Cliff wasn’t sure if they allowed smoking here, but he didn’t care. His lips read “fuck you” to the head waiter, who, judging by the patchy moustache, couldn’t be a day over nineteen, so no one said anything to him about it.
As he watched the clock creep towards noon, he figured he should probably put the cigarette out, mindful of the women he was about to meet. He had promised himself he wouldn’t lie to any of them about anything, about his crime, about his time in prison, and least of all about his smoking. But he just assumed not lower his chances by revealing any such potential flaw at the forefront. Instead, he pressed the end of the cigarette into the sole of his boot, and then carefully put what was left into his shirt pocket. Fresh out of prison with no money, he couldn’t afford to be wasteful.
Cliff was a victim of circumstance, having served a few years in prison for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. A couple of cars stolen and stripped, a couple of surveillance cameras, and a couple of years wasted behind wrought iron bars.
But he had put all of that behind him now. He was a changed man, he told himself.
His wife left him when he got convicted. While he was still in handcuffs, she gave her wedding ring back to him, which he promptly traded for a couple dozen boxes of cigarettes. Since then, he’s had an incurable loneliness. It’s not that he relied on a woman; in fact, he found them to be quite the hassle. But the back of his beater Harley was empty, and he needed a fresh cooked meal from time to time as well.
He was ready to clean his act up. He wanted a real woman this time, not one of the floozies he was used to meeting. He was dressed as nice as he could possibly be, given the circumstances. His flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, was topped with an unbuttoned leather vest. The shirt tucked nicely into his formed-fit, light denim jeans. His cowboy boots were thrift store quality, but he wore them as if he had owned them forever. His hair was disheveled in such a way that he suspected that women would find it charming, but to the average person it just looked like he had forgotten to run a comb through it.
Cliff surveyed the room. The women had all found themselves in the corner of this hotel lobby with cocktails in hand. He was used to the women he had met at dive bars, with their pre-ripped jeans and their free-wheeling attitudes, not these women nowadays, with their pant suits and their five-year plans. These girls…women…were accustomed to singing lines of sentences that they found especially important. To them, something wasn’t just “awesome,” it was “awesommmmmmmmme,” with an emphasis on the falsetto. This, as it would turn out, would annoy Cliff to no end.
He tapped his toe against the leg of the table as he bit down on a fresh piece of gum. They’ll smell the smoke on my breath, he figured, so might as well just cover it up. Not that he was intentionally obfuscating his habit, but maybe that’s a second date sort of thing.
The guy at the table next to him was visibly annoyed with Cliff’s incessant tapping, so he interrupted with a question:
“Name’s Ted,” he said anxiously, fingering the perimeter of his whiskey glass. He scooted his chair, already a mere 5 feet from Cliff, closer to him. “You been striking out lately too?”
Cliff replied with a nod as a bright pink bubble sat atop his lips. The pop of the bubble startled Ted.
“Sorry to bother you,” Ted apologized, unnecessarily. “I’m just nervous. I’m no good at talking to women.”
Again, Cliff just nodded.
“You divorced? Single?” Ted prodded. “Married?”
“Been single for awhile now,” Cliff replied, revealing his scruffy voice and mild interest in the ongoing conversation. He flicked his lighter for no real reason, strengthening the calluses on his thumb.
Ted shook his head—a failed attempt at camaraderie with such an obviously disinterested man.
“Ever since my wife left me,” he started.
Cliff rolled his eyes, but fortunately they were hidden behind his dark prescription glasses. His sigh was almost louder than Ted’s voice.
Ted continued. “Things have just been hard, you know. Getting back into the dating world again, it’s such a challenge.”
The prick in the tuxedo grabbed the microphone and told the participants that it was almost time to begin. Cliff figured this was Ted’s cue to shut up, but Ted continued to blather to calm his nerves. He leaned down closer to the table and whispered to Cliff, “You ever done speed dating before?”
Cliff, still chomping on his gum, pointed to the guy with the microphone and looked at Ted. Ted signed “say no more” and mimed zipping his mouth. He proceeded to pop his knuckles like he was preparing for a prizefight.
The women all looked at each other and formed a poorly organized single-file line. They strutted towards the front of the room, trying their damndest to look sexy. But looking sexy can be hard when you’ve got a decade or more of loneliness manifesting itself in your facial wrinkles.
The first woman sat in front of Cliff with her hands in her lap, awaiting further instructions from the man with the mic. When he beckoned everyone to “have fun,” the woman smiled, set down her drink, and stuck out her hand to greet Cliff.
She was slightly chubby, bearing the leftover weight of a couple of kids. Her purse was clearly a knock-off, but at least she tried. Her phone didn’t leave her left hand, so his best guess was that she did something important. Or at least she thought it was important.
She introduced herself, and Cliff peered out the top of his glasses at her. Her appletini was still full to the brim; maybe she just held it for looks. He thought she was a looker, for sure. But something about her just screamed “Christian Scientist” or “Reads Grocery Store Fiction” or something. He reminded himself that this was hard enough for everyone, considering the fact that they were here in the first place. So, despite his bad feeling, he gave her a chance.
“So what do you do for fun, Cliff?”
“I don’t know,” he said, as if the question was somehow irrelevant or unexpected. “I’m down for anything.”
“Well,” Appletini started. “I just love going to the movies, and I love going out to eat, but I also like to stay in and watch TV.”
Cliff was unenthused. He figured her heart was in the right place, but she was nothing like the women he’d been with in the past. Why didn’t she remark about his biceps, so clearly displayed by his sleeveless T-shirt? Why didn’t she put two-and-two together and assume he rode a Harley? Why didn’t she comment on his boots?
Despite all of this, he pressed on.
“Any kids?”
“Yes, I have two wonderful little boys—twins, Jason and Eric—and they sure keep me busy,” she said with a massive enthusiasm. Within seconds her wallet was open and Cliff was forced to look at glamour shots of this lady’s kids. The choreographed outfits were supposed to be objectively cute, but Cliff just found them repulsive and immasculating.
“They are adorable, aren’t they?”
Cliff was too distracted to respond. He couldn’t help but think that these boys looked like queers. Their pink sweater vests, combined with their gelled and parted blonde hair, it all just screamed “future dancers.” But when her eyes indicated that this was more than a rhetorical question, Cliff replied, “Definitely.”
Cliff spent the next few minutes wanting to gouge his eyes out as Appletini reeled off anecdotes about having two youngster homos. It wasn’t long until she had talked his ear off past the point of repair, and it was at this point that Cliff lost his tact.
“Any chance they’re fags?”
“Excuse me?” She was taken aback, yet her polite smile didn’t leave her face. Maybe she misunderstood him.
“They look like they could be, ya know…fruity.”
She tried to remain appropriate, but she couldn’t help herself.
“I beg your pardon,” she exclaimed. “They are wonderful, innocent little boys.”
“Doesn’t mean they ain’t gay.”
She stood up, with cell phone in one hand and drink in the other.
“You, sir, are an asshole. If you’ll excuse me.”
“I think we got about thirty seconds left,” he said. “D’ya got a sister I could talk to?”
The next girl approached his table after time had expired in round one. Her cabernet was nearing completion. She said her name, but Cliff couldn’t remember it four seconds later. Her excessively dyed bob haircut just screamed for a desperate return to the 70’s. It’s as if she’s straight from the Powder Puff squad, he thought.
Cabernet’s hair was frizzy, her skin pallid, and her eyes seem to be bulging out of their sockets. Cliff was immediately regretting having turned down Appletini, since she at least had a cuter face to look at.
“What brings you here?” he said, stealing lines from Ted at the next table over.
“I’m only here because my parole officer made me come,” Cabernet said.
Cliff had a hunch she was a bad girl, but he didn’t want to judge her too quickly.
Her choice of drink must’ve been the equivalent of his vest: just a front to make himself seem more appealing. Deep down beneath that pantsuit, she was aching to get wild. With his interest piqued, he prodded her more.
“Who’s your PO? Mine’s Doug. He can be a real prick but what do you expect with those people, they think they know everything. I bet you’ve got Phyllis. She usually deals with the women who live around here. I hear she’s a Grade-A cunt.”
Cabernet sat quietly waiting for him to finish. With a puzzled look on her face, she said, “Yeah, I was just kidding.”
Cliff leaned back in his chair, smirked, and exclaimed, “Yeah, me too.” But Cabernet wasn’t fooled. Her eyes began to search out her next table, as she awaited patiently for this round to be over.
He said “fuck it,” then reached into his shirt pocket and grabbed the butt of the cigarette from earlier. As he went to light it, Cabernet said, “Could you not? I’m allergic.”
The third girl was a lot different than the other two. She held her bud light by the bottleneck, and swilled it down as she approached Cliff’s table. She didn’t try to be ladylike, in any way, shape, or form. Her jean/blouse combo stood out as the only outfit that wasn’t topped off with high-heels. She sat with a sort of manly lean that only a butch woman can pull off.
Bud Light began the introductions, and Cliff leaned in with legitimate interest.
“So what do you do for a living?” he asked.
“Warehouse worker,” she replied. “It’s not much, but it keeps me in shape.”
And by the looks of things, she was more than in shape. Her interest in Cliff’s biceps was inevitable, because hers were approaching his in size.
Cliff thought this was his chance to be honest.
“Look,” he started. “I was in jail for a few years recently. I was convicted of a pretty low-grade felony, but I had a few harsh words to say to a few ‘respectable’ people, and I got myself in some trouble. Just figured I’d get that out there at the beginning. Hope that’s not a problem.”
She showed no signs of concern, in fact she seemed to relate.
“I did a week at Brooks County,” she said without shame. “Throw a few punches in this town and they lock you up.”
Cliff was interested. She seemed like a woman that could keep up with him, unlike these other women, who just wanted a ring and their 2.5 kids.
She interrupted the conversation to be frank with him.
“Listen,” she interjected. “You look like a badass sort-of-fellow.”
Cliff began reminiscing of these sorts of conversations he used to have at those country bars before he left for prison. It would start with a girl giving him the right-of-way, and fast-forward ten minutes and they’d be in the bed of his truck, the bathroom stall, or the middle of the dance floor, taking various clothing items off of each other. Cliff had wanted to settle down, but it was obvious that those agenda-fueled women weren’t compatible with his free-wheeling attitude. Cliff leaned in to hear the rest of her proposition.
She leaned her head in closer to his, and whispered, “I was wondering if you could score me some bud.”
“Is yours empty? The bar is right up there, I could go grab you another one,” and he started up to get her another beer.
She grabbed his hands and pulled him back down to the table. “No, no, no,” she said, with visible frustration. She lowered her voice again, even quieter than before, and said, “Not that kind of bud. I meant, ya know, chronic.”
His head tilted with misunderstanding.
“Or if you know anywhere that I can get some blow, or any kind of pills, that would be just as good.”
Cliff was disappointed. He figured that he could try to aid her drug-based interest in him, but he remembered what he told himself earlier: if he wanted a girl like this, he would just have to go back to his old stomping ground. And that’s not at all what he wanted. Something about these women was intriguing to him, for sure; but he needed something with a little bit more stability, a little bit more maturity, and a little bit more of that extra something that would leave him feeling complete.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t think I can help you.” He got up from the table, put the remainder of his earlier cigarette in his mouth, and headed for the door. On his way out, he saw Cabernet and Ted really hitting it off, and he thought, good for them. They both need to see the materialization of their desperate wishes, so it’s all for the best. But Cliff couldn’t help wonder, when will it be his turn? When will he find the perfect combination of rebel girl and caring wife? Was his selection process too fastidious, or was he just not letting himself settle? Either way, he was dejected from having struck out with his first attempt back in the dating world.
As soon as he stepped outside, he lit the remnants of his used cigarette, only to get a few lengthy draws from it. Requiring more, he asked the woman standing next to the front door, sucking down her Marlboro, if she could spare one.
“Sure, no problem,” she said.
“Thanks darling,” he replied.
“Hey,” Marlboro said. “I like your boots.”
-JVD
