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The Moon, the Virgin of Guadeloupe and Mr. R

June 7, 2014

I woke up this morning feeling strangely disappointed. Like something that was supposed to happen didn’t. I was still dreaming and I looked at my bed and thought, “I was supposed to have a new bed. This is the same bed.” I had this idea in my still-subconscious mind that a major event was supposed to have taken place like an alien takeover, or a world catastrophe, something that affected every one in the world, giving everyone a new bed, apparently. The lack of change in my surrounding was evidence that the world had remained static. As I slowly woke up I found this depressing. So I started my day feeling sad.

Last night, Liz and I went to the Moon. She was on a high, being silly and dancing by herself on the back porch when she wasn’t kicking it up on the dance floor.  I haven’t seen her like that in a while. Earlier, sitting at the bar at Pamplona’s during our routine, pre-Moon drink we came up options for the night. Her options, really. Option number 1: dance all night. Option 2: find a hook-up and get laid. Option 3: go home crying. Option 4: be mean to everybody all night. The options were not mutually exclusive, of course.

I had no intention of hooking up with anyone but the other three were plausible. All night we would look at each and hold up a combination of fingers and a quizzical look assessing which option was in play.

Mr. R was there. Local musician. Cute. Age appropriate. He’s flirted with me before, with no consequence. Once he said he liked my shoes. He recently teamed up with a big-name band for a three-night performance where I work. It was a great set of shows and for him and his band, an amazing experience. I got to hang out with all of them a bit in the guise of taking pictures for social media. My boss had a crawfish boil at his house. I went over to take pictures but as soon as I saw the mini-lobster-sized crawfish, my coon-ass instincts kicked in and I found myself peeling shamelessly next to Mr. R. He flirted again a bit, but you know, he’s a musician. They all do that, right? “I love standing next to a beautiful woman,” he said. “So do I,” I replied. When I was leaving, he said, “What, no hug?” I turned back and gave him a long hug. “Is that what you wanted, R?” I joked. “It wasn’t long enough,” he said.

I took lots of photos of the performances, including a free mini-concert at the Moon’s weekly jam, after one of the performances. It was fun watching all the musicians up close on that tiny, rinky-dink stage. They seemed like they were having so much fun. It must be wonderful to be able to make a living from something that makes you so happy.

At the after-party of the last show I was a fish out of water. It’s fascinating to watch how some people behave around “famous” people. I’m talking some real sycophants. It’s kind of gross. I leaned against a wall with my white wine and watched. I asked the “famous” group’s drummer, if he was that happy all the time or just when he was playing. He was much younger than the other original members of the band. He talked about how grateful he was to play with them. He was cute. Bored and out of place, I sat on the sofa in the other room and looked at coffee table books. I ended up talking music with one of the band’s founders and he tried to teach me to salsa, unsuccessfully. I was out on the balcony watching some drama unfold in the alley behind the downtown bars when R approached. “I’d like to get to know you better,” he said. “What’s your deal?”

I felt a bit shy and nervous. “I don’t know how to answer that,” I said. “What’s your deal?”

He talked about being invited to play the next gig with the band at a nearby venue. “That’s great,” I said. “Congratulations.” He was obviously riding a high of the past three days. He soon got distracted and talked to somebody else. I left before jumping the shark.

When I saw him at the Moon last night, I felt a little nervous again. He didn’t seem to take notice of my presence so I thought maybe he wasn’t really serious with the previous overtures. But later he came up to me as I was leaning against the bar watching Liz flit around the dance floor.

“I really liked those pictures you took,” he said. “Can I see all of them?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. He seemed taken aback by that answer.

“I might have lost them,” I said. Which was true. I have the ones from the first night and the Moon but the ones from the last night were still on a memory card and for the life of me I haven’t been able to find it. I told him so.

“Why would you do that?” he asked.

“Because I’m goofy that way,” I said.

He was standing very close to me. I told him about the pink Virgin of Guadalupe handkerchief the band had left behind which was now in my possession. “You stole it?” he accused.

“No, I e-mailed the manager and he said, ‘just keep it.’ I have a windowsill full of Virgin Mary’s and I put it hanging beneath them.”

“That explains a lot.” he said.

“No, it really doesn’t,” I laughed.

“They put that out there the second night because we had our Louisiana flag out,” he explained. “I tell you what,” he offered. “If you find the photos, I’d like to see them. I’ll make you dinner. A fair exchange.”

Oh, there it is. An actual invitation. Shit.

“OK,” I said suddenly feeling nervous.

He looked at me rather intently then said, “I’m backing away now,” and walked away.

Which put the ball squarely in my court. That scares the shit out of me. Now I have to do something or not.

The truth is I’m afraid. I’m afraid that this guy sees me with my cute shoes and blue eyes…..sees me dancing or taking pictures or whatever and he has an idea in his head of what I’m like or what he would like me to be. I’m scared that I can’t live up to it. I’m scared that he or anyone, really is going to find out that behind what they see is a messy, clumsy, goofy, weird, guarded, sarcastic smart-ass. And they will be disappointed.

I’m afraid that other men will end up thinking of me the way my ex ended up thinking of me. As a useless, irresponsible, immature loser.

I know better, logically but that doesn’t stop the fear.

It was different with Z. He was young and new to the country. To him, I was mature and intelligent. There was a lot I could teach him. He was fascinating to me because there was so much about him that was exotic and mysterious. He taught me about India and Islam. We used to stay up all night just asking each other questions and talking.

I’m also afraid of being disappointed in someone. He’s a musician. I could just be another notch in a belt. He could be a narcissistic, unfunny asshole. I think about the short-lived attempt with the Twin. That was awful.

So, I guess I need to decide if I’m going to man-up and make contact. Dinner at his house, huh?

Scary shit.




From → Rantings

  1. Nikki D. permalink

    Of course there is going to be self doubt! That’s the nature of the game. But I strongly believe that there needs to be a decent amount of risk taken to see if it clicks. I recently played the risk game and it has panned out exceptionally well, even though I truly thought it wouldn’t. Taking the risk doesn’t mean you have to let your guard down. I say try it, you might be pleasantly surprised!

    • Kitten permalink

      Thanks Nikki. Update: I found the photos but realized I didn’t have his contact and he didn’t ask for mine. So, I e-mailed his manager asking him to give R a message. I got a very passive-agressive, “you can send me the photos to me” reply. I don’t think he got it. So, ball lobbed back over the net and over the foul line. We’ll see.

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