Botony
It smells like spring outside, that fresh plant smell you seem to forget during winter. Tonight it smells of flowers opening up and the lushness returning to the world.
Inside the Orchard Bar and Lounge the crowd is loud. It's dim and I order a glass of beer, wait for the foam to ebb.
She's telling me why she hates journalists, and why not: apparently one of them "libeled" her father.
I'm surprised she uses "libel" in the right context. Most people would classify printed falsities as "slanders." She bumps up a point on my scale of attractiveness, her perceived intelligence pushing her past my general threshold.
I watch as she tugs at the waist of her pants as she talks, pulling down, exposing more of her naked hips. I scan the length of her. She has a small tattoo of a lilly on her ankle.
She seems interested in me, and that's interesting.
Or rather, the alcohol is making her seem interested in me, and, under the influence, I find that attractive.
I told her I was a journalist, and she started talking. Opened up.
I wonder if that works for all women.
I explain to her that the industry is falling apart, being mulched right before my eyes. The chaotic explanation I give seems to turn her on as she leans close. Anarchy is her aphrodisiac.
"You know what the worst part about it is?" I say, drawing from the depths of me. "I'm good at it."
"Is it the only thing you're good at?" She grins, staring me straight in the eye.
She smells like the jungle, or what I'd think the jungle would smell like were I there, my idealized version anyways, my Amazon interpretation, fresh and exciting and seductive.
"Yes. Journalism is the only thing."
"Rubbish."
"Rubbish?"
"There has to be something else."
"Who says rubbish?"
"What else do you do in your life?"
I drink.
The beer tastes tasteless and that's when you know you should cut yourself off.
"I was in Mexico once," I say. "I sang a song. In a bar. My friend played guitar. Everyone clapped at the end and the bartender said I should stay at his bar and sing more songs, that he'd pay me. We'd be a team. I should have stayed in Mexico. There would be more money in Mexico. And fame."
"And swine flu," She drinks hard.
"It's H1N1 influenza now."
"Whatever."
"Mexico could have used my charm," I say, spinning my glass and watching the contents form a vortex. Then I drink, consumed by the sweet Charybdis.
"Then you wouldn't be here." And she smiles, her eyes sparkling, or, rather, the alcohol making them glitter.
Outside it begins to storm. The people on the patio all scurry inside, some drenched and laughing. The sudden downpour intensifies.
"Mexico is a place to forget and be forgotten," I say. I had heard the quote somewhere before today, and right now was the most opportune time to use it.
I relish the timing and smile.
She asks me not to talk, going as far as putting her index finger on my lips. I stare at her.
She tells me I make her feel sexy. And I laugh.
And she's offended, or, rather, the alcohol is offended.
She says that she'd love to talk to me more, but has to go, and asks if she could give me her number. I oblige.
She writes her number down on my hand with a pen.
"I won't call," I say.
"Yes you will," she smiles.
"You wish."
And she walks away. I follow her as she leaves, scanning the length of her.
I know I should feel better about getting numbers, but I don't. I feel numb. Or, rather, the alcohol makes me feel numb. Or my life.
I'm numb on life, I think. Would that make me drunk on it, too?
I dismiss the thought. It's stupid. Just like all my other philosophies.
I check my phone to see if anyone has called. Then I realize I don't have signal.
I'd been having a lot of service problems with my phone, people would cut in or out, calls wouldn't go through, signal would fade.
And as I drank it seemed my life was reflective of the signal.
I'm a dinosaur, I think. More mellow-dramaticism, unnecessary. Still, entertaining. I consider stopping my alcohol input before it makes me depressed.
But, then again, you need to have a catharsis sometimes.
I think about journalism and everything I've given the industry to progress my career. If living is about giving and getting -- giving to get -- than giving and not getting to where you want to be of course makes you wonder, "is this it?"
That's where I am.
Later that night, leaving the bar, my phone buzzes with an incoming text message and when I open it, I see its contents are empty. I write back to the sender to say I didn't get a message and couldn't read the text, then realize that there is no message. The emptiness was all there was.
Inside the Orchard Bar and Lounge the crowd is loud. It's dim and I order a glass of beer, wait for the foam to ebb.
She's telling me why she hates journalists, and why not: apparently one of them "libeled" her father.
I'm surprised she uses "libel" in the right context. Most people would classify printed falsities as "slanders." She bumps up a point on my scale of attractiveness, her perceived intelligence pushing her past my general threshold.
I watch as she tugs at the waist of her pants as she talks, pulling down, exposing more of her naked hips. I scan the length of her. She has a small tattoo of a lilly on her ankle.
She seems interested in me, and that's interesting.
Or rather, the alcohol is making her seem interested in me, and, under the influence, I find that attractive.
I told her I was a journalist, and she started talking. Opened up.
I wonder if that works for all women.
I explain to her that the industry is falling apart, being mulched right before my eyes. The chaotic explanation I give seems to turn her on as she leans close. Anarchy is her aphrodisiac.
"You know what the worst part about it is?" I say, drawing from the depths of me. "I'm good at it."
"Is it the only thing you're good at?" She grins, staring me straight in the eye.
She smells like the jungle, or what I'd think the jungle would smell like were I there, my idealized version anyways, my Amazon interpretation, fresh and exciting and seductive.
"Yes. Journalism is the only thing."
"Rubbish."
"Rubbish?"
"There has to be something else."
"Who says rubbish?"
"What else do you do in your life?"
I drink.
The beer tastes tasteless and that's when you know you should cut yourself off.
"I was in Mexico once," I say. "I sang a song. In a bar. My friend played guitar. Everyone clapped at the end and the bartender said I should stay at his bar and sing more songs, that he'd pay me. We'd be a team. I should have stayed in Mexico. There would be more money in Mexico. And fame."
"And swine flu," She drinks hard.
"It's H1N1 influenza now."
"Whatever."
"Mexico could have used my charm," I say, spinning my glass and watching the contents form a vortex. Then I drink, consumed by the sweet Charybdis.
"Then you wouldn't be here." And she smiles, her eyes sparkling, or, rather, the alcohol making them glitter.
Outside it begins to storm. The people on the patio all scurry inside, some drenched and laughing. The sudden downpour intensifies.
"Mexico is a place to forget and be forgotten," I say. I had heard the quote somewhere before today, and right now was the most opportune time to use it.
I relish the timing and smile.
She asks me not to talk, going as far as putting her index finger on my lips. I stare at her.
She tells me I make her feel sexy. And I laugh.
And she's offended, or, rather, the alcohol is offended.
She says that she'd love to talk to me more, but has to go, and asks if she could give me her number. I oblige.
She writes her number down on my hand with a pen.
"I won't call," I say.
"Yes you will," she smiles.
"You wish."
And she walks away. I follow her as she leaves, scanning the length of her.
I know I should feel better about getting numbers, but I don't. I feel numb. Or, rather, the alcohol makes me feel numb. Or my life.
I'm numb on life, I think. Would that make me drunk on it, too?
I dismiss the thought. It's stupid. Just like all my other philosophies.
I check my phone to see if anyone has called. Then I realize I don't have signal.
I'd been having a lot of service problems with my phone, people would cut in or out, calls wouldn't go through, signal would fade.
And as I drank it seemed my life was reflective of the signal.
I'm a dinosaur, I think. More mellow-dramaticism, unnecessary. Still, entertaining. I consider stopping my alcohol input before it makes me depressed.
But, then again, you need to have a catharsis sometimes.
I think about journalism and everything I've given the industry to progress my career. If living is about giving and getting -- giving to get -- than giving and not getting to where you want to be of course makes you wonder, "is this it?"
That's where I am.
Later that night, leaving the bar, my phone buzzes with an incoming text message and when I open it, I see its contents are empty. I write back to the sender to say I didn't get a message and couldn't read the text, then realize that there is no message. The emptiness was all there was.
posted by Chris Miles at 10:49 PM
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