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(2 of 3) A December Blue Moon

December 15, 2014

The Moon gradually filled in as the hour progressed and the band gained momentum. There was a nice energy in the place and Liz and I were having fun. It was a perfectly balanced crowd. Not packed but enough people to dance with. Enough familiar faces for people watching without the alpha hipsters taking over.

We danced with each other. We danced with others. Michael Carter was there with a woman he used to refer to as “the girl I dance with.” It looked like she had been upgraded to a bit more. I flitted between the dance floor and the safety of the back bench. The twins walked in. I went over to say hello when they settled at the only table at the Moon, with a view of the bamboo and the unisex bathrooms.

“I thought you were moving,” I said to Twin M. “Soon,” he answered as they both insisted on a hug. What a strange couple of attractive, tall men. What a shame.

I saw Michael walk in. “Oh, good,” I thought. “Someone to dance with.” There weren’t any pretty blondes around so I probably wouldn’t have too much trouble holding his attention. Michael had randomly texted me during the week announcing that he had discovered the meaning of life. I had told Liz that Michael was turning into a little brother. He’s an odd bird and he obviously likes talking to me and dancing with me, but I think he sees me as too old to be considered anything else. But he continues to entertain me, so I continue to engage.

He found me and we danced before heading to a quiet spot to catch up. We were sitting right in front of The Twins who had discovered a contingency of young French visitors and were chatting up the females. Michael proceeded to tell me about cookie-making ideas and tubes carried on bikes for delivery and his realization that the key to happiness was meeting people’s expectations. I sat next to him listening and commenting and watching his face and thinking, “What a strange little man. I could totally kiss him right now.” Alas, I do not think he was thinking the same. Besides, my thoughts were probably being shaped by the liqueur from the shots earlier that night.

Twin M interrupted us to ask if I had made it to Jerusalem. “No, I didn’t.” I said. “It’s a long story. Here, give me your phone. I’ll give you the link. You can read the whole story.” I turned back to Michael. He interrupted again. “Why Jerusalem,” he asked.

“It’s in there,” I retorted, turning around again.

Alex popped up next to us, “There’s the love birds,” he teased.

“Yeah, here we are,” I answered then returned to the conversation. Alex disappeared.

Michael and I went back to dancing. I inventoried the crowd as he spun me around. There was a cute, dark guy with glasses leaning against the wall. Liz was dancing with Michael Carter. Winston was drinking whiskey and gesturing wildly with someone at the bar. Twin J walked by with his French, blonde acquisition. Cedric Watson announced that Jesus was Creole between songs. He was sporting a red ruffled shirt and some odd sideburns. He was having fun.

There was a guy standing in the corner between the Christmas tree and the stage. He had John Lennon glasses, light eyes and a perfect nose. A visitor, no doubt, making the oft-advised stop at the Blue Moon for some authenticity. Michael and I were dancing close to him when I missed the connecting grab of his hand as we returned from a mutual turn. I stumbled a bit and fell backwards and Glasses Guy broke my fall and lifted me back to Michael. I laughed and thanked him and Michael stopped and shook his hand.

“I can’t tell how much you’ve had to drink,” Michael said. “I only see you here so I have no baseline.”

“You could have a baseline if you wanted to.” I said.

“Ooooh,” he said, taken aback by the accusation.

I took a break and returned to the bench, putting my hand out for a lift up from the dark guy with glasses who had moved to the bench himself.

“Is he speaking English?” he asked of Cedric’s singing.

“No, that’s French,” I said, “but I don’t know what he’s saying.”

He was in Lafayette earning his Ph.D. He had researched places to go and read that Lafayette ranked as one of the happiest cities in the U.S. He, too was a visitor on the Moon, checking out the evidence of said happiness. He was cute. Maybe I’d see him again. I filed his existence away for possible review at another time. I’m not sure I want to try to go down the dark, nerdy, handsome, studying in the Lafayette, lane again. I’ve washed. I’ve rinsed. No need to repeat.

I got up to go dance again and found myself standing next to Alex. I hadn’t seen him since the encounter at Black Pot in October and it’s subsequent melt down. “Hello, Michael,” he said to me in his weird accent.

Just then Michael walked over and stood on the other side of me. I leaned over to Alex, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll tell you later,” he said.

“No, you won’t,” I answered. “‘Cause you’re chicken shit.” He smiled and said nothing.

Wow. Did somebody put truth serum in those shots or was the remnants of my recent depressive episode leaving me with a weakened filter? Either way, I was done playing with Alex. At least I understood where I stood with Michael. He was the weird, quirky guy who likes to talk to me sometimes, enjoys dancing with me but would prefer a nice, young blonde thank you very much. I can live with it.

Cedric wrapped up and left the stage, leaving Liz and I in danger of jumping the shark.

She was in a silly mood. She’s such a fun, happy drunk. And she rarely indulges in more than one glass of wine.

I found myself standing between Michael and Glasses Guy as Liz theatrically tried to get my attention on the dance floor. I just stood there and laughed at her.

“I’m going to Artmosphere,” she loudly whispered, gesturing with her hands.

“Ok,” I answered, matching her exaggerated whisper. “Go ahead. I’ll meet you there.”

Glasses Guy was cute. He was a reporter at the New York Times.

“Oh, I’ve been published in the New York Times.” I randomly bragged. We made small talk and Michael said he was leaving. I hugged him goodbye.

“So, is there any other bars open?” Glasses Guy asked.

“Yeah, my friend and I are going across the street if you want to join us.”

“Sure, let me just close my tab,” he said.

“Oh, I need to do that too,” I said.

We collected our cards and braved the crossing of Johnston Street, not an impressive feat for a New Yorker, I suppose but one that often causes my life to flash before my eyes. Beyond it’s treacherous five lanes lay the Moon’s twin and arch nemesis, Artmosphere.

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From → Rantings

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