southern gentlemen
Friday 6 January
It is V’s birthday, and we gather in a cozy Italian restaurant in the East Village to celebrate. It is a small group of six, including Z, who shows up late. I can barely stand to look at him.
Mostly, I just ignore him.
Five of us drink three bottles of wine, and I certainly do more than my fair share. After dinner, I am bouncing back to the table, when two men at a table along the wall stop me.
One of them asks: “Is it your birthday?”
I am glowing from the wine, so I stop to chat. They introduce themselves, C and J. J is balding, but cute. Light brown hair with a slight widow’s peak. Wearing a gray pinstriped suit jacket. Married. Speaks in a slow drawl, a honeyed, molasses, brown sugar sweet drawl. C is kinda cute, glasses. Plaid shirt. Also drawls, but differently.
I invite them, inelegantly, to join us uptown at the Guggenheim’s First Friday party. I make my way to the door. I turn back and look at them. I hesitate. And then I walk back to their table.
“Here’s my card. Call me if you come up.”
This, of course, makes no sense, as my mobile number is not on my business card.
Uptown at the Guggenheim, V and I wait in the cold, only a few feet away from the entrance. Suddenly, I hear someone calling my name. It is the two men from the restaurant. V and I hang out with them for a while, but the museum is extremely crowded. I, however, have the coat check ticket for all of our coats. C is wary: “You’re not gonna go off an leave us, are you?”
I assure him that I will not. He persists. “Well, let’s meet at 12:15, right there (he points across the rotunda), in case we get separated.”
We wander around the museum, and I chat up some strange man, K. Tall. A teacher. Used to be a commodities trader.
Suddenly I realize: If I’m going to quit by the end of the month, I have only a few weeks to use my business cards. Everyone gets one!!! This gives me an unbelievable amount of joy. It’s quite liberating.
I give him my card, and when he asks, I give him my mobile number. I can’t remember his face at all.
We sneak out early to avoid the crowd, and the four of us: V and I, and the two Southerners head downtown for a drink. Fortunately, V and J hit it off, and C and I talk.
I am hypnotized by his voice. He grew up in New Orleans. Tells me about going back there to help clean up. “Every few years, New York gets to be too much, and I have to leave. But then before you know it, I’m back.”
He walks me home, and then at my door, I turn to him.
“Thanks,” I say sincerely. “That was really fun.”
“Now, don’t quit yet,” he drawls. He holds up my card. “This is the only way I have to get in touch with you.”
“I won’t, just yet,” I say, grinning over my shoulder. I walk inside and up the stairs.
It is V’s birthday, and we gather in a cozy Italian restaurant in the East Village to celebrate. It is a small group of six, including Z, who shows up late. I can barely stand to look at him.
Mostly, I just ignore him.
Five of us drink three bottles of wine, and I certainly do more than my fair share. After dinner, I am bouncing back to the table, when two men at a table along the wall stop me.
One of them asks: “Is it your birthday?”
I am glowing from the wine, so I stop to chat. They introduce themselves, C and J. J is balding, but cute. Light brown hair with a slight widow’s peak. Wearing a gray pinstriped suit jacket. Married. Speaks in a slow drawl, a honeyed, molasses, brown sugar sweet drawl. C is kinda cute, glasses. Plaid shirt. Also drawls, but differently.
I invite them, inelegantly, to join us uptown at the Guggenheim’s First Friday party. I make my way to the door. I turn back and look at them. I hesitate. And then I walk back to their table.
“Here’s my card. Call me if you come up.”
This, of course, makes no sense, as my mobile number is not on my business card.
Uptown at the Guggenheim, V and I wait in the cold, only a few feet away from the entrance. Suddenly, I hear someone calling my name. It is the two men from the restaurant. V and I hang out with them for a while, but the museum is extremely crowded. I, however, have the coat check ticket for all of our coats. C is wary: “You’re not gonna go off an leave us, are you?”
I assure him that I will not. He persists. “Well, let’s meet at 12:15, right there (he points across the rotunda), in case we get separated.”
We wander around the museum, and I chat up some strange man, K. Tall. A teacher. Used to be a commodities trader.
Suddenly I realize: If I’m going to quit by the end of the month, I have only a few weeks to use my business cards. Everyone gets one!!! This gives me an unbelievable amount of joy. It’s quite liberating.
I give him my card, and when he asks, I give him my mobile number. I can’t remember his face at all.
We sneak out early to avoid the crowd, and the four of us: V and I, and the two Southerners head downtown for a drink. Fortunately, V and J hit it off, and C and I talk.
I am hypnotized by his voice. He grew up in New Orleans. Tells me about going back there to help clean up. “Every few years, New York gets to be too much, and I have to leave. But then before you know it, I’m back.”
He walks me home, and then at my door, I turn to him.
“Thanks,” I say sincerely. “That was really fun.”
“Now, don’t quit yet,” he drawls. He holds up my card. “This is the only way I have to get in touch with you.”
“I won’t, just yet,” I say, grinning over my shoulder. I walk inside and up the stairs.
posted 8:22 PM
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