Sunday, June 04, 2006

Is this Love? That I'm feeling? Is this the Love? That I've been searching for?

For no particular reason, here's a short narration of what happens from point of eye contact with a woman at a bar. It's just a little one-act.

Cast of Characters:
Jeff (Me)
My Brain
An Alluring Woman


Woman, laughing, looks over shoulder at Jeff alluringly.

Brain: HOLY FUCKING HELL! THIS IS HAPPENING. We’re totally gonna have the sex with this the woman.
Jeff: Whoa. Easy, killer. You have to stay calm, otherwise I will joke about abortion or something. I say wait. If she looks again, we’ll seize the day.
B: Alright. Fair enough. Here’s the game plan. Act cool; casual. Continue looking around with contempt at the dudes with women’s jeans on, and then make way over to the jukebox. Do we have a smooth dollar—holy shit because if we don’t it’ll look TERRIBLE—so we can…
J: Easy…
B: SHE TOTALLY LOOKED AGAIN! LET’S BEND HER OVER THE SINK IN THE BATHROOM AND—
J: STOP. You can’t just do these things, Brain. Isn’t there a proper protocol—what about the game plan?
B: FUCK IT. SHE’S OURS.
J: This could be just meaningless surveying on her part. Let’s keep our cool here.
B: Maybe you’re right, pussy. What’s YOUR big fucking finish? Let me guess: you’re going to talk to her about music or books and then decide that she’s really cool and hope to hold fucking hands before the night ends with meaningless banter about calling—let’s be honest, duder, you ain’t calling her—and a masturbation session quiet enough not to wake your roommate. Or better yet—stand around with your head in your ass and complain when some asshole sweet-talks her out of her pants? Great. Please continue.
J: That’s harsh, man. Hold it together. Don’t give up on me just yet. All I’m saying is—
B: You may as well pack it in. I already know the ending.
J: Christ. OK, is she looking?
B: I don’t know. How long has it been since I tried to convince you of suicide?
J: We HAVE to work together here. She’ll start talking to some hulking brodude with a backwards-fitted Yankees cap, or worse—some fucking shithead with a female haircut and an ironic pair of glasses. I’m looking casually indifferent—in her direction, no less. The time for action is close at hand. I’m on it—I’m focused.
B: OK. I’m sorry about all that—it’s just that I get so frustrated. Unimportant, I think she’s walking past to go to the bathroom. Make eye contact.
J: Alright, here goes.
Jeff: Nothing.
B: Don’t panic. Now is the time to hang out around the jukebox. Here’s the plan. Get the dollar in, make a selection, and when she walks back by, get her to help with the next picks. It’ll work on one condition: DON’T JUDGE HER PICK. Just nod and act like you aren’t the piece of shit early nineties music dork that you are. Be easy.
J: Dually noted. Here she comes.
Woman walks by and half smiles. Jeff nods casually at her and looks away.
B: What the fuck was THAT?
J: I froze.
B: FUCK. Do you even have a DICK? I know you do—I send messages to it to arouse every now and again.
J: Sorry. We’re not out of this thing yet. She’s still close by. Maybe I can—
B: This is pointless. I’m out of plans—figure it out yourself.
J: It’s probably best. She’s out of my league. She’s probably got a boyfriend who’s in a really supercool Kinks rip off band.
B: That’s it, ease into the excuses. Next we complain.
Girl rises from nearby seat with cell phone call. She leaves the bar. She returns moments later with friends obviously meeting her.
J: Man, I should go talk to her, but I would hate to interrupt.
B: Why would you? It’ll just lead to meeting new people or having fun. Stimulation? Who wants that?
Jeff walks to bar for another beer/whiskey drink.
J: She doesn’t seem like she needs anyone talking shit to her right now anyway. She probably gets it all the time.
B: Plus, you’re retarded. That might not help.
J: It’s best. I’ll just hang out with the dudes tonight.
B: Good. Maybe you’ll finally give up and stop giving me hope.
Hours of Anchorman impressions and lame puns ensue, and the woman gets up to leave.
B: OK, I know this doesn’t matter, but she’s right behind you, and we both know she’s glanced over twice.
J: Yeah, but she’s leaving. I don’t want to be that guy.
B: BE THAT GUY. I’M BEGGING YOU. FOR ME—FOR YOU—FOR US. DO SOMETHING CRAZY. DO SOMETHING.
J: What would I say? I guess I—
B: SAY ANYTHING—I DON’T CARE. “I like that skirt.” “What’s next?” “WHO THE FUCK ARE YOUR NAMEHOLE?” ANYFUCKINGTHING—just HURRY. SHE’S LEAVING!
J: I should, but—
B: NOOOOOOOOOO! SHE’S LEAVING NOW!
J: She’d probably just—
B: Don’t do this.
J: I’m not that kind of dude that can just walk up and act out like that. Women don’t like—
B: And she’s… gone. Outstanding.
J: It’s OK. It would’ve been bad if I were to try and talk to her.
B (weakly): I hate you.

…and SCENE.

On any given night, feel free to replace part of Brain with that of Keith Cutler. Thank you.

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