn't hit the OK button before closing my phone. Her number was never saved.
I haven't been able to find her again. Looking back there is a lot of ‘would-a, could-a, should-as'. And I have thought of them all. I still sit in the same outdoor spot no matter how hot or humid it is, hoping she will pass by. I have attended every meeting at the church. I've baked brownies for orphans, I walked 5 K to prevent breast cancer, I participated in a kissing both to find a cure for AIDS and I attended a gathering of all the activist groups who got together to protest the Republican National Convention taking place in New York. The local TV News crews were covering the event and a reporter came up to me. He shoved a microphone in my face and asked, “So what has motivated you in coming here, what is your opinion of the Republicans invading the city?�
“I don't give a shit about politics,� I said. “I don't want to save the world. I'm just looking for a girl.�
My response wasn't aired that night.
In my anguish I have lost five pounds without giving up the drink. I had to tell someone my tale of sorrow, so I told an editor at a magazine I freelance for.
“Well,� she said. “Now you have the start of a Romantic Comedy screenplay. The rest will write itself.�
“Yeah, sure,� I said. But I knew my story was over.
Help! Romantic Comedy by McCutcheon needs help
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
Help! Romantic Comedy by McCutcheon needs help
Last edited by mccutcheon on Tue Jul 06, 2004 2:06 am, edited 1 time in total.
A few things
Matt-
First off-I hope you don't always introduce your stories with such contempt.
Seemed like you were saying-this sucks-I suck-hope you like it.....
Anyway-could very well be that you aren't like that-and this is just one story you're truly in need of help with...hope so.
So-I really like it.
Read it through and didn't stop to think at any point-well this needs to be changed.
But-since you're looking for constructive criticism-here's what I can think of after a re-read.
A bit too much of 'I did this, then i did that'. Ie-I Dj, I stay until 4, I go to the bar, I drink, I play this song, I have a sandwhich, I watch the office....'
The beginning descriptives seemed a little lazy.
LOVE the dialogue with the 1st girl (and hell-all dialougue you write is great). . Laughed my ass off. I think the "eww" part should go. It took away from that whole incredibly funny bar encounter. She tells you she threw up that evening-and then you should go right to the line about wiping away her slobber....
Not sure about the Michael Moore ref....seems out of place. Yeah-you want to establish an image of severe puffiness-but that one didn't seem to work. Don't know why.
And you described her first as 'just another one of those most beautiful girls....you see 20x a day....' (as in all this response-paraphrasing here...).
For someone you spend as much time looking for-I'm not sure about that comment...makes her seem 'ordinarily pretty'. Or maybe there's a story in there somewhere about the search not being about her-and just about you needing someone???
Last-the paragraph about losing her number...The 'was it a dream?, did i really meet her?'...not sure about that flow. .maybe you could throw in a line about 'starting to question ever meeting her after an endless search for her number'.
And even if it did happen-not sure how believable the cell phone story was...at least as told. I don't know-maybe you lose her phone number on paper...or in the least throw in a line about how lacking you are in cell phone operation...some crack like that...
Anyway-that's the stuff I could find only by nitpicking. Story is great man. You're a good writer...and I could see a story in which you write about the 'character's' of New York city that one finds in late night bars and city streets after dark. Hell-the encounter on the roof top alone (couple wanting to have sex..fucking great) should start out a story
about you leaving for a night out on the town. A 'McCuth' version of 'After Hours'.
But back to this story...I love the idea of you searching for this girl...and the things you did to try to find her...that one line about the brownie baking, the 5k, kissing booth....just great.
And last-the "I'm just looking for a girl" line. I think that's the end of your story. It's the heart and soul of it. Yeah-the ending as is makes more sense. ie-the story's over....and it works...but if you could somehow tie in the interview on camera line as the last line...that would be fantastic.
So-that's the small stuff...the stuff I could find by looking maybe too hard...who knows...
And of course-as always with reviews/criticism-it's my opinion. Just remember that it's your story.
First off-I hope you don't always introduce your stories with such contempt.
Seemed like you were saying-this sucks-I suck-hope you like it.....
Anyway-could very well be that you aren't like that-and this is just one story you're truly in need of help with...hope so.
So-I really like it.
Read it through and didn't stop to think at any point-well this needs to be changed.
But-since you're looking for constructive criticism-here's what I can think of after a re-read.
A bit too much of 'I did this, then i did that'. Ie-I Dj, I stay until 4, I go to the bar, I drink, I play this song, I have a sandwhich, I watch the office....'
The beginning descriptives seemed a little lazy.
LOVE the dialogue with the 1st girl (and hell-all dialougue you write is great). . Laughed my ass off. I think the "eww" part should go. It took away from that whole incredibly funny bar encounter. She tells you she threw up that evening-and then you should go right to the line about wiping away her slobber....
Not sure about the Michael Moore ref....seems out of place. Yeah-you want to establish an image of severe puffiness-but that one didn't seem to work. Don't know why.
And you described her first as 'just another one of those most beautiful girls....you see 20x a day....' (as in all this response-paraphrasing here...).
For someone you spend as much time looking for-I'm not sure about that comment...makes her seem 'ordinarily pretty'. Or maybe there's a story in there somewhere about the search not being about her-and just about you needing someone???
Last-the paragraph about losing her number...The 'was it a dream?, did i really meet her?'...not sure about that flow. .maybe you could throw in a line about 'starting to question ever meeting her after an endless search for her number'.
And even if it did happen-not sure how believable the cell phone story was...at least as told. I don't know-maybe you lose her phone number on paper...or in the least throw in a line about how lacking you are in cell phone operation...some crack like that...
Anyway-that's the stuff I could find only by nitpicking. Story is great man. You're a good writer...and I could see a story in which you write about the 'character's' of New York city that one finds in late night bars and city streets after dark. Hell-the encounter on the roof top alone (couple wanting to have sex..fucking great) should start out a story
about you leaving for a night out on the town. A 'McCuth' version of 'After Hours'.
But back to this story...I love the idea of you searching for this girl...and the things you did to try to find her...that one line about the brownie baking, the 5k, kissing booth....just great.
And last-the "I'm just looking for a girl" line. I think that's the end of your story. It's the heart and soul of it. Yeah-the ending as is makes more sense. ie-the story's over....and it works...but if you could somehow tie in the interview on camera line as the last line...that would be fantastic.
So-that's the small stuff...the stuff I could find by looking maybe too hard...who knows...
And of course-as always with reviews/criticism-it's my opinion. Just remember that it's your story.
If I'm making any sense, then I haven't made myself clear.
Its a good story. I hope you find her. Not in the story though. In the story, the character should get throat cancer and then get a tracheotomy and then the girl would be his nurse after the operation. Of course there could be no love after that. Fat is okay. Fat and breathing through a hole in your neck is not.
Let's push the envelope people
Cut to - love scene.
French kiss.
Trach hole.
Look-all I'm sayin is-it could happen.
French kiss.
Trach hole.
Look-all I'm sayin is-it could happen.
If I'm making any sense, then I haven't made myself clear.
-
Guest
thanks all, I've already done work on it. Though no holes through the neck. That can be a Sloth story. I write realism. He is the French Absurdist.
and don't worry Tom, I usually don't start off saying my stories suck- usually I say here is the next one and you are gonna dig it nah nah nah...
As for the After Hours thing, yes it is a great and under rated Scoresse (sp? of course) film...I've been thinking that NYC Scribbles could be moulded into an After Hours meets David Sedaris meets Cain's Book by Alexander Trocchi. I mean it is (writing itself) about 60,000 words and could def be a novel or some such shit.
and don't worry Tom, I usually don't start off saying my stories suck- usually I say here is the next one and you are gonna dig it nah nah nah...
As for the After Hours thing, yes it is a great and under rated Scoresse (sp? of course) film...I've been thinking that NYC Scribbles could be moulded into an After Hours meets David Sedaris meets Cain's Book by Alexander Trocchi. I mean it is (writing itself) about 60,000 words and could def be a novel or some such shit.
-
mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
- Posts: 4996
- Joined: Tue Oct 03, 2000 8:01 am
- Location: NYC
- Contact:
Well I'm on it again
2.0
I know I'm gonna bore you with this revision shit but here it goes. It's my web site and you can cry if you wanna. Tom I didn't change the ending because then I'd have to change tthe name of the story but I do think you are right about the ending. And the Mav man thinks so too. He got his head out of Kevin James' ass long enough to tell me so. I will work on it.
Matthew McCutcheon Pape word count: 1,400
309 E. 18th St. 3C
New York, New York
10003
home phone: 212.979.5776
cell phone: 917.337.1659
email: matt@eworksinc.com
website: paxacidus.com
Romantic Comedy
Wednesday nights I DJ. After my set I have a ritual; I head to the bar down the block and play Galaxie 500 on the jukebox and chill with a few pints of Guinness. I usually stay until the 4AM closing and then go to the deli across the street to get a sandwich before grabbing a taxi home. Back at my apartment I'll crawl into bed with a beer and my sandwich and put The Office on the DVD. I'll watch a few episodes until I finally fall asleep. The show is a reminder to keep my days free.
A few weeks ago I spun for 6 hours straight and hadn't eaten all day. I was on wobbly legs, slowly sipping a pint down at the bar. In between jukebox songs I went outside to have a smoke. I asked a couple leaning against the wall if I could get a light.
“Are you drunk?� the girl asked. She sounded drunk.
“No, not really,� I replied. “Just tired and stuff. I haven't eaten all day.�
“Looks like you could skip a meal.� She said.
“You really are from LA,� the guy said to the girl. Maybe they weren't a couple.
“What?� said the girl defensively, “He's puffy.�
“Listen bitch,� the guy said. “This is New York. We eat pizza.�
“Fuck off,� I added.
I went inside and sat down on my stool. I was going to finish my pint and get the hell out of there. The girl came up to me and slapped me across the face. I fell to the floor.
“Don't tell me to fuck off,� she screamed.
“All right that's it.� Said the bartender. “Get out of here.�
He was talking to the girl, not me.
The girl jumped on me. I prepared myself for another attack. But instead of getting hit again she started French kissing me, sloppily sticking her tongue in my mouth and all over my face.
“I didn't mean it, you are so cute. I have struggled with weight issues of my own,� she said. “Before I came out tonight I made myself throw up for two hours.�
I wiped away her slobber with my sleeve. The girl was lifted off me and shown the door. I finished my pint and lugged my records to the curb and hailed a cab. I skipped the sandwich.
The next day I went to watch a soccer match. I didn't eat, but had about four beers. After the match I went to my local pub on 2nd Avenue and sat outside at the sidewalk tables with a Guinness.
I thought of the night before. The girls' comments really bothered me. The King of Queens is a hilarious sitcom; I learned everything I know about New York sports teams from it. Bowling for Columbine is the best documentary. Happy Mondays were one of the greatest rock and roll bands ever. But that doesn't mean I want to look like Kevin James, Michael Moore or Shaun Ryder, if you know what I mean. I don't care what entertainment personalities look like. But I know people judge. We all do it. And I do it too; my pet peeve is bulimic chicks from LA who French kiss me.
I've always been sort of fat. I was the kid at the beach who didn't take his shirt off. Friends called me potato because I was round. I handled being teased when I was young, because that's what happens, you get teased, but at the age of 35 I hadn't expected to be reminded of those painful taunts.
In my teens and twenties I stayed fit by running six miles a day and playing soccer and tennis even though my diet was mostly liquid. For the last fifteen years I have drunk like a dipsomaniac. A year ago I blew out my knee and was sidelined to the bar stool for ten months, where I quickly gained twenty pounds. It didn't really matter because I was in a comfortable relationship where I got comfortably numb and rotund. That relationship is now over. I should have known better than to ever have gotten that satisfied.
For the last two months I have been able to start running again, but the weight isn't coming off. My metabolism has taken a nosedive. I could cut down on the drinking but that is easier said than done. I want to get fit. Not to impress any girls, least not at the moment. But I do want to have sex again in my lifetime. I want to be naked with another human being who wants to be naked with me.
It was one of those hot humid days in New York were it is unbearable to be outside. Everyone else was sitting inside with the air conditioning. But I didn't want company. I sat drinking, sweating, just getting drunker and fatter.
That is when I saw her walking down the street. She was effortlessly perfect. Out of my league. Just another one of those ‘most beautiful girls in worlds' you see about twenty times a day in this city. What differentiated this girl was the way she carried herself. It was my type of style. Like if I had to dream up a woman from the heavens to match all my desires it would be her.
She smiled at me. Or at least I think she did. She was wearing sunglasses so I couldn't see her eyes. To my surprise she turned and walked into the bar. As she passed she said hi.
“Hi,� I muttered.
Now I wished I was also sitting inside. It would be stupid and obvious if I went in and followed her. Then she came out and sat down at the next table. We were facing each other. She took off her dark glasses and her eyes shined. I shivered in the heat.
“Would you like to join me?� I asked.
“Sure.�
She came over to my table. We started to talk.
“What are you contemplating about out here on your own?� she asked.
“Oh, how I need to get in shape,� I said without thinking. Something about her lowered all my defenses. Shit, what was I saying? Sure I might be ‘puffy' but I had self-worth. I loved music and reading and writing, even if I didn't always love myself. And besides, one thing I've learned from years of failed relationships is that girls don't like guys who lack confidence. At least not the girls I liked.
“I think you are very handsome.� She said.
“Thanks, that's nice to hear coming from a woman who looks like you.�
What were these words coming out of my mouth? I had to play it cool. But she just smiled. She knew how great she looked.
And then we started talking and it flowed easier than any conversation I've ever had. There was no small talk or awkwardness between us. I felt I had come home to a place I never knew existed. We talked politics and pop culture. We were concerned for the woes of the world. She laughed out loud at my jokes. The only time we paused in two hours was to look into each other's eyes. I saw the light hair on her arm stand up. I wasn't the only one who got the shivers in this simmering pea soup.
She had a meeting at St Mark's church. She belonged to a group whose sole purpose was to get George W. Bush out of office. I would have gone with her but I had to attend a birthday party that night.
“Maybe I should go with you?� I asked.
“No, that's okay.� She said. “Have fun at the birthday party. It's not like we won't ever see each other again.�
“Huh?�
“I mean we just have to see each other again,� she said. “Don't you think?�
“Of course.�
“I'll give you my number.�
“Okay. I'll write it down.�
“Matt,� she said. “You seem like the kind of guy who might lose the piece of paper. Enter it into your cell phone.�
“Okay.�
She gave me the number. I entered it; I even made a big production of showing it to her.
“You have to call me soon,� she said looking deep into my eyes. “I want you to prove to me that you feel this was as magical a meeting as I think it was.�
“Of course I'll call,� I said.
Then she had to go. I reached out my hand to shake. She leaned in and gave me a quick powerful kiss.
“Bye.�
“Bye.�
My heart fluttered. The rest of the night I was bad company. At the birthday party I didn't stay long. All I cared about was calling her.
The next morning as soon as I woke up I reached for my cell phone. I scrolled trough the contacts. Her number was not there. I retraced all my steps. Then I remembered. In my joy I wasn't fully functioning. I didn't hit the OK button before closing my phone. Her number was entered but I didn't save it. It was lost for good, like it never existed in the first place.
I haven't been able to find her again. Looking back there is a lot of ‘would-a, could-a, should-as'. And I have thought of them all. I still sit in the same outdoor spot no matter how hot or humid it is, hoping she will pass by. I have attended every meeting at the church. I've baked brownies for orphans, I walked 5 K to prevent breast cancer, I participated in a kissing both to find a cure for AIDS and I attended a gathering of all the activist groups who got together to protest the Republican National Convention taking place in New York. The local TV News crews were covering the event and a reporter came up to me. He shoved a microphone in my face and asked, “So what has motivated you in coming here, what is your opinion of the Republicans invading the city?�
“I don't give a shit about politics,� I said. “I don't want to save the world. I'm just looking for a girl.�
My response wasn't aired that night.
In my anguish I have lost five pounds without giving up the drink. I had to tell someone my tale of sorrow, so I told an editor at a magazine I freelance for.
“Well,� she said. “Now you have the start of a Romantic Comedy screenplay. The rest will write itself.�
“Yeah, sure,� I said. But I knew my story was over.
I know I'm gonna bore you with this revision shit but here it goes. It's my web site and you can cry if you wanna. Tom I didn't change the ending because then I'd have to change tthe name of the story but I do think you are right about the ending. And the Mav man thinks so too. He got his head out of Kevin James' ass long enough to tell me so. I will work on it.
Matthew McCutcheon Pape word count: 1,400
309 E. 18th St. 3C
New York, New York
10003
home phone: 212.979.5776
cell phone: 917.337.1659
email: matt@eworksinc.com
website: paxacidus.com
Romantic Comedy
Wednesday nights I DJ. After my set I have a ritual; I head to the bar down the block and play Galaxie 500 on the jukebox and chill with a few pints of Guinness. I usually stay until the 4AM closing and then go to the deli across the street to get a sandwich before grabbing a taxi home. Back at my apartment I'll crawl into bed with a beer and my sandwich and put The Office on the DVD. I'll watch a few episodes until I finally fall asleep. The show is a reminder to keep my days free.
A few weeks ago I spun for 6 hours straight and hadn't eaten all day. I was on wobbly legs, slowly sipping a pint down at the bar. In between jukebox songs I went outside to have a smoke. I asked a couple leaning against the wall if I could get a light.
“Are you drunk?� the girl asked. She sounded drunk.
“No, not really,� I replied. “Just tired and stuff. I haven't eaten all day.�
“Looks like you could skip a meal.� She said.
“You really are from LA,� the guy said to the girl. Maybe they weren't a couple.
“What?� said the girl defensively, “He's puffy.�
“Listen bitch,� the guy said. “This is New York. We eat pizza.�
“Fuck off,� I added.
I went inside and sat down on my stool. I was going to finish my pint and get the hell out of there. The girl came up to me and slapped me across the face. I fell to the floor.
“Don't tell me to fuck off,� she screamed.
“All right that's it.� Said the bartender. “Get out of here.�
He was talking to the girl, not me.
The girl jumped on me. I prepared myself for another attack. But instead of getting hit again she started French kissing me, sloppily sticking her tongue in my mouth and all over my face.
“I didn't mean it, you are so cute. I have struggled with weight issues of my own,� she said. “Before I came out tonight I made myself throw up for two hours.�
I wiped away her slobber with my sleeve. The girl was lifted off me and shown the door. I finished my pint and lugged my records to the curb and hailed a cab. I skipped the sandwich.
The next day I went to watch a soccer match. I didn't eat, but had about four beers. After the match I went to my local pub on 2nd Avenue and sat outside at the sidewalk tables with a Guinness.
I thought of the night before. The girls' comments really bothered me. The King of Queens is a hilarious sitcom; I learned everything I know about New York sports teams from it. Bowling for Columbine is the best documentary. Happy Mondays were one of the greatest rock and roll bands ever. But that doesn't mean I want to look like Kevin James, Michael Moore or Shaun Ryder, if you know what I mean. I don't care what entertainment personalities look like. But I know people judge. We all do it. And I do it too; my pet peeve is bulimic chicks from LA who French kiss me.
I've always been sort of fat. I was the kid at the beach who didn't take his shirt off. Friends called me potato because I was round. I handled being teased when I was young, because that's what happens, you get teased, but at the age of 35 I hadn't expected to be reminded of those painful taunts.
In my teens and twenties I stayed fit by running six miles a day and playing soccer and tennis even though my diet was mostly liquid. For the last fifteen years I have drunk like a dipsomaniac. A year ago I blew out my knee and was sidelined to the bar stool for ten months, where I quickly gained twenty pounds. It didn't really matter because I was in a comfortable relationship where I got comfortably numb and rotund. That relationship is now over. I should have known better than to ever have gotten that satisfied.
For the last two months I have been able to start running again, but the weight isn't coming off. My metabolism has taken a nosedive. I could cut down on the drinking but that is easier said than done. I want to get fit. Not to impress any girls, least not at the moment. But I do want to have sex again in my lifetime. I want to be naked with another human being who wants to be naked with me.
It was one of those hot humid days in New York were it is unbearable to be outside. Everyone else was sitting inside with the air conditioning. But I didn't want company. I sat drinking, sweating, just getting drunker and fatter.
That is when I saw her walking down the street. She was effortlessly perfect. Out of my league. Just another one of those ‘most beautiful girls in worlds' you see about twenty times a day in this city. What differentiated this girl was the way she carried herself. It was my type of style. Like if I had to dream up a woman from the heavens to match all my desires it would be her.
She smiled at me. Or at least I think she did. She was wearing sunglasses so I couldn't see her eyes. To my surprise she turned and walked into the bar. As she passed she said hi.
“Hi,� I muttered.
Now I wished I was also sitting inside. It would be stupid and obvious if I went in and followed her. Then she came out and sat down at the next table. We were facing each other. She took off her dark glasses and her eyes shined. I shivered in the heat.
“Would you like to join me?� I asked.
“Sure.�
She came over to my table. We started to talk.
“What are you contemplating about out here on your own?� she asked.
“Oh, how I need to get in shape,� I said without thinking. Something about her lowered all my defenses. Shit, what was I saying? Sure I might be ‘puffy' but I had self-worth. I loved music and reading and writing, even if I didn't always love myself. And besides, one thing I've learned from years of failed relationships is that girls don't like guys who lack confidence. At least not the girls I liked.
“I think you are very handsome.� She said.
“Thanks, that's nice to hear coming from a woman who looks like you.�
What were these words coming out of my mouth? I had to play it cool. But she just smiled. She knew how great she looked.
And then we started talking and it flowed easier than any conversation I've ever had. There was no small talk or awkwardness between us. I felt I had come home to a place I never knew existed. We talked politics and pop culture. We were concerned for the woes of the world. She laughed out loud at my jokes. The only time we paused in two hours was to look into each other's eyes. I saw the light hair on her arm stand up. I wasn't the only one who got the shivers in this simmering pea soup.
She had a meeting at St Mark's church. She belonged to a group whose sole purpose was to get George W. Bush out of office. I would have gone with her but I had to attend a birthday party that night.
“Maybe I should go with you?� I asked.
“No, that's okay.� She said. “Have fun at the birthday party. It's not like we won't ever see each other again.�
“Huh?�
“I mean we just have to see each other again,� she said. “Don't you think?�
“Of course.�
“I'll give you my number.�
“Okay. I'll write it down.�
“Matt,� she said. “You seem like the kind of guy who might lose the piece of paper. Enter it into your cell phone.�
“Okay.�
She gave me the number. I entered it; I even made a big production of showing it to her.
“You have to call me soon,� she said looking deep into my eyes. “I want you to prove to me that you feel this was as magical a meeting as I think it was.�
“Of course I'll call,� I said.
Then she had to go. I reached out my hand to shake. She leaned in and gave me a quick powerful kiss.
“Bye.�
“Bye.�
My heart fluttered. The rest of the night I was bad company. At the birthday party I didn't stay long. All I cared about was calling her.
The next morning as soon as I woke up I reached for my cell phone. I scrolled trough the contacts. Her number was not there. I retraced all my steps. Then I remembered. In my joy I wasn't fully functioning. I didn't hit the OK button before closing my phone. Her number was entered but I didn't save it. It was lost for good, like it never existed in the first place.
I haven't been able to find her again. Looking back there is a lot of ‘would-a, could-a, should-as'. And I have thought of them all. I still sit in the same outdoor spot no matter how hot or humid it is, hoping she will pass by. I have attended every meeting at the church. I've baked brownies for orphans, I walked 5 K to prevent breast cancer, I participated in a kissing both to find a cure for AIDS and I attended a gathering of all the activist groups who got together to protest the Republican National Convention taking place in New York. The local TV News crews were covering the event and a reporter came up to me. He shoved a microphone in my face and asked, “So what has motivated you in coming here, what is your opinion of the Republicans invading the city?�
“I don't give a shit about politics,� I said. “I don't want to save the world. I'm just looking for a girl.�
My response wasn't aired that night.
In my anguish I have lost five pounds without giving up the drink. I had to tell someone my tale of sorrow, so I told an editor at a magazine I freelance for.
“Well,� she said. “Now you have the start of a Romantic Comedy screenplay. The rest will write itself.�
“Yeah, sure,� I said. But I knew my story was over.
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mccutcheon
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Tom- just to be an asshole. I gotta say when I'm drunk like I am now, I think I'm the best writer I know. And a talk with L at last weeks DJ gig helped the cause. (I'm not sure I can give her name out but she dates a guy in a band from this city - (a band you might know)- who she lives with) but she has been reading me for 5 faithful years, what a shock! And she was also kissing me within 15 minutes of our meeting- said she knew me, and of course I loved it, her being sexy as all that. Then told me of her female lover from Williamsburg and then she introduced me to her other lover, who she doesn't live with. He asked me of my poem Hang Over Sex...so I'm making the rounds. She said I was great and all that and that she loved my writing. And guess what? She liked my poetry best. Go figure that one out? Did I mention she was sexy?
Figure skating naked on a day like this should help the cause.
Figure skating naked on a day like this should help the cause.
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mccutcheon
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And Tom I like to go subtle, like a kisisng both for AIDS. it can swing either way. or both ways. but I always think it won't get noticed. that is why at the last minute I put in the "Eww." but i is rightly gone. When I first wrote that it wasn't there. I have to trust my audience. I better stop typing now before I get tar and feathered.
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mccutcheon
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damn that whole Kevin James, Michael mooore and Shaun Ryder thing might be the biggest piece of shit I ever have writtern. but it sets up other things,. or maybe it doewn't. I';m off to read NYC SCRIBBLES were it comes easy and I don't give a fuck ..... just like Super Furry Animals. The Man don't give a fuck....ya know they don't give a fuck about you yoy know they don;'t give a fuck about you you know George W Bush doesn't give a fuck about you.
well yeah the michael moore thing is no stinking in good and doesn't set up shit and I only tell you that cause i like you and anyways you see it yourself.
my other notes:
--During the struggle when the girl from L.A. is on top of you kissing you, I feel like the dialogue doesn't match the action here. you have to remember these words are being said as she's sticking her tongue over you so they should show that, maybe be broken up or sporatic...
--you say the girl in the second half is "just you style" what is your style? you've got to be descriptive with this one. I have no idea what to think this girl is like. is she activist hippie? or sexy model type? I always no what kind of woman bukowski is dealing with, you've got to set that up.
--seems like you have 2 good stories here. The first one is better than the second one. night one story is great, day 2 needs to be as good or better. the romantic comedy ending is great. you just need to work on meeting the girl and making it more magical.
my other notes:
--During the struggle when the girl from L.A. is on top of you kissing you, I feel like the dialogue doesn't match the action here. you have to remember these words are being said as she's sticking her tongue over you so they should show that, maybe be broken up or sporatic...
--you say the girl in the second half is "just you style" what is your style? you've got to be descriptive with this one. I have no idea what to think this girl is like. is she activist hippie? or sexy model type? I always no what kind of woman bukowski is dealing with, you've got to set that up.
--seems like you have 2 good stories here. The first one is better than the second one. night one story is great, day 2 needs to be as good or better. the romantic comedy ending is great. you just need to work on meeting the girl and making it more magical.
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mccutcheon
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mccutcheon
- New York Scribbler
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