Even though I’m not so sure he knows what he’s talking about, Phil seems quite convinced of this point. And he is presumably enjoying some success with this approach, out on the town with Jen. Or more accurately, at Bootleggers with Jen, where these two meet literally every single night for a solid week. The only exception arrives during this last evening, where he returns home speaking of “barhopping” with her instead. Although something about the way he’s describing this, I can’t quite put my finger on it, leads me to believe that they were mostly just driving around looking for drugs. And were to some degree successful in this quest.
But has he banged this chick yet? I don’t believe he has. For one, he’s an extremely talkative guy and I can’t imagine him failing to boast of this if it were the case. The silence tells me this is a topic he would rather skirt around. Also each of these nights conclude, to my knowledge, with him returning here by himself to crash. Aside from all that, after they progress for a short while from hitting Bootleggers to “barhopping” every night instead, their interaction enters a third phase: the total lack of interaction, during which Phil starts coming off as fairly obsessive, and someone who got oh so close to nailing a girl before she flitted away. For the next few nights, he will drive around and hit every single one of their previous haunts, looking for her, though coming up empty. And she has stopped answering his phone calls as well.
Sadly enough, this has pushed him over some edge where he reverts to pounding the same shots at Bootleggers, except by himself. Though joining him on occasion, and feeling bad for the guy, I have no desire to and am in fact unable to keep up with this maniac. My most positive contribution, apart from the occasional moral support, is to at least introduce him to a few different and slightly less scuzzy bars where we might hang out, on the nights when I am with him. Some of these occasions, Dylan and/or Pete accompany us, too, though we’ve been curiously unable to reach Joe. The best any of us manage is a night Dylan calls from my house and speaks to his roommate Justin. Or make that his former roommate.
“Joe moved back home with his parents,” is all Justin has to tell him, “a couple of days ago.”
“No shit?” Dylan marvels, then hangs up the phone to relay this message to the rest of us.
“Really? That seems like some weird timing,” I observe, “this is the middle of the month. I wonder if something went down over there?”
Yet even in calling his parents’ number, an hour away from here, none of us are able to reach the guy. It’s as though he is deliberately sliding out of the frame. But we’ve all got our various projects to focus upon, even the notoriously picky Pete Ravage, who has begun dating some Kathy chick he can’t stop raving about. He apparently met her at some weekly bingo night he’s been going to with his mom, of all places. So while Phil’s Jen obsession has by now taken a darker turn, to the extent he recently came home from a night out alone and headbutted our fridge hard enough to dent it, Pete’s interactions with Kathy appear much more tranquil, and reciprocated, though we’ve not yet met her.
I’m not quite sure what Dylan has cooking at the moment, though he is seldom without some female for long. And anyway, I can be forgiven losing touch with some of these developments, in experiencing a minor hot hand at the moment myself. The most significant event occurs on Valentine’s Day where, though feeling like something of a deadbeat up until about the ten o’clock hour, enough happens from this moment forward to entirely redeem it.
This is a night solidly in the early phase of Phil’s involvement with Jen, where they are still sitting at Bootleggers together from happy hour onward. I’m happy for him, though otherwise wondering where the promise of those wedding ring wearing days went, for me and the others, and how we might recapture some of that magic. Cranking tunes from the living room stereo and making myself dinner, I even debate calling Helena, just a couple of days after her unexpected visit, particularly as she left her purse here and we already spoke last night about her coming to get it. But this feels a transparent, obvious move, all but waving a white flag and shouting that I have nothing else going on.
Toiling away at the stove, I’ve already mentally chalked this night up as a loss when the telephone bursts into life behind me. This time around, instead of letting it go to voicemail, I can’t resist glancing down at the caller ID and putting the bell to bed by picking up this receiver. Which is maybe all the proof needed that these bogus marketing stunts called holidays have a way of getting to even people who think they’re way too cool and advanced for such cheesy, prefabricated gooiness. And now the script has flipped to where this is in many respects the more surprising voice on the other line — it’s not Helena, but rather Jenna.
Obviously this isn’t a coincidence, either. With this move, she is essentially waving that surrender flag, albeit one in this instance featuring a pink, heart shaped box of chocolates wrapped in a shiny red bow at its center. It’s not a coincidence because the day on the calendar surely isn’t random, for her first phone call since well before Christmas.
“Hello? What’s going on?” she purrs, in her slightly syrupy, ever melodic voice, before tacking on a light chuckle.
The reflex tendency here is to drift into the living room and turn down the volume substantially, in order to hear her better. But I fight this, thinking that to make it sound like some rocking scene over here couldn’t hurt matters any. “Eh, you know…I was out earlier with some people and now I’m, heh heh, trying to cobble together a late dinner…” I blurt out above the music.
“Hmm. What, are you by yourself?”
“Now I am, yeah, but…”
Conversation proceeds from here in a predictable, almost rote waltzing maneuver, or maybe that’s more accurately a country music line dance. We whirl around with the expected, choreographed steps, independent of one another, never quite meeting in the middle. She’s asking far more questions than I, and underneath it all there’s this consistent, unwavering tone, the kind where you can tell someone is insinuating and really wants to ask you, what in the world? What gives? Wondering what I’ve occupied myself with and thoroughly befuddled that I haven’t broken down to dial her number. And throughout this orchestrated routine, hoping to avoid blowing my hand by playing the trump card too early, I’ve waited for just the right opportunity to break out the clincher.
“Well, what else have you been up to?” she asks.
“Eh, not much, really…although my ex Helena did stop by a couple of nights ago. You remember her, the one I dated before you?”
“Yeah,” she tersely replies, then chortles and mockingly cracks, “so what, are you getting back with her, now?”
“Mmm, no. It was cool, we were just hanging out and talking. Although…,” I chuckle.
“What.”
“…she accidentally left her purse here, so…”
“She left her purse there!?” Jenna exclaims, perplexed and bewildered both, but then shifting into an altogether higher gear, as though scolding me for being such a rube. “Don’t you know that’s a classic chick move? To make sure she can come over again?”
“Eh, well, I don’t know anything about that, but, yeah…she’s supposed to stop back by to get it.”
“That settles it. I’m coming over. You gonna be there?”
“Well…yeah, I guess so.”
“Okay, good. I’m coming over. I’ll be there soon.”
Jenna arrives looking just about the same as the last time I saw her, the day before she abruptly took everything she owned out of our apartment. She has shorn the formerly long and straight blonde-brown hair into a shorter style, which frames her face more, and while I’m not into this style as much, it’s not a terrible one. Otherwise, a tight fitting sweater and faded blue jeans both accentuate her short yet curvaceous figure quite well.
One of her first moves is to examine the purse in question, upon asking me where it is. To fling open the foyer closet and then extract the thing, turn it over in her hand as though a mysterious archaeological find, before placing the object back upon the shelf. What this accomplishes is really hard to say, and I can’t find any analogue for it, mentally, in the male behavioral repertoire. While I’m sure there are jealous asshole dudes out there who would march over to their ex’s house, fling open a door and stare down some object another guy left behind — a leather jacket, say — I personally haven’t known any. Whereas just about every girl I’ve ever encountered is a candidate to do precisely this.
But of course, I’m not complaining, for there’s no other way to interpret this but as a good sign. That she still cares, if one is looking for that, sure, although my intentions aren’t trending what way. Free of the serious relationship shackles, this is the last angle on my mind right now. It’s more accurate to say that since the fluke Helena appearance has worked wonders on the jealousy front, I’m wondering if I can parlay this into banging Jenna without any strings attached.
My thoughts about Helena herself have also led in that direction. Except as many more years have passed, that situation’s going to take greater finesse. Phil and other naysayers might have a reasonable case arguing that I blew it with the whole ecstasy offer and could have slept with her that night, but I’m not necessarily convinced this is the case — which is another reason I refused.
At any rate, finding the correct feel for Jenna comes much more naturally, which makes sense considering that only a couple months have passed. Her eyes and mouth convey mischief, even while she’s ostensibly giving me a hard time about not calling her, allegedly being distant when we were together, and this whole other ex-girlfriend business. The tone I attempt striking, as we sit side by side on the longest couch, is a sarcastic though friendly one, this light sparring all but a formality, as I attempt to seem still interested in her without committing to anything whatsoever.
Having chosen the acceptably neutral fare of a modern Mummy remake to watch, she’s resting her head against my side, though semi-upright, as I have an arm around her. Next thing after that, we have progressed to blankets on the living room floor and rolling around upon them, though fully clothed. Which is precisely where Phil finds us, as he stumbles in, staggering wasted and alone. Gives us a what’s up nod and chuckles, as he heads straight upstairs to his bedroom. Within an hour of this encounter, Jenna and I are also upstairs, reconnecting on the mattress in mine.
