Marigold
by Kurt Garrison
 |
| Art by Théophile-Alexandre Steinlen |
“My only regret,” Alex said after he drained the remnants of lager from his pint glass, “is that I wasn’t born independently wealthy.” He then sat back, cracked his knuckles and waited for the young woman’s response.
His best friend Paul was sitting on the other side of the Bunker Bar, near the jukebox with
a clear view of the action. Paul knew what was about to happen. Alex was on a date. Well, sort
of. Paul often felt guilty during these moments because it was like witnessing a car accident in
slow motion: horrific and shocking, yet morbidly entertaining. He couldn’t help himself.
Alex’s date was named Kristen. She offered Alex a sidelong glance while searching her
internal Rolodex, swiftly recalling the litany of underwhelming bachelors she had dealt with
since moving to Pittsburgh. She had met some real oddballs. But none had harbored the
proclivities of this guy. He even had the nerve to admit never having wanted a job, but since he
was living in the “Corporate States of America,” he had no choice. And that was why he walked
dogs for a living.
“You walk dogs?” she asked, nervously tracing abstract designs with her fingernail in the
condensation that had gathered on her 16 ounce can of watery domestic, her eyes now downcast due to this unfortunate yet vital tidbit of information.
“I do,” Alex replied. “I’m the best.” This would be the highlight of his evening, what he
lived for - why he even bothered going on dates anymore. He motioned to Nora the bar
manager for another beer.
“Your profile said you work as a tech developer,” Kristen noted.
“My profile says I work as a liaison for a tech-developer,” he corrected her.
“So in other words,” she said, “you walk his dog.”
“Let’s be honest,” he said. “Would you have shown up if I had told you what I actually do
for a living?”
Kristen glanced down at the counter with an increasingly dour recognition of her
situation. Nora stood off to the side, taking in everything. She laughed to herself and shook her head. Alex just sat there, feeling pleased with himself.
Kristen worked as a headhunter for a staffing company. She had been excited at the
prospect of going on a date with someone whose online profile identified himself as a member of the ever-increasing tech world in Pittsburgh. She had moved to the city a few months before and didn’t have many friends. Kristen inspected the beer can closely, as though it were some oracle or soothsayer. But the can offered nothing more than a tacky patriotic color scheme and ingredients that would only compromise her waistline. She glanced anxiously at the clock above the bar, calculating she had known this clown for exactly fourteen minutes. She took another sip of beer and debated whether to cut things off now or see what was on the menu. She was hungry, after all.
“I like walking dogs,” he continued. “I find working with people rather annoying.”
“Oh, that’s great,” she said off-handedly, almost to herself, still fixated on the Pabst can,
still holding out for clemency. She traced the gashes on the counter with her finger. The dejected tone of a woman all too familiar to Alex.
The Bunker was in the midst of Happy Hour, offering cheap pitchers of lager for $8.50
and bottles of craft beers for $3.00. Hot wings, pierogies, and cheeseburgers were the usual fare. The Bunker wasn’t the cleanest place, the hippest place, or the most romantic place but Alex liked to take dates there because he felt comfortable among the surly patrons, safe amidst the ratty sports team pennants and posters. He had gone ahead and ordered a plate of onion rings before Kristen had arrived. The empty plate now sat before them specked with crumbs and smears of ketchup. He grinned over the remains of the appetizer like a convict avoiding
extradition. In the background, the jukebox sang the closing refrain of Crowded House’s
“Something So Strong”.
“Ask me what my favorite breed is,” Alex suddenly demanded.
“Excuse me?” asked a startled Kristen.
“My favorite dog breed. Go on,” he implored. “Ask it. Ask me what my favorite dog is.”
“Ok…” she said. “What’s your favorite dog breed?”
Alex sighed deeply and said, “I thought you’d never ask.” He took a long pull from his
pint. The jukebox had finished its run of songs. The clattering of dishes in the kitchen and the
intermittent buzz of the TV monitor hanging over the bar mirror cast an eerie aural dissonance.
“There are many. So, so many,” he said shaking his head, looking off to the side as though
he were recalling a long-ago romantic encounter. “But the fact is, there is no more charming
canine than the pug.”
“Oh, really…” she said.
“Yep.” He paused for a moment, then burped. “And no more cursed, either. Take, for
example, one of my favorite dogs - Marigold. Like most pugs, she has googly little eyes and an
omnipresent tongue that sticks out the side of her mouth giving her an asymmetrical
countenance. Her stout little frame, sausage-like, sitting upon absurd stubby legs, furiously
pumping away in spite of her genetic flaws, is truly something to behold.”
“Well,” Kristen said. “That’s an interesting take.”
“Indeed,” said Alex. “Mind you, Marigold should not exist. A dog such as a pug: an ugly
little beast created from the darker side of humanity - meaning, a creation based on misplaced
whimsy, like most things man-made - is guaranteed nothing more than a life comprised primarily of misery.”
“So, this is what you usually talk about on first dates?”
“Marigold is an affront to nature,” he said, ignoring her. “I adore her but she is a caninistic
freak show.”
Kristen stared at Alex as though he were an alien. She could hear his words but his tone
of voice and mannerisms combined with the asinine subject matter gave her the impression that she was on a date with a lunatic.
“But these flaws do not inhibit Marigold’s unbridled energy, or her desire to be the life of
the party,” Alex continued reverentially, oblivious to Kristen’s indifference to his favorite dog
breed or her increasing concerns about his mental stability. “Pugs are great,” Alex winked. “In a way, they are the Toulouse-Lautrec of dogs.” He then downed his lager and let out another
baritone belch before hopping off the barstool and walking to the restroom leaving a long, putrid scent of onion rings in his wake. Just before he turned the corner to the steps leading down to the men’s room, he raised his clenched fist and announced, “Marigold!”
“Okay,” Kristen muttered to the now vacant bar stool next to her. Where to begin? She
was shocked by his table manners. In addition to his loathsome flatulence, Alex swore too much and often talked over her. He insulted her favorite TV show and made fun of her taste in music. He mocked her job and where she lived. He even had the audacity to belittle where she was born and raised. He said her shoes were too blue and that women should never wear high-top sneakers. (Kristen found this bit of information rather odd, as she was wearing flats from work, indigo in color, not blue. And so he was probably colorblind in addition to being an asshole.) But now after receiving a temporary stay of execution to regain her equilibrium, she was presented with an opening. She could finally escape. The jukebox was now playing “Love Ain’t Something (That You Get For Free)” by Wah Wah Watson, a tune far more appropriate for the occasion. Though Kristen had never heard the song before, she also wasn’t against the idea that greater forces were at play. That a woman must go with her intuition, especially when the negative vibes all too neatly coincided with the surrounding atmosphere as it applied in this particular situation. Clearly the stars were maligned. Kristen jumped off her barstool as though she were performing a dismount, yanked her coat from the hook beneath the bar counter and scurried out the door. Paul saw this as his cue to get up and take his rightful place at the bar next to where Alex had been sitting.
Alex returned moments later and looked around the room.
“Looks like you lost another one, Casanova,” said Nora, motioning to the front door as it
closed with an arthritic creak.
“Yeah, that was painful to watch,” said Paul.
“I thought women liked guys who like dogs,” said Alex, as he let out a yawn and
stretched.
“Women do like guys who like dogs,” replied Nora as she wiped down the counter. “But
you are a jerk. And there’s a substantial gulf between thinking someone is a jerk,” she said,
holding her left hand aloft with the palm up. “And wanting to have sex with them,” she
continued, completing the same motion with her right hand. “Besides, you conducted that date as though it were some twisted sociological experiment.”
“She was terrible,” Alex said. “She was only interested in my theoretical tech job based on
the belief that I made theoretically large amounts of money.”
“She had her own job,” said Nora. “She paid for her beer.”
“Yeah? And?”
“She offered to pay for yours when she saw you didn’t have enough money. For an IC
Light, no less. You didn’t even have enough money for an IC Light. And she knew you for what, fifteen minutes?”
“She’s right, y’know,” Paul agreed. “That is pretty pathetic.”
“I did laundry today!” Alex bellowed. “My wallet is in another pair of pants!”
“So let me get this straight,” Nora said, hands firmly on hips, the stance she almost always
eventually took when having a conversation with Alex. “You haven’t denied that you were just
messing with her. Am I not far off when I say that you conduct these sociological experiments
under the pretext of an actual date?”
Alex paused for a moment. “I never thought of it that way. But sure, why not? Aren’t all
relationships, regardless of intent, sociological?” Alex raised an eyebrow. Nora hated when he
acted smug.
“You’re a sociopath,” she said half-joking.
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe so,” Nora allowed. “But you are fucked up.” She shook her head, pausing for a
moment to dispose of Kristen’s beer bottle. “Anyway, women aren’t going to sleep with you just because you’re not a sociopath.”
“But you slept with me,” said Alex.
“And I’ve regretted it ever since,” she said.
“Great,” Paul said. “I can see where this conversation is going.”
“Besides, that was years ago,” she added.
“You seemed to enjoy yourself,” said Alex.
“I was a theatre major at CMU.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, it could mean that I was just faking it,” she said. “But instead, I’ll say that I
should’ve joined that off-Broadway musical back in ’95 instead of staying here in Pittsburgh.”
She stood stone-faced for a moment, then smirked. “See what I just did there? That’s called
diplomacy. You should try it.”
“But that’s my point,” said Alex. “Pretty much every woman, at one time or another, has
slept with a guy without that guy having to do anything so much as be at the right place at the
right time.”
“I’m sorry,” said Nora. “You said there was a point?”
“This has all the makings of a Hallmark moment,” Paul sighed.
“My point is,” said Alex. “What’s the point of the whole dating ritual, the idea of acting
nice and spending money on a woman when she’s already given it up for free to someone else?”
“You are kidding, right?” said Nora. Alex could sense the tension in her voice. But he
went barreling ahead anyway.
“No, I’m not kidding,” he said.
“Yep,” said Paul, glancing at his watch. “I could set the time to this conversation.”
“I don’t know, Alex,” Nora said in the same exasperated tone she used when her ex-
husband Mike was late with support payments or the garbage hadn’t been collected by 9am. She turned to Paul for help. But he just shrugged and made that don’t look at me look that caused her so much frustration with men. “Maybe people just don’t want to be alone. Or maybe, just maybe, they’re in love. Most people aren’t strong and independent as you are.”
“There’s no need to get bitchy,” said Alex, making a dismissive motion with his hand.
This always set Nora off.
Paul tried to ease the situation with a half-hearted, “Are the Pirates playing tonight?” to
no one in particular.
“But there is a need to get bitchy,” said Nora, deftly ignoring Paul while taking the bait
that Alex had laid. “Because you always ask the same questions hoping to somehow get a
different answer that will validate your view of the world. What do you want to hear? That
people are weak? That they’re terrified of being alone? Even if it means settling with someone
they kinda, sorta don’t really like? Or they’re not really attracted to? Does it make you feel
better? Does it make you feel superior?”
Alex appeared to think about it for a moment. “Actually yeah, it does,” he said.
“Well, that’s great,” said Nora as she slammed her fist down on the counter that startled
everyone at the bar counter. “But it still doesn’t change the fact you owe fifty-two bucks on your bar tab. It’s a shame things didn’t work out on your date. She looked like the kind of girl who had a stable, good-paying job. Maybe you could’ve conned her into paying up.”
“I don’t understand why you’re being so mean,” said Alex. “You know I walk dogs for a
living.”
“And you wonder why you never get past the first date,” she said.
“I had no interest in getting past the first date!” he shot back.
Nora looked at Alex and shook her head in disapproval. “You’re something else,” she said
as she flung the bar towel over her shoulder and strolled through the double doors to the kitchen. She returned with a case of beer and began placing bottles in the cooler beneath the bar counter. She suddenly looked up as though having forgotten something, checked her watch, muttered to herself, then hurried back through the double doors to the kitchen. She returned a few moments later with two baskets of cheese fries and a plate of halushski.
“It wasn’t always this way,” Alex said as she briskly walked by with the plates full of
food. She maneuvered past him without acknowledgment, food precariously balanced, weaving her way around the scrum of chairs and tables to an elderly couple sitting in the far corner away from the jukebox. She delicately laid the plates on the table, feigned a smile at the couple, rubbed her hands on her jeans and took a deep breath before returning to her post behind the bar. She then pulled clean silverware from the dishwasher and began wrapping the spoons, forks, and knives in napkins.
“It wasn’t always this way because you’re old now,” Nora said, finishing his thought.
“We’ve talked about this before. I get it…I’ve seen you play music. You were great. It’s the main reason why I went to bed with you. Why else would I? Because of your personality? The fact is, playing in bands has infinitely more currency when you’re in your teens and twenties than your thirties - and definitely more so than your forties. Unless you’re Elvis Costello. He’s what? Sixty? He looks better now than he did when he was starting out.”
“Well yeah,” said Alex. “He’s also famous.”
“Again, you’re missing the point.”
“But that’s what you’re implying, right?”
Nora shook her head solemnly. The two had known each other for a long time, and so she
knew that Alex knew to shut up and listen to what she had to say when she went into a cold
silence. Alex eased back on his bar stool. “Please,” he said with a tone that was the closest he
ever got to sincerity. “Enlighten me.”
“You walk dogs,” she said. “For a living. You don’t even own the business. It would be
one thing if you were a retiree, but you’re what, 40 years old?”
“He’s forty-one,” said Paul.
“You’re not helping.” Alex glared.
“Well, you’re a year closer to retirement at least,” she said, dropping a perfectly wrapped
trio of utensils into the bucket with a loud clang. “Of which walking dogs would then be a great
job. You might actually even pick up an old widow at the retirement home. But you know what it really is? You’re scared. Just like the rest of us. That’s all. You make fun of everyone for their
relationships, but you’re just as terrified. Actually, you’re more terrified. And until you come to terms with that, well…” she made her point by dropping another napkin-cloaked batch of
silverware into the basket.
“You are a cruel woman,” he said, pausing for a moment. “That’s bullshit, by the way.”
“How so?” asked Nora.
“First of all,” said Alex. “I choose to be alone. Second of all, I’ve spent maybe $25 total
on all the women I’ve ever slept with.”
“Is that supposed to impress me?” Nora said.
“Whoa,” Paul snickered in the background. “He’s a biiiiig spender, ladies.”
“No,” Alex said, ignoring Paul. “My point is that I never had to work at getting laid. And
I’m sure as hell not going to start now. I mean, is this how most men live?”
“You mean where they actually take a girl out, spend money on her, listen to what she has
to say - y’know, make an effort? Yes, Alex, for most men it’s not easy getting a woman into bed. And you know what? Some men want companionship. And some men actually like women.”
“I like women.”
“You like having sex with women,” Nora countered. “There’s a difference.”
“So men are to blame,” he said in a low volume almost to himself, ignoring her last
comment. “Loser men, anyway. Which means most of them.”
“What?” asked Nora. “How did you come to that conclusion? You’re insane.”
“I’m just saying that in my particular case, there have been too many times where women
have given it away for free,” said Alex. “And so for me to start essentially paying for it - which,
let’s be honest, is basically what a date is - is ridiculous. Only suckers pay.”
“You really are something else.” Nora shook her head.
“Look at it this way,” he offered, “if your ex-husband Mike hadn’t bought that engagement
ring for you, would you have married him?”
“Oh, man,” Paul said, casting a glance at the exit. “Here we go.”
“I know what you’re getting at,” she glared again at Alex. “Don’t even start.”
“I see I’ve touched a nerve,” he said. “But you just proved my point.”
“I don’t need to justify my decisions to you.”
“Then you’ll answer my question,” Alex said in a slow, steady tone. “Truthfully.”
Neither of them said anything. They just stood there staring at each other, as though they
were in a standoff.
“Uh, guys,” Paul said meekly. “I think we’re in luck. The Pirates are playing tonight.”
“Let’s be honest,” Alex said, his gaze still firmly affixed to Nora, “watching the Pirates
play is the exact opposite of lucky.”
The front door of the Bunker opened just then and a familiar patron whose name Alex
couldn’t recall entered the room. Light cheer erupted from an inebriated table of four from across the room. Nora nodded to the man as he walked past with a slight nod. “Hi Denny,” she casually replied.
“But seriously, my dear Nora,” Alex said after a pause, “if Mike hadn’t showered you
with gifts or taken you out to dinner - if he hadn’t spent money on you, would you still have
stayed with him? Would you even have slept with him?”
Nora stood silent. She didn’t have to say anything. She was too busy boring a hole
through Alex’s head with her eyes. Paul, who had remained relatively quiet for most of the
conversation, let out a whistle like one of those old black and white war movies where a bomb is released from a plane’s cargo bay.
“It’s okay, Nora. You’re not the only one,” Alex said. “A man pays a prostitute money in
exchange for goods and services, meaning: sex. The typical romantic boy/girl relationship is no different. A man pays for drinks and dinner with the hope of sleeping with her. Sure, there are exceptions - I’ll grant you that some people do fall in love. But many guys just want sex and most people are simply afraid of being alone. Ergo, while it’s not exactly the same, most
relationships are initially based on premises no different than a man paying a prostitute for sex. In effect, I give you this. And in return, you give me that. It is, like any other relationship,
transactional.”
“Is that so?” said Nora.
“All I know is that love disappears real quick once the guy loses his job or stops footing
the bill or doesn’t eventually show up one day with an engagement ring. It’s all currency in
exchange for goods and services.”
“My god, you are depressing,” said Nora, who then looked at Paul. “How do you put up
with this?”
“Believe it or not,” he said. “It actually works on some women.”
“I’m a realist,” said Alex. “All I know is that my date’s interest in me tanked exponentially
once she found out what I actually did for a living.” He took another sip from his beer. “It’s
depressing only if the foundation of your happiness is based on the belief that Disney movies and Harlequin novels are representations of real life, and not an elaborate scam to separate you from the money in your pocket.”
“No wonder you’re alone.”
“Again,” Alex reminded her, “I choose to be alone. Though if it makes you feel any better,
we are all whores to something. Every last one of us. Even me.”
Before Nora could reply, the front door opened. Charles walked in, surveyed the room,
and made his way over to the trio.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked, pointing to the barstool where Alex’s date had previously
sat. Nora cackled loudly as she cleared off several empty pint glasses from the bar.
“Fuck off,” said Alex.
“What’s his problem?” Charles thumbed in the direction of Alex. Charles reached over
and shook Paul’s hand, then gave Nora a good, strong hug.
“Alex’s date took off the minute he started on his dog walking spiel,” said Paul.
“Ah, another one bites the dust,” Charles laughed. “Women are harsh, man. They develop
high expectations once they hit a certain age.”
Alex’s face lit up with acknowledgment. “That’s what Nora and I have been talking
about!”
“Of course she did,” Charles scoffed. “Women don’t want some 40-year-old dog walker.
“He’s 41,” Nora smirked.
“Goddammit,” Alex said under his breath.
“Or maybe she wanted someone who could actually pay their bar tab,” Charles added.
“What the fuck, Nora!” Alex bawled. “You’re telling everyone about my bar tab?”
“Charles!” she cried. “I told you not to say anything.”
“Oops,” he said. “My bad.”
“I get paid on Friday,” said Alex. “I told you I’d have something by then.”
“Fifty-two bucks?” said Nora.
“Yes. Fifty-two bucks.”
“Okay then,” she said.
Alex crumbled up a wet napkin and tossed it with a sure hand into the wastebasket behind
the bar. “So Charles, did you come over here to make light of my financial and romantic
penury?”
“He probably figured you’d be here,” said Paul. “I know I wanted to get in early enough to
see the pre-show extravaganza. Nothing starts my evening off better than watching you make an ass of yourself in front of a woman.”
“He has a way of doing that, huh?” said Charles.
Nora and Paul both nodded.
Charles turned to Alex. “So man, tell us about this date.”
“It wasn’t a date,” he replied. “More like a job interview.”
“She had every right to leave,” said Nora. “You made her feel uncomfortable.”
“Oh christ,” said Charles. “You didn’t do that thing where you compare dog breeds to
French philosophers, did you?”
“Toulouse-Lautrec was an artist, you vulgarian.”
“Listen,” Charles warned. “We’ve talked about this before. I spent a summer at the
Conservatory in Paris when you were still hiking up your short pants. I know culture.”
Alex muttered something under his breath.
“Say what?” Charles shot back. “Don’t make me rap your ass.”
Nora stifled another laugh, said “Be good, boys” then turned and upended the tip jar. She
counted the gratuity, replacing the coins with bills from the cash register.
“How’s Margot doing?” Charles asked Paul.
“She’s hanging in there,” he replied. “They’re not sure when she’s going to get out.”
“Is she holding up all right?” said Alex.
“Yeah,” said Paul. “Me and Charles were talking about making a trip out to Philly to see
her.”
Alex didn’t say anything, just nodded his head.
“Seriously, man,” said Charles. “You need to quit being a bitch. That woman made you
sound good.”
Alex opened his mouth as if to say something. But he had second thoughts and remained
silent.
Charles drained his pint and caught Nora’s attention. “I’d like another beer, please,” he
said, then paused for a moment and nodded toward Alex. “And get one for this broke-ass
motherfucker sitting next to me.”
“Your profile said you work as a tech developer,” Kristen noted.
“My profile says I work as a liaison for a tech-developer,” he corrected her.
“So in other words,” she said, “you walk his dog.”
“Let’s be honest,” he said. “Would you have shown up if I had told you what I actually do
for a living?”
Kristen glanced down at the counter with an increasingly dour recognition of her
situation. Nora stood off to the side, taking in everything. She laughed to herself and shook her head. Alex just sat there, feeling pleased with himself.
Kristen worked as a headhunter for a staffing company. She had been excited at the
prospect of going on a date with someone whose online profile identified himself as a member of the ever-increasing tech world in Pittsburgh. She had moved to the city a few months before and didn’t have many friends. Kristen inspected the beer can closely, as though it were some oracle or soothsayer. But the can offered nothing more than a tacky patriotic color scheme and ingredients that would only compromise her waistline. She glanced anxiously at the clock above the bar, calculating she had known this clown for exactly fourteen minutes. She took another sip of beer and debated whether to cut things off now or see what was on the menu. She was hungry, after all.
“I like walking dogs,” he continued. “I find working with people rather annoying.”
“Oh, that’s great,” she said off-handedly, almost to herself, still fixated on the Pabst can,
still holding out for clemency. She traced the gashes on the counter with her finger. The dejected tone of a woman all too familiar to Alex.
The Bunker was in the midst of Happy Hour, offering cheap pitchers of lager for $8.50
and bottles of craft beers for $3.00. Hot wings, pierogies, and cheeseburgers were the usual fare. The Bunker wasn’t the cleanest place, the hippest place, or the most romantic place but Alex liked to take dates there because he felt comfortable among the surly patrons, safe amidst the ratty sports team pennants and posters. He had gone ahead and ordered a plate of onion rings before Kristen had arrived. The empty plate now sat before them specked with crumbs and smears of ketchup. He grinned over the remains of the appetizer like a convict avoiding
extradition. In the background, the jukebox sang the closing refrain of Crowded House’s
“Something So Strong”.
“Ask me what my favorite breed is,” Alex suddenly demanded.
“Excuse me?” asked a startled Kristen.
“My favorite dog breed. Go on,” he implored. “Ask it. Ask me what my favorite dog is.”
“Ok…” she said. “What’s your favorite dog breed?”
Alex sighed deeply and said, “I thought you’d never ask.” He took a long pull from his
pint. The jukebox had finished its run of songs. The clattering of dishes in the kitchen and the
intermittent buzz of the TV monitor hanging over the bar mirror cast an eerie aural dissonance.
“There are many. So, so many,” he said shaking his head, looking off to the side as though
he were recalling a long-ago romantic encounter. “But the fact is, there is no more charming
canine than the pug.”
“Oh, really…” she said.
“Yep.” He paused for a moment, then burped. “And no more cursed, either. Take, for
example, one of my favorite dogs - Marigold. Like most pugs, she has googly little eyes and an
omnipresent tongue that sticks out the side of her mouth giving her an asymmetrical
countenance. Her stout little frame, sausage-like, sitting upon absurd stubby legs, furiously
pumping away in spite of her genetic flaws, is truly something to behold.”
“Well,” Kristen said. “That’s an interesting take.”
“Indeed,” said Alex. “Mind you, Marigold should not exist. A dog such as a pug: an ugly
little beast created from the darker side of humanity - meaning, a creation based on misplaced
whimsy, like most things man-made - is guaranteed nothing more than a life comprised primarily of misery.”
“So, this is what you usually talk about on first dates?”
“Marigold is an affront to nature,” he said, ignoring her. “I adore her but she is a caninistic
freak show.”
Kristen stared at Alex as though he were an alien. She could hear his words but his tone
of voice and mannerisms combined with the asinine subject matter gave her the impression that she was on a date with a lunatic.
“But these flaws do not inhibit Marigold’s unbridled energy, or her desire to be the life of
the party,” Alex continued reverentially, oblivious to Kristen’s indifference to his favorite dog
breed or her increasing concerns about his mental stability. “Pugs are great,” Alex winked. “In a way, they are the Toulouse-Lautrec of dogs.” He then downed his lager and let out another
baritone belch before hopping off the barstool and walking to the restroom leaving a long, putrid scent of onion rings in his wake. Just before he turned the corner to the steps leading down to the men’s room, he raised his clenched fist and announced, “Marigold!”
“Okay,” Kristen muttered to the now vacant bar stool next to her. Where to begin? She
was shocked by his table manners. In addition to his loathsome flatulence, Alex swore too much and often talked over her. He insulted her favorite TV show and made fun of her taste in music. He mocked her job and where she lived. He even had the audacity to belittle where she was born and raised. He said her shoes were too blue and that women should never wear high-top sneakers. (Kristen found this bit of information rather odd, as she was wearing flats from work, indigo in color, not blue. And so he was probably colorblind in addition to being an asshole.) But now after receiving a temporary stay of execution to regain her equilibrium, she was presented with an opening. She could finally escape. The jukebox was now playing “Love Ain’t Something (That You Get For Free)” by Wah Wah Watson, a tune far more appropriate for the occasion. Though Kristen had never heard the song before, she also wasn’t against the idea that greater forces were at play. That a woman must go with her intuition, especially when the negative vibes all too neatly coincided with the surrounding atmosphere as it applied in this particular situation. Clearly the stars were maligned. Kristen jumped off her barstool as though she were performing a dismount, yanked her coat from the hook beneath the bar counter and scurried out the door. Paul saw this as his cue to get up and take his rightful place at the bar next to where Alex had been sitting.
Alex returned moments later and looked around the room.
“Looks like you lost another one, Casanova,” said Nora, motioning to the front door as it
closed with an arthritic creak.
“Yeah, that was painful to watch,” said Paul.
“I thought women liked guys who like dogs,” said Alex, as he let out a yawn and
stretched.
“Women do like guys who like dogs,” replied Nora as she wiped down the counter. “But
you are a jerk. And there’s a substantial gulf between thinking someone is a jerk,” she said,
holding her left hand aloft with the palm up. “And wanting to have sex with them,” she
continued, completing the same motion with her right hand. “Besides, you conducted that date as though it were some twisted sociological experiment.”
“She was terrible,” Alex said. “She was only interested in my theoretical tech job based on
the belief that I made theoretically large amounts of money.”
“She had her own job,” said Nora. “She paid for her beer.”
“Yeah? And?”
“She offered to pay for yours when she saw you didn’t have enough money. For an IC
Light, no less. You didn’t even have enough money for an IC Light. And she knew you for what, fifteen minutes?”
“She’s right, y’know,” Paul agreed. “That is pretty pathetic.”
“I did laundry today!” Alex bellowed. “My wallet is in another pair of pants!”
“So let me get this straight,” Nora said, hands firmly on hips, the stance she almost always
eventually took when having a conversation with Alex. “You haven’t denied that you were just
messing with her. Am I not far off when I say that you conduct these sociological experiments
under the pretext of an actual date?”
Alex paused for a moment. “I never thought of it that way. But sure, why not? Aren’t all
relationships, regardless of intent, sociological?” Alex raised an eyebrow. Nora hated when he
acted smug.
“You’re a sociopath,” she said half-joking.
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
“Maybe so,” Nora allowed. “But you are fucked up.” She shook her head, pausing for a
moment to dispose of Kristen’s beer bottle. “Anyway, women aren’t going to sleep with you just because you’re not a sociopath.”
“But you slept with me,” said Alex.
“And I’ve regretted it ever since,” she said.
“Great,” Paul said. “I can see where this conversation is going.”
“Besides, that was years ago,” she added.
“You seemed to enjoy yourself,” said Alex.
“I was a theatre major at CMU.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, it could mean that I was just faking it,” she said. “But instead, I’ll say that I
should’ve joined that off-Broadway musical back in ’95 instead of staying here in Pittsburgh.”
She stood stone-faced for a moment, then smirked. “See what I just did there? That’s called
diplomacy. You should try it.”
“But that’s my point,” said Alex. “Pretty much every woman, at one time or another, has
slept with a guy without that guy having to do anything so much as be at the right place at the
right time.”
“I’m sorry,” said Nora. “You said there was a point?”
“This has all the makings of a Hallmark moment,” Paul sighed.
“My point is,” said Alex. “What’s the point of the whole dating ritual, the idea of acting
nice and spending money on a woman when she’s already given it up for free to someone else?”
“You are kidding, right?” said Nora. Alex could sense the tension in her voice. But he
went barreling ahead anyway.
“No, I’m not kidding,” he said.
“Yep,” said Paul, glancing at his watch. “I could set the time to this conversation.”
“I don’t know, Alex,” Nora said in the same exasperated tone she used when her ex-
husband Mike was late with support payments or the garbage hadn’t been collected by 9am. She turned to Paul for help. But he just shrugged and made that don’t look at me look that caused her so much frustration with men. “Maybe people just don’t want to be alone. Or maybe, just maybe, they’re in love. Most people aren’t strong and independent as you are.”
“There’s no need to get bitchy,” said Alex, making a dismissive motion with his hand.
This always set Nora off.
Paul tried to ease the situation with a half-hearted, “Are the Pirates playing tonight?” to
no one in particular.
“But there is a need to get bitchy,” said Nora, deftly ignoring Paul while taking the bait
that Alex had laid. “Because you always ask the same questions hoping to somehow get a
different answer that will validate your view of the world. What do you want to hear? That
people are weak? That they’re terrified of being alone? Even if it means settling with someone
they kinda, sorta don’t really like? Or they’re not really attracted to? Does it make you feel
better? Does it make you feel superior?”
Alex appeared to think about it for a moment. “Actually yeah, it does,” he said.
“Well, that’s great,” said Nora as she slammed her fist down on the counter that startled
everyone at the bar counter. “But it still doesn’t change the fact you owe fifty-two bucks on your bar tab. It’s a shame things didn’t work out on your date. She looked like the kind of girl who had a stable, good-paying job. Maybe you could’ve conned her into paying up.”
“I don’t understand why you’re being so mean,” said Alex. “You know I walk dogs for a
living.”
“And you wonder why you never get past the first date,” she said.
“I had no interest in getting past the first date!” he shot back.
Nora looked at Alex and shook her head in disapproval. “You’re something else,” she said
as she flung the bar towel over her shoulder and strolled through the double doors to the kitchen. She returned with a case of beer and began placing bottles in the cooler beneath the bar counter. She suddenly looked up as though having forgotten something, checked her watch, muttered to herself, then hurried back through the double doors to the kitchen. She returned a few moments later with two baskets of cheese fries and a plate of halushski.
“It wasn’t always this way,” Alex said as she briskly walked by with the plates full of
food. She maneuvered past him without acknowledgment, food precariously balanced, weaving her way around the scrum of chairs and tables to an elderly couple sitting in the far corner away from the jukebox. She delicately laid the plates on the table, feigned a smile at the couple, rubbed her hands on her jeans and took a deep breath before returning to her post behind the bar. She then pulled clean silverware from the dishwasher and began wrapping the spoons, forks, and knives in napkins.
“It wasn’t always this way because you’re old now,” Nora said, finishing his thought.
“We’ve talked about this before. I get it…I’ve seen you play music. You were great. It’s the main reason why I went to bed with you. Why else would I? Because of your personality? The fact is, playing in bands has infinitely more currency when you’re in your teens and twenties than your thirties - and definitely more so than your forties. Unless you’re Elvis Costello. He’s what? Sixty? He looks better now than he did when he was starting out.”
“Well yeah,” said Alex. “He’s also famous.”
“Again, you’re missing the point.”
“But that’s what you’re implying, right?”
Nora shook her head solemnly. The two had known each other for a long time, and so she
knew that Alex knew to shut up and listen to what she had to say when she went into a cold
silence. Alex eased back on his bar stool. “Please,” he said with a tone that was the closest he
ever got to sincerity. “Enlighten me.”
“You walk dogs,” she said. “For a living. You don’t even own the business. It would be
one thing if you were a retiree, but you’re what, 40 years old?”
“He’s forty-one,” said Paul.
“You’re not helping.” Alex glared.
“Well, you’re a year closer to retirement at least,” she said, dropping a perfectly wrapped
trio of utensils into the bucket with a loud clang. “Of which walking dogs would then be a great
job. You might actually even pick up an old widow at the retirement home. But you know what it really is? You’re scared. Just like the rest of us. That’s all. You make fun of everyone for their
relationships, but you’re just as terrified. Actually, you’re more terrified. And until you come to terms with that, well…” she made her point by dropping another napkin-cloaked batch of
silverware into the basket.
“You are a cruel woman,” he said, pausing for a moment. “That’s bullshit, by the way.”
“How so?” asked Nora.
“First of all,” said Alex. “I choose to be alone. Second of all, I’ve spent maybe $25 total
on all the women I’ve ever slept with.”
“Is that supposed to impress me?” Nora said.
“Whoa,” Paul snickered in the background. “He’s a biiiiig spender, ladies.”
“No,” Alex said, ignoring Paul. “My point is that I never had to work at getting laid. And
I’m sure as hell not going to start now. I mean, is this how most men live?”
“You mean where they actually take a girl out, spend money on her, listen to what she has
to say - y’know, make an effort? Yes, Alex, for most men it’s not easy getting a woman into bed. And you know what? Some men want companionship. And some men actually like women.”
“I like women.”
“You like having sex with women,” Nora countered. “There’s a difference.”
“So men are to blame,” he said in a low volume almost to himself, ignoring her last
comment. “Loser men, anyway. Which means most of them.”
“What?” asked Nora. “How did you come to that conclusion? You’re insane.”
“I’m just saying that in my particular case, there have been too many times where women
have given it away for free,” said Alex. “And so for me to start essentially paying for it - which,
let’s be honest, is basically what a date is - is ridiculous. Only suckers pay.”
“You really are something else.” Nora shook her head.
“Look at it this way,” he offered, “if your ex-husband Mike hadn’t bought that engagement
ring for you, would you have married him?”
“Oh, man,” Paul said, casting a glance at the exit. “Here we go.”
“I know what you’re getting at,” she glared again at Alex. “Don’t even start.”
“I see I’ve touched a nerve,” he said. “But you just proved my point.”
“I don’t need to justify my decisions to you.”
“Then you’ll answer my question,” Alex said in a slow, steady tone. “Truthfully.”
Neither of them said anything. They just stood there staring at each other, as though they
were in a standoff.
“Uh, guys,” Paul said meekly. “I think we’re in luck. The Pirates are playing tonight.”
“Let’s be honest,” Alex said, his gaze still firmly affixed to Nora, “watching the Pirates
play is the exact opposite of lucky.”
The front door of the Bunker opened just then and a familiar patron whose name Alex
couldn’t recall entered the room. Light cheer erupted from an inebriated table of four from across the room. Nora nodded to the man as he walked past with a slight nod. “Hi Denny,” she casually replied.
“But seriously, my dear Nora,” Alex said after a pause, “if Mike hadn’t showered you
with gifts or taken you out to dinner - if he hadn’t spent money on you, would you still have
stayed with him? Would you even have slept with him?”
Nora stood silent. She didn’t have to say anything. She was too busy boring a hole
through Alex’s head with her eyes. Paul, who had remained relatively quiet for most of the
conversation, let out a whistle like one of those old black and white war movies where a bomb is released from a plane’s cargo bay.
“It’s okay, Nora. You’re not the only one,” Alex said. “A man pays a prostitute money in
exchange for goods and services, meaning: sex. The typical romantic boy/girl relationship is no different. A man pays for drinks and dinner with the hope of sleeping with her. Sure, there are exceptions - I’ll grant you that some people do fall in love. But many guys just want sex and most people are simply afraid of being alone. Ergo, while it’s not exactly the same, most
relationships are initially based on premises no different than a man paying a prostitute for sex. In effect, I give you this. And in return, you give me that. It is, like any other relationship,
transactional.”
“Is that so?” said Nora.
“All I know is that love disappears real quick once the guy loses his job or stops footing
the bill or doesn’t eventually show up one day with an engagement ring. It’s all currency in
exchange for goods and services.”
“My god, you are depressing,” said Nora, who then looked at Paul. “How do you put up
with this?”
“Believe it or not,” he said. “It actually works on some women.”
“I’m a realist,” said Alex. “All I know is that my date’s interest in me tanked exponentially
once she found out what I actually did for a living.” He took another sip from his beer. “It’s
depressing only if the foundation of your happiness is based on the belief that Disney movies and Harlequin novels are representations of real life, and not an elaborate scam to separate you from the money in your pocket.”
“No wonder you’re alone.”
“Again,” Alex reminded her, “I choose to be alone. Though if it makes you feel any better,
we are all whores to something. Every last one of us. Even me.”
Before Nora could reply, the front door opened. Charles walked in, surveyed the room,
and made his way over to the trio.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked, pointing to the barstool where Alex’s date had previously
sat. Nora cackled loudly as she cleared off several empty pint glasses from the bar.
“Fuck off,” said Alex.
“What’s his problem?” Charles thumbed in the direction of Alex. Charles reached over
and shook Paul’s hand, then gave Nora a good, strong hug.
“Alex’s date took off the minute he started on his dog walking spiel,” said Paul.
“Ah, another one bites the dust,” Charles laughed. “Women are harsh, man. They develop
high expectations once they hit a certain age.”
Alex’s face lit up with acknowledgment. “That’s what Nora and I have been talking
about!”
“Of course she did,” Charles scoffed. “Women don’t want some 40-year-old dog walker.
“He’s 41,” Nora smirked.
“Goddammit,” Alex said under his breath.
“Or maybe she wanted someone who could actually pay their bar tab,” Charles added.
“What the fuck, Nora!” Alex bawled. “You’re telling everyone about my bar tab?”
“Charles!” she cried. “I told you not to say anything.”
“Oops,” he said. “My bad.”
“I get paid on Friday,” said Alex. “I told you I’d have something by then.”
“Fifty-two bucks?” said Nora.
“Yes. Fifty-two bucks.”
“Okay then,” she said.
Alex crumbled up a wet napkin and tossed it with a sure hand into the wastebasket behind
the bar. “So Charles, did you come over here to make light of my financial and romantic
penury?”
“He probably figured you’d be here,” said Paul. “I know I wanted to get in early enough to
see the pre-show extravaganza. Nothing starts my evening off better than watching you make an ass of yourself in front of a woman.”
“He has a way of doing that, huh?” said Charles.
Nora and Paul both nodded.
Charles turned to Alex. “So man, tell us about this date.”
“It wasn’t a date,” he replied. “More like a job interview.”
“She had every right to leave,” said Nora. “You made her feel uncomfortable.”
“Oh christ,” said Charles. “You didn’t do that thing where you compare dog breeds to
French philosophers, did you?”
“Toulouse-Lautrec was an artist, you vulgarian.”
“Listen,” Charles warned. “We’ve talked about this before. I spent a summer at the
Conservatory in Paris when you were still hiking up your short pants. I know culture.”
Alex muttered something under his breath.
“Say what?” Charles shot back. “Don’t make me rap your ass.”
Nora stifled another laugh, said “Be good, boys” then turned and upended the tip jar. She
counted the gratuity, replacing the coins with bills from the cash register.
“How’s Margot doing?” Charles asked Paul.
“She’s hanging in there,” he replied. “They’re not sure when she’s going to get out.”
“Is she holding up all right?” said Alex.
“Yeah,” said Paul. “Me and Charles were talking about making a trip out to Philly to see
her.”
Alex didn’t say anything, just nodded his head.
“Seriously, man,” said Charles. “You need to quit being a bitch. That woman made you
sound good.”
Alex opened his mouth as if to say something. But he had second thoughts and remained
silent.
Charles drained his pint and caught Nora’s attention. “I’d like another beer, please,” he
said, then paused for a moment and nodded toward Alex. “And get one for this broke-ass
motherfucker sitting next to me.”
Kurt Garrison was born and raised in Harrisburg, Pa. and moved to Los Angeles for eighteen months after college. Aside from two stints in London, he has lived in and around the Pittsburgh metro area since 2000. He currently resides in the neighborhood of Troy Hill.
Comments
Post a Comment