“Let’s go out.” He grabbed my arm, but I pulled away.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because you need to go out more and meet men!”
I don’t like meeting men. I especially don’t like the bar. It’s filled with people, and they can’t manage their space. I have my space, and they have their space, but at the bar, everyone wants to share space. I can feel them groping at my skin, feeling it loosen. There is this way humans take up space, like water in buckets, or hair in sewage drains.
“Why?” I asked.
“We’re not staying in again. I’ve already had a couple of drinks, and I’m not wasting them on watching more episodes of The Blue Planet.”
I thought about sitting and watching The Blue Planet with Craig. He’d ask me to sit closer, maybe say that he didn’t mind my loose skin. I would lay my head on his chest, and maybe a bit of my skin would fall off, but he wouldn’t care. And maybe some of my skin would slide down, and he’d think to himself how sexy it would be if I took off all of my skin. He would slowly uncoil it, and my body could actually breathe. I could relax, let my fur and wings loosen.
Craig grabbed my jacket and pulled me out the door. A cab arrived promptly. It was missing a headlight and the left side of the car showed several scrapes. The drive of the cab was an older man.
I slipped into the front seat. “Your headlight is out. That’s actually illegal,” I said.
“Sir, you don’t have to sit in the front seat,” he responded.
“Also, you have scratches along the left side of your car. Is that from an accident or a bad parking job?”
“No, some guy hit me.”
“How can they be from someone hitting you if they’re long scratches? I would like you to drive safely please.” The cab driver stopped responding to my questions for the duration of the drive. The drive took thirteen minutes. The car swerved, and I felt my body flail back and forth in the seat. He pulled up to the bar. “Here’s your money. I’m not tipping you because I felt uncomfortable,” I added. I could see Craig waiting in the car and passed him a few extra dollars.
When we entered the bar, the space was already filled with too many people. I decided to keep my jacket on in case we decided to leave early.
“Steve, you have to take your jacket off—you’ll die of sweat in here.”
“People don’t die of sweat, they die of dehydration.” Craig stared at me until I put my jacket in coat check.
Craig purchased me a drink. I sipped it slowly knowing how quickly I can become too intoxicated, but then I started taking larger gulps until the drink was just ice and a squeezed lemon.
Craig motioned for us to take a seat on the open plush couches. Immediately, several men stood in front of us, their bodies blocking the rest of the club from view.
I waved at them. “Hello, excuse me, you are rather close to us.” The music was too loud. “Excuse me, you’re getting rather close to us.” The men’s butts inched closer until they were directly in front of our faces. Craig seemed pleased by this.
“Look how tight those guy’s jeans are!” Craig laughed. “They’re so fucking tight I can see this guy’s iPhone contact list.”
“I’m going to go get us another drink.” I excused myself.
As I walked from the couch to the bar, I squeezed between men whose hands coincidentally dropped to graze against my butt. I was thankful my jeans were sturdy enough to keep their hands from getting into my pants. The bartenders were shirtless, which meant it was after midnight. I ordered two more drinks, and they went down faster than the last.
I started to forget about my skin.
When I got back to Craig, there were several men surrounding him. I hesitated, but Craig noticed me and pulled me in. He began to introduce each one. “This is Kyle, he works in law. This is Jeffrey, he’s a doctor from Seattle. And this is Kareem, he’s a scientist, I think.”
“Nice to meet you.” I stared intently at the foreheads of each of the men. Their skin fit so perfectly on their faces. “You have very nice skin,” I commented to one. I remembered my skin and quickly finished my drink.
Kyle looked at me. “So what do you do, Steve?”
“I’m an accountant,” I said.
“Oh, do you like numbers?”
“No. But it’s a good salary, and I’m very good at calculations.” Kyle was staring at me. I was supposed to ask the next question. I noticed tattoos running down his bicep. They were thick lines interweaving. “I noticed your tattoo. Is that a fish?”
“No, it’s more just a kind of abstract tribal tattoo.”
“What does it mean?”
“I guess it doesn’t really mean anything, more just a visual thing. Do you like it?”
“No—uh, I mean, no.” I walked away then walked back over to him, “I’m sorry that I don’t like your tattoos.” I walked away. I walked back to him. “I mean that I don’t like tattoos, not just your tattoos. I like your skin, though.” I walked away.
Craig gave me a shot of tequila and another drink. I forgot about my skin.
I was dancing.
Other people were dancing.
A man danced with me, pressed against me. “I like your hat,” he said.
“Thank you. I purchased it at a store,” I replied.
I had to go to the bathroom, so I excused myself. When I returned, the man was dancing with someone else. Craig pulled me into a conversation with the man from Seattle.
“Steve, we’re trying to figure out if you’re a bear.”
“No, I’m not a bear.”
“You’re totally a bear.”
“No, I assure you, I’m human like you.”
Everyone started to laugh. I had either made a joke or they were laughing at me.
“Obviously, but, like, Jeffrey is a wolf, and I’m more of an otter cub, but you’re a total bear.”
“No. I’m not.” I felt myself becoming bothered. “I’m quite obviously a human—look at my human skin!”
“Steve, you’re hilarious. Weird, but totally fucking funny.” Craig was drunk.
My skin. I focused on my breathing. I could feel my skin sliding. If I focused long enough on my breathing, my skin wouldn’t fall off.
“Why am I so funny?” I responded.
“I dunno. You’re just kind of weird. But, like, a good weird.”
“I don’t think I’m very funny or weird. I think maybe you are the funny and weird one.”
My skin.
“Maybe that’s why you constantly have to jump from man to man to man to feel some sort of belonging,” I yelled. Craig stopped laughing.
Skin loosened.
“Maybe that’s why you can’t last in a relationship longer than a month.”
And loosened.
“Maybe …”
I could feel my skin start to slip off, but I couldn’t stop it. “That’s why everyone talks about you the way they do.” My skin was a loose pair of pants being held together by a thick belt. “Maybe that’s why you can’t just stay home and watch The Blue Planet with me.” My skin was so loose, I could feel it flapping around; my hat was the only thing holding it together. “Maybe if we just stayed home and watched The Blue Planet we could fall in love, and I wouldn’t have to go to this place anymore.” I felt my skin drop from my body.
“Dude, what’s wrong with your skin?”
I ran quickly into the handicap bathroom stall and tried to fix my face. My skin was drooping so low. I remembered to breathe. Breathe in, breathe out. If I could calm down, I could get my skin back on just enough to quickly make it out of the club without anyone noticing. I looked in the mirror, and it started to look manageable. I lowered my hat over my face, covering my eyes.
For a moment, though, I thought about letting it just fall off altogether, walking out the bathroom door without it. Maybe everyone wouldn’t notice. Or maybe they would all notice and then be amazed at how beautiful I look without my skin. Maybe one man would walk up to me and say, “I can�
��t keep my eyes off you. Did you know that you’re beautiful?” Maybe he would kiss me and hold me, tell me that skin was just a disgusting layer of flaking elastic bands covering beautiful flesh and fur. Maybe he would kiss my face, my chest, tell me that I was perfect with my flesh hanging out. I then imagined us walking out of the bar together and the men outside screaming at the sight of my body without skin.
I pressed the folds of my skin closer to my eyeballs. I walked out of the bar. I couldn’t find Craig. He must have left with someone.
When I got home, I sat on the couch and turned on The Blue Planet. I watched as the birds dived and swooped and ate prey by gulping fish from cold blue water. I felt my wings itch. When the program ended, I went into my bathroom, pulled off my hat, took off my clothes, and stared into the mirror. After a moment, I pulled down the skin around my eyes and lifted it off my face. I pulled the skin down from my face to my chest. I pulled my skin down from my chest to my knees. I let the skin drop to the floor and stepped out of it.
I called Craig and apologized. I scooped my wings around my face to block the mirror.
DATE: THATDUDE
He walked into the lounge. Ryan checked his text messages. ThatDude would be in the back and wearing a fedora. Ryan noticed that he looked nothing like his profile picture. He quickly turned around and deleted ThatDude’s number.
TROPICAL BILL MURRAY ISN’T YOUR BEST FRIEND
There was a lot of beer. You were drunk. You stole someone’s smokes and burned through them in an hour.
By the time you were at the bar, you were already yelling at a few men. You asked them if you were adorable. They answered “yes.” You responded, “Then tell everyone I’m adorable.” No one found this adorable.
You turned to R, who was pointing at someone across the room. He was excited. You looked at where he was pointing and noticed a man in a Hawaiian shirt. His hair was white, thin, frizzy around his ears. Your friend lumbered toward you and whispered, “It’s totally fucking Bill Murray, dude! But he’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt, so I don’t know, he’s, like, Tropical Bill Murray.”
I noticed him as well. You squinted; your contacts were dry. You moved on to talk to H. He was staring at a cluster of men wearing tank tops that framed their muscles. I interrupted you to ask if you had seen the guy who looked like Bill Murray. You stared at the cluster of muscle men.
“You should talk to them,” I said.
“Yeah, and what am I going to say?” you asked.
“I dunno. ‘Hey guys, I like your muscles. Does the attic match the basement?’” I laughed.
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does, you just don’t get it. But for real, go talk to them. That guy, what’s wrong with that guy?” I pointed at a man across the room.
“His eyes look kind of close together.”
“That guy?”
“He keeps talking with his eyes closed; that’s really irritating.”
“Okay, the one in the yellow tank top.”
“He’s definitely over thirty and wearing a yellow tank top.”
I nodded in agreement and pushed through the crowd, pulling you with me.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To talk to the dude in the yellow tank top.”
I introduced you quickly then ran off. You gave me the look of death. I smiled back.
Then I went to talk to Tropical Billy Murray. His smile made me feel at ease. When I squint hard enough, I notice that he’s even a little bit handsome. Soft eyes make me feel safe, so I always fall in love with the tired and sad looking guys. He flips through his phone, and he’s look at art. He’s a painter, I think. I kind of don’t remember this part, but yes, a painter. He has all of these realistic portraits of young men, and I ask if he will paint me. He shakes his head, laughs, and shows me his most recent work. It’s all geometric shapes. When I blur my vision, I can see the earlier portraits he showed me.
R walked up to us and yelled, “Did you know you look like Bill Murray?”
I looked at R with that disappointed face that I do—you know the one. Tropical Bill Murray smiled that perfect Bill Murray smile and nodded. “Yes, I’ve been told that before.”
R smiled for a long time, then walked away.
Tropical Bill Murray and I went through the rest of his photos, and I mumbled something about wanting to be Facebook friends or follow each other on Twitter. I can’t remember.
Anyway, you were talking to tank-top guy, and I return to you to get into the conversation. You two were arguing about something. You were yelling, “But that’s not even physically possible!” The conversation stopped when I arrived, so I tried to muster up a new conversation.
“So, I heard that Westboro Baptist Church guy died.”
Everyone nodded.
“We should protest his funeral!” one guy yelled out.
“No, that’s exactly what he would have wanted. We should just pretend that guy never existed,” you said.
There was a silence, so I asked another question. “What does love mean to you?” I was being ironic, but the words stumbled out sincerely.
There was another silence, much longer this time.
“What’s wrong with you?” you asked me.
“I don’t know. I thought it was a good question.”
“You’re always so fucking intense.”
You stormed off, and I stared at yellow tank top and asked him if he’d bought his shirt at Gap Kids. He called me a bitch and I nodded in agreement. I tried to break the tension by asking, “Did you ever hear about the time Bill Murray walked up to a guy, ate his french fry, and said, ‘No one will ever believe you.’?”
Silence again so I went and ordered another beer.
Tropical Bill Murray was at the bar when I got there. He did card tricks, he was taking tequila shots off men’s chests, he was high-fiving everyone in the room. He was telling us the stories about when he used to work in the circus, and about all the people he’d met in his life. He balanced three men on his shoulders, he danced on the tables. We held him over our shoulders chanting, “TBM-TBM-TBM!” I think. I can’t really remember.
Then we went to another bar. We took off our shirts. Well, you took off your shirt, then you forced me to take off my shirt. I stole R’s big basketball jersey and wore that for the rest of the night pretending it was a dress and asking random men if they would take me to the prom. There was A&W. There were onion rings. There was a French guy. I can’t remember. There was the cab we both jumped into—or did someone else drive us home?
Somehow, the morning happened. I called you up and suggested brunch. You declined. I went anyway, sat at the bar, ate my eggs, drank several morning beers, and texted to ask you to go out for drinks. You declined. I headed out for drinks anyway and found R and C. When I texted you to say that we were at the bar, you replied, “on my way.”
“Tropical Bill Murray!” You pointed at him. I quickly rushed to great him. He looked tired.
“Oh, hey, guys.”
“Do you remember us?” I shouted with adoration.
“Of course. How are you two?”
“We’re doing good—what about you?” My smile was so wide I looked like Pacman about to consume ghosts.
“I’m alright.” He looked back and forth between us. “I need to go back to my friends now.”
Tropical Bill Murray walked back to a handful of men with silver hair. They sipped their beers and looked into the glasses.
“What’s wrong with Tropical Bill Murray?” I asked you.
You pointed at some guys across the room, said they might be nice to talk to.
“They’re wearing cargo pants.” I said.
“So what?”
“Who wears cargo pants?”
“I don’t know. Cargo pants enthusiasts? Maybe someone who has a lot of things that need pockets? Maybe an explorer?”
“Dora doesn’t wear cargo pants. At least she’s smart enough to get a backpack.”
“You’re an asshole.” You walked away.
I sobered up. We walked over to Lolita’s for a late dinner. You started to joke about how I was going to be single forever. I joked too.
“You’re picky. Didn’t you break up with someone once because they kept saying ‘epic’?”
“So what! You broke up with a guy because he didn’t eat sushi.”
“What about the guy who was too nice?”
“Ugh, that guy. He was so nice, like, go save a fucking orphanage while you build a hospital that creates oxygen,” I laughed.
“You’re fucking terrible.”
I nodded. “I know, but it’s always like this: you meet a guy and you like him, so you go through all of his Facebook photos and think about how handsome he is. Then, after a couple of weeks, you start to notice all of the bad photos. You focus on those, and soon those are the only photos you can see. You slowly stop texting him, and it all kinda goes to shit after that.”
You looked at me with that fucking look I can’t stand, the one that says I have it all wrong. “You have to start at the end, dumbass.”
“Fuck off.”
“No. Listen. Start at the point where all of the photos he has are bad. Start there.”
“Okay, Gandhi.”
“You can’t always joke everything away.”
No one talked for a bit. Everyone checked their phones.
“I’m bored. Let’s order shots.”
That night I went through a list of all of my ex-boyfriends. There was the guy who smoked too much pot, the one in the failed band, the Quebec guy, the one who stole from me, the one who would never let us be seen in public, the one who only wanted to be seen in public. I tried to imagine them as tank tops. Then as different versions of Bill Murray. Then each of them wearing different Hawaiian shirts. “You’re not Tropical Bill Murray,” I said to each of them as they put on their Hawaiian shirts. “Tropical Bill Murray isn’t even real.”
When I finally passed out, I had a fever dream:
Tropical Bill Murray is sitting alone at the bar. I sit with him, and instead of speaking, words fly out of his mouth in physical form. I try to organize them in order to understand him. He has a secret he must tell me, and once I have the words in order I can know the secret. “I’m sorry,” I keep telling him. There are too many words, and I can’t figure out what goes where. The words are pouring onto the floor, and I drown.
Everything Is Awful and You're a Terrible Person Page 5
