Are You Gonna Be My Girl?

“So, one two three…

Take my hand and come with me

Because you look so fine

That I really wanna make you mine

Four five six…

Come on and get your kicks

Now you don’t need the money when you look like that

Do ya, honey?”

- Jet

The text from Jimmy came in around 1:30 on that Saturday afternoon; Hey Man, we should be there at Stan’s in about a half hour. Come join the crawl! First round is on me.

If you are not familiar with a “pub crawl”, it basically works like this. A group of friends and/or like-minded people who enjoy a nice Saturday afternoon of collective inebriation will map out a course of bars (or pubs, whatever) in a certain neighborhood and go from one to another in a specified period of time. There is apparently some dubious level of glory attained by those who can start and finish the crawl while having at least one drink at every stop. There are usually twelve to eighteen stops.

I wasn’t really interested in that sort of glory. I just got back from jiu-jitsu training and I mainly just wanted a hamburger and a beer. I was happy to meet up with Jimmy (my old college roommate) at Stan’s Bar & Grill, just downstairs from my apartment, and maybe join the crawlers to the next few destinations, but I wasn’t trying to prove anything to anyone. Also, Jimmy had a tendency to get pretty sloppy once he had more than ten or twelve beers and a few shots of whiskey in him. I wanted to get off the train before we reached that stop. I have already spent two nights in lock-up with Jimmy after he has imbibed too much. I wasn’t going for the trifecta. I loved him, but he could spend his next night in jail with someone else. I’ve done my time.

I took a seat at the bar down at Stan’s a short time later and placed my lunch order; a cheeseburger with fries, dill pickle on the side, and a black and tan. As soon as my pint was served I took a sip and that’s when I saw her.

She was finishing up her lunch with a friend - it looked like a grilled chicken Caesar salad, maybe - at one of the tall tables situated along the wall adjacent to the bar, right behind me. I’m pretty good about being self-aware and non-creepy around women but I just couldn’t look away for a few seconds. She was devastating. Big black boots, long brown hair and a face that even Vermeer could have never dreamt up in his entire fucking life. Every contour was perfect. I saw that she was not wearing a wedding ring. I was thunderstruck. I didn’t know what to do next, I just knew I had to do something.

For better or for worse, I was relieved of this frustratingly perplexing decision when her friend noticed me staring and briefly pointed a finger in my direction. She looked over at me and I still hadn’t plotted any strategy yet so I just offered a small smile and a wave and then turned away, keeping my head down and my eyes shielded by the brim of my black baseball cap as I continued to discreetly glance at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

Ostensibly minding my own business and just watching the Yankees game on the TV over the next five or ten minutes, she and her friend soon paid their check, stood up and hugged each other goodbye. As she was about to walk out she stopped next to me with an unexpected inquiry.

“Why are you staring at me? Do I have some lettuce stuck in my teeth or something?” She leaned in, retracted her lips and showed me her teeth, those perfect white palisades. There was no lettuce. They were flawless and I wanted to kiss her so bad. I suddenly felt like my IQ had dropped by half, at least. Not that I'm some genius to begin with. I couldn't afford to lose half going into this conversation.

“No. Nothing like that. I just…” Seriously, I had to be the stupidest fucking guy in New York City in that moment.

“What is that big tattoo on your forearm?” She gave me a jet black stare.

I gathered my wits.

“Oh. That’s the Champawat Tigress."

"The what?"

"The Champawat Tigress. She was the deadliest man-eater in history. She killed 436 people in India and Nepal before they hunted her down and shot her dead in 1907. When they did an autopsy they found that her upper and lower canine teeth were missing and the prevailing theory is that she could no longer stalk her normal prey so she resorted to humans instead, as we are easier to take down, I suppose. I’m not an expert on Bengal tigers.”

“But you like the idea of 436 people in India and Nepal being consumed by one?”

Mercifully, my mouth just kind of spit out the right words before my vapor-locked brain could instruct it to do something really fucking stupid.

“No. I just like badass bitches. Like you.” I arched my chin and maintained my steady stare into her beautiful dark eyes, those liquid black eyes, without ever blinking.

Miraculously, that somehow worked. I was stunned. She smiled again, and it was not a small smile this time. I took a shot and waved my hand at the back bar.

“What are you drinking?”

She hesitated for just a moment and gave me a mildly suspicious look, but the remains of that smile were still there on her lips. Those magnetic red lips.

“I'll have an Appletini.”

I paused for just a moment. I knew it would be highly irregular, and potentially offensive to the establishment, for me to even try to order one. I doubted that a place like Stan’s even made them. They might not even know what Appletinis are. They would very likely conclude that I had already been overserved and have me forcibly removed from the premises. I reached down deep and summoned my courage.

“Okay. An Appletini it is.” I put on my game face and looked towards the bartender but she punched me on my upper right arm, pretty hard actually.

“I’m just fucking with you. I’ll have a beer. Any pilsner will do.”

I was so relieved. I was already starting to fall in love at that point, I think, and I didn’t even know her name yet.

“My name is Michael.”

“Angela. Nice to meet you.” She took a seat next to me and I checked out my appearance in the mirror for just a quick second. The bartender brought my burger but I was no longer thinking about lunch.

“Thanks, Franco. I’m sorry, but can I just get that packed up to go? And can we please get a pint of Paulaner for her and a Modelo for me? No lime. Muchos gracias, amigo mio.” He nodded at me and took the plate away.

“Not hungry?”

“Nah. Not anymore. You live around here?”

“Eighty Fourth between Park and Lex. You?”

Precious facts.

“I can’t afford your block. I’m right upstairs here.”

“That’s not bad. I have a friend who lives here. It’s a nice building and a good neighborhood. Short walk to the 6 train and the park.”

“Yeah, it’s all right I guess. I have no complaints. Been here for five years now. How long have you lived on the Upper East Side?”

She took a sip of her beer.

“My whole life.” That meant she probably came from money. Not that I cared about that, at all, it was just another fact that I knew about her now. I was on the hunt for facts. She was truly devastating. Deadly. I proceeded with zero caution.

“So what do you do for a living?”

“Oh. A little bit of this and a little bit of that. Mostly writing. I’ve published two novels and I’ve had a few articles published in The New Yorker.”

“That’s impressive. You can’t be more than twenty five or twenty six.” It just came out of my mouth again. This time, probably not the best thing to say in hindsight. It worked out though.

“You’re kind, but it’s not really that impressive. My mother is a senior exec at Simon & Schuster and my stepfather is an editor at the New Yorker. I definitely benefited from numerous nepo-baby advantages. Also, I will be twenty eight next Friday.”

“What are the titles of your novels? Maybe I will read them.”

“No way. Maybe some other day.”

“Well, what is your name at least?”

“I already told you my name.”

“Right. Angela. But I assume you have a last name as well?”

“Maybe some other day. I don't publish under my real name anyway. What do you do for a living?”

I really wasn’t interested in talking about myself.

“I work in Account Management at McCann.”

“Oh, that’s cool. My uncle just retired from IPG.” Interpublic Group was our parent company, a large holding group for numerous ad agencies and design firms and such.

“It’s not that cool really. I spend most of my time appeasing clients with completely unreasonable expectations and trying to navigate the minefield of corporate politics.”

She looked at me with a funny squint.

“Well, what’s your dream job then?”

I thought about that for few seconds and came up blank. I shrugged and tried to look away from her face, but I just couldn't.

“I don’t have one, because I honestly don’t dream of labor. I guess it would be nice to work as a lifeguard or a golf pro at a luxury vacation resort somewhere in the Virgin Islands? Maybe work at an animal shelter somewhere? I don't know. I love dogs. What about you?”

"I'm more of a cat person, but dogs are cool too. I love all animals really."

"No. I meant what is your dream job? If you have one."

She thought about that for a moment.

“I think I would like to be a travel writer and spend my time going from one interesting place to another, getting paid to see the world while helping other people make informed decisions.”

“That sounds awesome. Seems like an achievable dream given your connections.”

She took a sip of her beer.

“One day. I just need to figure out the timing. I already travel quite a bit as it is.”

Just then the front door to Stan’s opened and my friend Jimmy shuffled in with a few people trailing behind him.

“Dude, where is everyone? I thought you guys had like 30 people signed up for this thing?”

He looked a bit down. Forelorn. Off.

“We did, but we just left O’Keefe’s Tavern and when we came around the corner on 93rd Street some guy had just committed suicide. You know those buildings with the glass and steel awnings out front? This motherfucker jumped from like 30 floors up and hit that thing. Didn’t even make it through. He just got hung up there on one of the steel stanchions, dripping blood and guts onto the sidewalk. We walked past there right when it happened. Cops weren't even there yet. It was a serious buzzkill, bro. All but the hardliners just took off. I need a fucking drink, man.” He shook his head.

I took a deep breath.

“Angela, this is my friend Jimmy. We were roommates in college at Ithaca.”

“Hey, nice to meet you, Angela. How long have you known this handsome fucking silver-tongued devil?”

Jimmy was a good guy, but a bit rough around the edges. Those black neck tattoos were not going to age well. He was just trying to be a solid wing man for me, but he was slurring a bit and his pupils were clearly dilated. He had already passed that station stop on the train ride to heavy intoxication.

“We actually just met. I have only known him for about twenty minutes but his tongue merits a bronze medal at best, in my opinion.” Jimmy laughed and so did I. She stood up and finished the last sip of her beer. Jimmy ordered a Maker’s Mark on the rocks, and then told Franco to make it a double.

“It was nice meeting you,” she said as she patted him on his back and threw the strap of her black leather Coach bag over her left shoulder.

“Let me walk you out,” I said. I patted Jimmy on the back as well. “Be back in a minute, man.” He nodded and looked impatiently at Franco, who was serving other customers further down the bar.

Out on the street it looked like rain would soon be falling. I kind of wanted to see what Angela would look like with an angelic patina of light mist in her hair. She was all the more lovely in the overcast daylight than she was in the dim-lit bar. It was difficult for me to unlock my eyes from hers. To maintain a respectable social distance. To choose my words properly.

“Hey. I know we aint got much to say before I let you get away. So, when can I see you again?” It was all I could come up with in the moment. I had suddenly returned to being the dumbest guy in New York City again.

But she smiled.

“Well, it’s a small town. We are bound to bump into one another again sometime soon.”

Yeah. Right. A small town. Over eight million people within the city limits alone. Plus another million or so visitors on any given day. I didn’t like this answer.

“Well, I guess I just have to camp out on 84th between Park and Lex until I see you then.” I tried to flash my most charming smile. Not sure if I pulled it off.

“Well, I guess we will just have to see what the future holds.” She winked at me with her left eye and then I was definitely falling in love.

“The future is unwritten,” I said.

“That’s prophetic.”

“Nah. It’s just some graffiti I saw scrawled on a wall down on Bleeker Street last week.”

“So that means it’s not prophetic? Just because its graffiti?”

“No. I just don’t want to lay claim to the supernatural power of prophecy. I’m simply plagiarizing some unknown graffiti artist here in a shameless attempt to impress you with my intellect. But that guy is prolly doing a stretch at Rikers Island right now so you should just take your chances with me, I think. He could be tied up for a while. I don’t know what his rap sheet looks like.”

She laughed ever so softly at that and began to turn away.

“Hey, at least give me your number,” I practically begged.

“I have lots of numbers. Social Security, bank accounts, credit cards. So many numbers. It would take a while and I really have to run.” She grinned at me and winked again.

“Oh, go fuck yourself.” I finally got her to laugh out loud with that. “See you down on 84th between Park and Lex tomorrow. I'll be the guy sleeping in the refrigerator box outside of your front door.”

“I’ll be in Brussels tomorrow morning, but here’s something to remember me by.”

She leaned in and kissed me full on the mouth for a few seconds. She smelled like vanilla and tasted like pilsner. I will never forget those most wonderful few seconds of my life. I tried to hold onto her gently but she turned away and walked off in her big black boots. I just stood there and watched her go for a few seconds, then I shouted out to her as she crossed the street.

“Hey, where are we going out to dinner for your birthday next Friday?”

She never turned around. She just gave me a little wave over her shoulder and held up a peace sign and then she shook out her long brown hair and turned the corner and disappeared into the city. It was just starting to rain.

I went back inside and pulled Jimmy out of the bar. He had clearly had enough for one day so I walked him back to his place and we watched the end of the Yankees game on his couch and smoked a joint. He was sleeping before the final pitch, as I knew he would be, so I quietly let myself out and walked back home.

When I got there I reheated my lunch and stood in my living room eating my cheeseburger while staring out the window, through the rainfall, in the general direction of 84th Street between Park Avenue and Lexington.

The future is unwritten.

THE END