mayernick

Undesirable

By: B. A. Mayernick

You don't notice the calico haired girl as you walk off the dance floor. Why would you, you're thirsty and drenched in sweat; all you can think about is Jaeger and Red Bull. You do notice the brunette in a white tank top, plaid skirt and Cons with socks up to her knees. You lock eyes and you notice the stud in her nose. Suddenly the bartender rings a bell meaning he just got a good tip and you remember your mission.

The line at the bar is five people deep with no apparent order but everyone's thirsty. One by one and with great bar etiquette everyone gets his or her drinks. You walk up and yell your order. The bartender nods once and quickly pours a rocks glass full of liquid with bottles and a can at the same time. The result is the green-brown of industrial sludge accompanied by the odor that satisfies your jones. You take it in one gulp and look around for someone you know or a great place to have a smoke mostly for someone you know but you can't find anyone you want to talk to.

On the ledge at the back a couple sits with their legs dangling, talking about god-knows-what and bobbing their heads to the jazzy drum and bass sounds coming from the tiny stage. You saunter over feeling the fatigue of dancing for half and hour and the Jaeger and Red Bull competing and complementing each other like peanut butter and jelly. Plopping down next to the girl, the guy's eyes quickly pass you over assessing your level of intoxication or your looks, or both. You nod at him and mouth the word, hi. He holds your eye for a moment and breaks first deciding you're not a threat to sit so close to his girl.

Your eyes slide to the stage just as the band pipes in with a new song. The stage is dimly lit and as claustrophobic as the bathroom on a 747 packed with wolverines. The drummer pounds out a dirty, broken trip-hop beat while a guitarist howls the rhythm like someone destroying a Swiss timepiece. A moog synthesizer and a saxophonist are the only harmonies creating a smorgasbord of slippery sounds on top of the only thing that matters to anyone in the bar, the drummer. He's playing a bit to fast, a bit too smashed and rapping on top of that, but for some reason, and you can't put your finger on it, sounds perfect.

The song suddenly changes, a little faster and infinitely more intense. It compels you to vault off the ledge into the hipster in black sitting at the table under you. You knock the beer out of his hand as you hop-dance-trot back into the sweaty mass of fellow dancers.

A support beam temporarily blocks the drummer from you sight, so you take the time to look at who's around you. You're half hoping to see someone you know, half hoping some cutie will lock eyes with you and think your spastic gyrations are cool enough to consider you an eligible dance partner. The song ends and your bladder hurts so you go to take care of it.

The line to the bathrooms is enormous but it's quickly apparent the ratio of girls to boys is somewhere around five to one. The boys line goes fast and you somewhat feel sorry for the girls because you know that these bathrooms are the dirtiest for miles around. Just as the last guy in front of you locks the door someone taps you on the shoulder.
There's a girl with calico hair, horn-rimmed glasses and two industrial looking beverages staring at you holding one higher than the other. You check her out but she's nothing special, there are fifty girls in here that look just like her but better.

She yells if you want one of the drinks. You yell back that sure you do. She hands one to you and holds the other up to toast. You clink her little dark glass and drain yours like there wasn't enough in there. You hand the glass back to her yelling your praise and appreciation to turn around just as the door to urinary freedom opens up.

You try to jump in and slam the door but the calico girl slides in too quickly and locks the door behind her. The noise level is more than half of what it was on the other side but she still yells to ask if you want to party with one cocked eyebrow behind Buddy Holly glasses.

You just give her a flirtatious smile and move your hips and shoulders to the music. She opens her eyes to re-ask the question with her chin dipping down and slightly to the right, and you yell at her that you have to piss. She winks and you turn and open your fly and are surprised at how easy it is to pee in the tiny red and black bathroom with a stranger watching.

You're checking out the shoddy graffiti on the wall when you notice, out of your peripheral vision that she's staring at your junk. You're drunk, you don't mind. You finish, shake and put you stuff away and quickly lean back against the wall crossing you arms. She hikes her knee length purple skirt and sits down. You quickly take inventory that she's not wearing panties.

During the sound of her normal bodily functions and the berating muted music, she reaches in her tight grey shirt and fishes around in her bra. She produces a little baggie with a sizable amount of Bolivian marching powder apparently finely chopped up.

Your eyebrows involuntarily steeple and she opens the baggie and holds it out to you.
Step one, you dip your finger in and take a little smell. Step two, enjoy yourself.

Suddenly you're not feeling very drunk anymore. The sinuses and pallet is numb, your tongue rubs against a tasteless and abrasive roof of your mouth. Your legs feel lighter and you open your eyes to see her standing in front of you bobbing to the muted music, sniffing, and suddenly, you're aware you're doing the same thing, so you smile at her. She holds it out and you repeat step one and possibly two. She says, not yells, something that sound like it could be a name. You bob and sniffle and intentionally don't tell her yours, if that's what she said. This is more of an action of thanking her for the good shit but she takes it as your enthrallment of her. She starts moving her hips a little more sensually.

Some dude beats on the door and you can hear him yelling something and you already know what it means. You put a hand on her shoulder to motion her out but she resists holding the white filled baggie up once more. This time you watch her take step one first. She takes an alarming amount for such a little girl and you can't be out done by this sprite so you match her step one and through your step two decide you've had enough for a while.

You feel kind of guilty for doing about ten dollars of her coke so you yell-ask her if she wants a drink before you open the door. She nods and mouths the word thanks, her nose twitching left and right. The drunk guy is still knocking and yelling when you open the door and he almost falls and raps you in the chest.

You miraculously get sonically molested again; you love it, remember it, and cherish it. The girl grabs your arm and you turn and look at her. She's wearing a rectangular smile and you can't help but almost sneer at how imperfectly perfect it is.

Checking out the scene in a new way you spot a vacancy at the end of the bar; standing room only and you occupy it with your new friend on your heels. You get the bartender's attention and order a Heineken and look to calico for her order.

She orders a scotch on the rocks.

After you get your drinks you turn to let the musicians improvise your mood. She takes a large drink and begins yelling something unintelligible in your general direction. You take a couple of glances at her smiling and you nod politely but you can't hear a damn thing she saying.

Suddenly the music stops and the air hums violently with applause except for calico, whose howling something about fucking him off into one side of your face.

You scream as the band tries to leave the stage and the room is so full of un-musical noises that they serendipitously decide to play another song.

The girl is still wailing into your ear about work, about drugs, about exes, about nothing at all as the drums beat back into existence just as they kick it up another notch, increasing the intensity to a completely unsafe level. You chug the rest of your bitter beer and scream-excuse yourself from calico's company. You move faster then her words and are on the dance floor before you realize she's talking to you. You glance back and see her pointing at herself as the music usurps you.

This time it's a free for all. No personal space during this song. Everyone is touching everyone as the drummer stands to play their last song with liquid arms and zealous rhythms. The sax is almost unattainable through the swishing distortion of the guitar's swanky groove.

The synthesizer is destroying the idea of organized jazz-hop and it all combined makes more sense to your little coked out mind than simple addition, swimming, sleeping, and sex multiplied by eating. It's cumbersome as you feel not just the music but also the source of heat being generated by all seven people touching you at one time, and all that touch says is we know exactly the same thing right now.

You exist in ecstasy for a few more infinite moments before the last cymbal crashes and the set is finally over. The guitarist trashes his amp, the drummer kicks over a cymbal stand just as the sax smashes against a feedback evoking monitor and the keyboardist lights a cigarette.

Everyone around you is smiling and cheering in the same way and you know you're part of some important, if not temporary; something called community.

The house lights flicker on and everyone has to squint patiently but everyone knows its last call so they shamble around in haphazard lines towards the bar. Everyone lights up a cig and you realize that that sounds like the best thing to do right now so you tap the person next to you to yell at them for a smoke. She turns around and its little calico cokehead. You smile genuinely and ask politely for a cigarette and she hands one over without question. That first drag is the highlight of your night.

You pay your tab with the sloppiest signature you can remember and the calico girl grabs your hand and leads you nimbly outside.

It's the complete opposite of inside it almost sends you into shock. A controlled shock, none the less, but your heart is pumping abnormally fast from the great yaw and the great sound. You emerge hot and wet, sticky and disoriented. A rebirth; only you're attached at the hand to someone else this time around.

She's pulling you quickly through the rest of the concertgoers and looks back at you coquettishly several times. You half hope, half know what's coming next but you protest meekly that your car is on the other side of the club.

She just looks back and smiles.

You notice her smooth thighs as she walks in front of you. You start to zone out as she takes an abrupt left into an alcove between the club and an attorney's office.

You fall against a brick wall and instinctively your hands go to her hips and your sense of touch reaffirms that she's not wearing any underwear. She comes in quick, but controlled, and she sticks her tongue in your mouth.

Feelings, emotions, hormones and saliva are shared. There's some heavy petting and your attention span widens.

Your ears are buzzing. Your nerves are a fire. You think it's from the boisterous music but it could be any number of things you consumed tonight, including but not limited to, this incredibly average chick.

She pulls away and sighs with her hands and face buried in your chest. Memories and futures flash though your mind. Calico take a breath of air but the white noise is so loud you can't quite hear what she says.

You protest that if you hurry you can get some more beer, you think to yourself condoms, but it's an excuse to move before the store around the corner stops selling beer, and she obliges.

You walk briskly and closely together down to the corner market to get a twelve of something domestic and something safe but high from all the tactility tonight you stumble, laugh and flirt your way through some foreigner's store to buy something you don't really need.

You start to pay for the beer, but calico slaps your wallet out of your hand and you notice that there's too much white light. While you bend over to pick up the small leather folds of your life-documents, she pays, grabs the beer and leaves you staring at the clerk with an impatient look on his face.

Your brain starts to stroke out for a moment.

This isn't part of the natural order of things. So you squint at the clerk and the guy behind you gives you a little shove to trip your gears back into motion.

You look up to see her standing outside laughing at you. You stand up straight and head toward the door, trying to act sober but fail miserably when you knock over a tall rack of kitschy stickers expressing things like; "I'm such a bitch", "Kool-Aide's for pussies", union jacks and confederate flags, Orange County Choppers, Harley Davidson, John Deere, all articulated flamboyantly in bright colors and glitter.

You try to save them but the ensuing crash would be too precious to miss, so you let it fall. It's like music for the masochistic. You stumble out as the cashier screams obscenities at you.

The calico girl's face is blanched. She starts bitching about what she's got on her and that she's a minor, news to you, and you grab her free hand and fly.

After a while breath is hard to draw, you're feeling drunk again and want to repeat step two.

You stop and duck into an awning in front of some store that sells imported items and swords. There are Thomas Kinkaid prints in the window. She cracks a beer and you give her the universal sign for more coke and she obliges.

After step one is complete the rain begins and you both sigh for step two.

She shares a cig with you and you hang out with her for a while not saying anything but notice the intensity of her sex-eyes deepening. Her lust for you is overwhelming and you don't want to do something you'll regret so you motion for her to follow.

Out in the rain it's a different story; it's pleasant, soothing and melodic. Walking through an office district a giant fountain with upward shooting jets of water and a bubbling stairwell of marble engrosses your vision.

You're already wet so why not.

You get a beer and take her hand and trudge like a soldier into the cool water of a beautiful fountain.
She hesitates at first but a smile quickly steels over her face galvanizing the hungry look she's been wearing since the cigarette.

She finds a lovely sitting spot on the other side of the stairs and finds her tongue in your mouth again. It's better this time. Her skin is softer with the water flowing over you. Cloths are clingy and form fitting. Her hands are mechanically undoing you pants and finds home like a pro. Alarms go off in your head but for some reason you let the ebb and flow take care of decisions at this moment.

Water, it seems, is the most truthful, everlasting example of spirituality while sharing someone else's saliva.

Your hands instinctively remove her bra with a snap of the fingers and she pushes away from you and says not here like she hadn't been initiating the sex dance first.

You shrug; put your junk back in your pants and grab a beer. She runs around and climbs the stairs and you find her above you on a cascade of rain and fountain. You smile and marvel at how cute she is up there as she shifts her weight to her other leg and points accusingly at you. You start to turn maybe sit on the edge of the fountain just as she jumps and lands on your back, taking you down.

She sits on you, face down in six inches of water. The wind was knocked out of you and you desperately need a breath but there's some kind of liquid preventing you from doing what you do naturally. She's laughing at you while you flounder around and you finally find the ground and do a push-up out of the water.
Breath returned, weight getting heavy from her riding you like a horse you look around; nothing but water, sparkled lights and pavement.

She somehow flips around you and is now lying in the water under you. The look in her eyes is ravenous.

She's looking at your arms like she's about to devour them when you lean in for the first slow and sensual kiss of the night but a security guard drives by and flashes a spot light on you. As you're blinded by the spot light, she slips out and grabs the beer and runs.

You catch up to her in no time and the pace slows as she smiles a smile of mischief. You can't help but return it.

She leads you into a dark street that's slightly creepy with crumbled sidewalks and dank houses with colored lights on the porches.

Almost like random she picks one and walks straight in the door of a house with a purple light.
You look around at the decorations of Dali and posters of the Dandy Worhols, Interpol, Enon and Neutral Milk Hotel and decide that this must be her house. She doesn't turn around while she takes off her shoes and sodden shirt, but you get a good look at her shiny frame for the first time.

Her hips are high and a little thick making her legs look spindly by comparison. Her shoulders are thin and frail and her neck is long and sinewy. She strides right into what must be the kitchen and she tells you to remove your cloths.

You do so with trouble from the confining wetness. She's messing around with something noisy so you look around at the only two options for seating; a brown chair that looks depressed and a wonderful, new black leather love seat, so you take the former because it won't be hindered by your wet underwear and you sit quietly looking at pictures of her and her friends; they all look the same. The same lame pose and smile in every one of the pictures and you think, why can't these people be candid.

She comes back in wearing some Strawberry Shortcake pajamas, a beer in one hand and a mirror in the other. You start shivering while she starts with the tiny white rock.

You determine she's not sharing anymore. It's quickly apparent that she's not when she sits up and looks at you sideways holding her nose. The look in her eye is almost disgust, not quite a statement but more like a question.

She turns to you sniffling and says, "You wanna fuck me?"

You shrug nonchalantly and start stroking her leg. You feel really drunk now but what you really feel is the lightning fast open hand she passed across your face. You pull back and your face tightens in fear as she stands over you yelling things like; "what did you think I was, a whore", "you're a pig", "go fuck yourself", "I'm going to break your boner off", and the best one of all, "get the fuck out of my house you pervert".

She storms over to the door and throws your cloths out into the rain. You hear as your phone falls out of your pants and clatters on the broken sidewalk. Your mouth falls open wondering why she would change so fast from the PDA offender in the fountain to the cold self-righteous shrew. You start to whimper your rebuttal but she screams for you to leave immediately.

You peel yourself off the couch and walk like a scolded puppy past the fiery stare of a calico colored hate storm.

She slams the door on your back and the rain is pouring harder than it was earlier. You go out to your cloths and decide it would be nearly impossible to put them on so you pick them up in a solid heavy mass.
You look around for your phone, find it and open it to call someone for a ride but it's broken.

You walk away unsatisfied and wonder why you even followed this girl because you weren't really attracted to her anyway.

You don't really know where you are but you take the walk of shame anyway.

A car rolls up and stops beside you to reveal its actual intentions. Red and blue lights flash twice quickly. An officer steps out in rain resistant clothing. He walks around and you try not to meet his eyes but he asks all the predictable questions such as; "are you drunk", "why are you naked", and "what are you doing at four in the morning in the street"?

You don't want to tell him a girl with calico colored hair kicked you out of her house but it stumbles out anyway. The cop just tells you to put your cloths on the car and turn around.

You thought you were depressed before but now its rock bottom. You're drunk, coming down from a coke high and now you're being arrested for public intoxication and public nudity.

On the ride to the station all you can think about is why you went home with a girl you weren't even attracted to in the first place.