Wednesday, September 24, 2003

You'll find it in Balzac

Question: does the modern approach to homosexuality derive from Rex Harrison’s performance in My Fair Lady? Further question: does the trope of “take off your glasses and let your hair down and you’re pretty” spring from Marian the Librarian in The Music Man? Very possibly. I’ve always been a believer in living by the classics. Well, I’ve told you about my recent run-in with Teresa, noted barfly and pretty girl with bun and glasses, but, dear diary, it gets worse.

I show up at The Bar especially late and there she is, pool cue in one hand, whiskey in the other. She’s a neighborhood girl, parents are Puerto Rican but she speaks fluently in both their language and mine, no wrong accent either way. Thin, with a big head, like on TV. Like Shirley Jones in dark curls, her mouth hangs a little bit open all the time. I sit down. She’s telling her story, to no one in particular: “Oh, I can’t go back to my apartment tonight. They’re painting it. I have to sleep in my car.”

I get my beer, I toast everybody. Teresa’s going on: “Oh, I have to sleep in my car tonight, isn’t that terrible?” She isn’t speaking to anyone, she’s orating. So this goes on for a while. Some of us are ignoring her, some of us are hitting on her. One drunk guy approaches, says he’s going home, and she can come. She smiles, but she isn’t leaving yet. He goes.

Finally I make my move. “Teresa, this is ridiculous. You shouldn’t have to sleep in your car.” I dangle my keys in front of her. “Go ahead, sleep in my car.”

Ha ha ha. The fellas laugh. Teresa glares but sits down next to me. “That wasn’t nice,” she says. I know the drill: I buy her a Jameson’s. She’s happy. Hey, if she’s happy, I’m happy. Sort of. I don’t really know her, but there’s something about her I like. I worry that it’s just that she’s a kooky drunk, but maybe that’s enough.

So time flies, I chat with the bartender, I chat with the fellas, I chat occasionally with the girl, and I hear again about the painting and the awaiting car. I’m not sure what I think about it. If it’s the truth, or a weird game for attention, or a weird way of suggesting her availability. But questions like those are what make people interesting. So at the end of the night I say, “Teresa, let me walk you to your car. I’ve been hearing about this car. I want to see this car you’re going to sleep in.”

She appraises me and says, “You can walk me to my car. But that’s it. Got it?”

“Sure, sure, I’ll walk you to the car but that’s it. I won’t walk you to anything else.”

So we set out for the fabled car. It’s not close. She drags me a ways uptown. Hey, it’s hard to get a good parking space. But it’s also hard for two drunks to walk at five in the morning. We hold hands briefly, then don’t for the rest of the way. But — we get to her car. A station wagon, no less!

“Wow,” I say. “You do have a car!”

“What’d you think, asshole?” She unlocks it and yanks open the front door. Then she giggles, closes it, and yanks open the back door. She gets in the back seat, shuts the door, and sits primly. “Thank you for a wonderful evening,” she deadpans.

I open the door, get in the back seat next to her. “This is a pretty nice setup,” I tell her, feeling the upholstery. “If I had a car like this, I’d get rid of the apartment.”

“Shut up,” she whines, “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I wouldn’t make fun of you,” I say, and I kiss her. I don’t know why. We hardly touch. After a moment, I pull her closer to me, but that seems to remind her that we’re kissing and she pulls away. I’m going to tell this very precisely so I can try to remember how it happened.

“Hey, I said there wouldn’t be any of that.” She glares at me again, behind those glasses.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, and I touch her face. She slowly moves closer to me, resting against my chest. I explore her hair for a moment. Then I lean down and kiss her forehead, and her cheek, and I push her back a bit and kiss her orator’s mouth. I’ve somehow got her in a real Rossano Brazzi hold. But being more me than him, I fumble around to get my hand up her blouse. That starts her squirming away again.

“C’mon, stop it!” She sits up. “Can’t you behave?”

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “It’s just that this is a little unexpected, and unexpected is a little exciting.”

She stares at me for a few moments. I smile. She isn’t smiling. She inches over to me again. She leans in to kiss me, but this time she holds me back to the seat. She cocks her head and studies my face. “Not a word,” she says, and I feel and hear a zip. Teresa puts her head in my lap and her mouth to work and it makes me shudder. I’m not sure what I had in mind when we tripped out into the street, but my impression is that this is more than success. I watch her in her slow and steady execution as the sun begins to just as slowly rise. She doesn’t look at me and hardly makes a sound. I don’t hear or see anything. I’m focused on the feeling she’s creating, but even that is starting to fade, or getting lost behind something. I know that everything that’s happened was, sure, my doing, but I’ve felt like an observer the whole time. Especially now. I’m watching her, but I feel far away. Not just from the booze. From far away I realize that this whole thing is pretty awful. It turns out that no matter how much the concept appeals, I don’t want a blow job in the back seat of a car after all.

This surprises Teresa even more than me. “What’s wrong?” Teresa mutters because I can’t stay hard. “Look,” I say, “uh — thank you. But let’s stop.” Then she looks up at me. Again, not really any expression. I put my dick back in my pants. I take her in my arms. Then we fall asleep together in her car.

by Jack, September 24, 2003 11:59 PM | More from Drinking & Women | More from Teresa

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