I get it, though. If you’re going to entertain some unusual notions about conquering this daily farce, then you risk others not exactly endorsing your stunts. And this is possibly a positive. The fewer bodies jammed onto this elevator — regardless which direction it’s perceived to be or is in fact moving — the less jostling we must endure when it reaches its destination.
Assuming they would ever even wish to board it, that is. Another area where I am considered somewhat of a joke, for example, is my employment status, tucked behind a thoroughly unglamorous meat counter. My entire attitude is easily summarized by declaring that these stupid jobs are not my identity, they are only a means of paying the bills. Still, I have my union card and my meat cutting certification, am gainfully employed at one of the largest grocery chains in the land. We even have fairly solid benefits. All of which only proves that you can cobble together a decent career on the fly, without any interest in doing so — and also that once again, folks are way more obsessed with appearances than they are reality. But yes, this stigma does persist.
At least the few sympathetic, loose cannon coworkers are on hand to lend support and entertainment. In this regard perhaps none rank higher, in either category, than my buddy Marvin, this highly amusing, forty year old black dude whom I have worked and partied with for much of this stretch. He’s a major workout buff, which is possibly only a means of counterbalancing his prodigious alcohol intake, but more importantly he also doggedly pursues every sharp looking chick entering the premises, whether on the job or at his favorite watering hole(s). In other words, he fits right in, although my approach is a much more laidback one than his. Although this is true of just about everyone, in comparison to Marvin.
If not attempting to woo the females directly, he is ogling from afar, often accompanied by a lateral drift. Like he’s powerless against this magnetic pull, from his produce department over to a distant yet far better vantage point. Frequently these unstoppable urges bring him past the meat counter, eyes springing loose of their moorings, as if unable to believe the view he’s afforded.
“I’d like to bite on that ass and pray for lockjaw!” is one of his more common rejoinders, as well as, “I could take that one up to Dairy Queen, for two quick licks and a promise!”
Of course, this category of blatant commentary is mostly reserved for when it’s just me or some of the other likeminded males around. While the older women have gotten used to Marvin, and respond with nothing more than an eye roll, the younger crowd, particularly those belonging to the fairer sex, are not quite as tolerant of his antics. Once again I do have frequent occasion to wonder whether they are truly offended, or just believe that they should be offended, and therefore act accordingly. However you slice it, in these circumstances, if surrounded by a less indulgent crowd, Marvin is often encoding his sentiments in more oblique if no less delightful commentary.
“Ain’t no more sweet potatoes, ain’t no more canned yams…,” he is known to remark, this in an almost respectful, awestruck, higher pitched and lighter voice, as if glimpsing some rare miracle of biblical significance. I almost expect him to fan himself with his hat during these occasions. Also the slightly racier though just vague enough to slide, “ooh that is juicy! Juicy, juicy!” which, like its soul mate concerning the potatoes, is even possibly defensible as some sort of oblique, produce related observation.
In other situations, where a beauty is glimpsed yet not currently visible from where we stand, a coded fly-by is in order, “price check on aisle 3,” or whatever the particular coordinates, accompanied by a knowing grin as he sails on past. This last winking heads up is not limited to Marvin alone, in fact, is a much more prevalent one, popular among and perhaps even developed by the grizzled males around this establishment. If one is ever found questioning where old yet still somewhat ironically funny sexist/racist humor has gone to die, as in so bad you can’t even believe they would utter it, he need look no further than the ancient meat cutters loitering around this scene, counting down the days to their fully vested pension. Here, the expected tossed off comments about a shopper having butterface (everything looks good…butterface) or the much more obscure Zachary disease (her face looks Zachary like her ass) haven’t so much enjoyed a resurgence as they never expired in the first place.
Still, nothing will ever compare to the time I witness a group of young women, in their late teens and early twenties, endure Marvin’s most notorious extended monologue. That which concludes with, “I ain’t even human, ladies! I’m just a pussy freak! Those clothes come off, I’ll find somethin I like!” Unless it is possibly the day that he and I alone sat out in the break table in front of the store, and he observed, watching another fine specimen stroll to her car, “the thing I don’t get about gay dudes is…how can you say you don’t like pussy? You know what I’m sayin? You like suckin dick or takin it in the booty hole? That’s fine, if that’s your thing, but how can you say you don’t like pussy!? For real? Anybody’d say that obviously ain’t never tried it!”
So yeah, association with Marvin is obviously not doing me any favors on the respectability front. However, one reason we have hit it off so well is that I don’t care about that any more than he does. Therefore, if hanging out with a coworker away from this place, it is most likely him.
Maybe I should strive to emulate Dylan’s example. Though he too is about as indifferent as they come to his actual job, he has nonetheless landed a more “respectable” one in working for the state. Kicking back at a desk in what amounts to a chill, gigantic shed with just a couple other people, in the boondocks north of town, he’s got it relatively made. Unless someone seeks to divine what he actually thinks about this gig, in which case his dismissiveness lands him in the same disreputable back alley as me. Still, if he’s able to dissuade someone from digging to that depth, his employment status has acted as a selling point.
We are not yet certain, however, if his latest cowboy accessory is a winner or not. Apparently believing the original getup was not quite flashy enough, he’s gone over the top now in acquiring a shiny red, long sleeved shirt with white tassels dangling from the arms. That’ll get their attention, yessiree, you bet your sweet bippy. But is this an improvement? Will it give him enough rope to lasso some sublime little mare back to the ranch? Those are the real questions.
Coinciding with this purchase, we have the perfect opportunity for demonstrating such when his sister, the illustrious Cassie Parsons, invites us out with a bunch of her fellow females, to a sprawling country club called Boot Hill on the city’s far east side. They aren’t dressing the part, and consider us plainly ridiculous for doing so, but are mighty curious to see what asses we make of ourselves in the process.
Though Joe might douse Phil’s stereo speaker with beer, if he were here, we have a local country station, playing nothing but the latest hits. Donning these elaborate costumes for just the second time ever eats up purt near an hour, and it seems like a good idea to get brushed up in this manner while doing so. We are familiar enough with the classics, through decades of osmosis, yet the more recent transmissions in this genre have not exactly reached our receptors. Field studies which shall continue as we climb into Dylan’s truck, for the half hour drive out there.
We have both ventured through the swinging doors of Boot Hill a time or two in the past, though never quite like this. Our minds and most certainly our appearances were in different places back then. Therefore I can’t exactly recall whether that mechanical bull on the stage is a recent addition, or if its faceless, menacing specter has always stared us down and we just failed to notice. When we find Cassie, though, she and a couple of her lady friends are beaming from the stage edge, entranced by the long line of riders giving that bucking beast a ride. Which sends a doom laden elevator to the pit of my stomach, knowing already that tonight’s shadowy contour will nonetheless require we climb aboard that animal. That our very status as legitimate cowhands will be laid on the line, over whether we are willing to risk life and limb upon it, and how we fare out there in the virtual ring.
At least the population at large seems to accept us as their brethren. I don’t know why, but I’m still expecting some half-cocked cowpoke to take one look at us, stroll up and knock our teeth in, spitting his mouthful of chaw on the floor as he points a finger and declares us both as frauds. But we’ve passed the eye test under the bright track lighting of this much larger establishment, and if we can make it here, then the dimmer hotel bar confines of Pardners should represent but a small hill to gallop over. Besides, you have to reckon that nobody arrives at authenticity on the range overnight; one must carefully hone his reputation across a long series of rodeos, hoedowns, and harvesting seasons. Allowing young bucks such as we to gain their footing, why, it is only the cowboy way.
Meanwhile, as previously noted on a much smaller scale at Pardners, this cowgirl look is commonly a smoldering hot one, reason enough alone to frequent these establishments. Something about this combo of the tight jeans and the pointed leather boots, typically accompanied by a sexy, shiny blouse, exquisite attention to dolled-up detail elsewhere, possibly even a cute little hat in a vibrant bright pink or gleaming church white, is about as irresistible as it gets. In fact, this look is so stunning that it makes me wonder now how many other guys here are as fraudulent as we, and don’t give a damn about this frontier nonsense, either. I amuse myself considering the prospect of this, a good 90% of the male population strutting around in these garish accessories as total impostors, continually glancing sidelong at each other and expecting exposure any minute now.
But I don’t really believe this is true. We’ve never heard of any guys going to such lengths to pick up cowgirls, and everyone we mention it to considers this about the most preposterous idea yet entertained, topping even the wedding rings. Or maybe it’s that I just don’t want to believe this ground was already trod by a million hooves. Thinking this would certainly be a lot less funny, and dilute our effectiveness. This sensation that we are chipping away at, with a view toward eventually toppling, the towering edifice of this whole big dating world sham.
Well, whatever the outcome of this unsettled and likely unprovable topic, there is no question that these are unique moves within our limited social circles. These college chicks we are meeting have just shown up in their normal old street clothes, as remarkable as those often are under any other circumstances. And they do not hold the opinion that we are pulling this look off, although I mostly chalk that up to their already knowing us, and not any shortcomings with our appearance or performance.
“Sid Mason,” Cassie says, shaking her head and clicking her tongue to see me for the first time in months, “why must you so consistently disappoint me?”
I could easily attribute this to a critique of the ten gallon hat, or the outrageous belt buckle, except that I hear some variation of this comment an awful lot. Including Cassie herself, though mostly presented by her and mostly in jest. Either people are still astounded that I settled down with a serious girlfriend again for a couple years there, or else they feel I have fallen into a giant state of disarray since. Or both. This prevalent perception that my entire existence is a joke, including how I occupy my working hours. But I truly relish being underestimated, and thought of as a fuckup, as people possibly discover otherwise, months or years down the road. As far as Cassie, though, she’s generally just teasing.
“Eh, you know how it is,” I laugh, shrugging one shoulder, “it’s a real struggle just keeping it all together.”
It’s tough throwing yourself out there as a genuine article, after all. Not everybody has what it takes to toe the line with this authentic country lifestyle. Even at a place like this, a safe haven for grizzled range veterans such as we, probably half the crowd has left their prairie gear at home, especially the females. However, the women who have done so, by and large, are still attired and made up to their resplendent full nine yards best, just in much more conventional fashion. Like this sharp blonde in a black dress, who affords Dylan and me an “unintentional” panty shot at one point, bending over a table — he and I are wordlessly observing the scene at this juncture, and turn unprompted to one another, sharing a knowing smirk. It’s also perhaps a smidgen naughtier here than expected, like for example this extended moment where he and I debate whether this dude at a table is getting a handjob, because that’s what it looks like from where we stand.
But are these girls accompanying us anywhere near this naughty? This remains to be determined, if we even so wish. After all, while some would surely represent decent consolation prizes, we didn’t throw on these rhinestone buttoned shirts thinking that Cassie and her friends would be impressed by them. The whole point is to determine whether this angle works with the random line dancing lassie.
Not that we are opposed to the known commodities, mind you. Cassie is a short, full figured blonde with a face that somehow often straddles the line between cherubic and mischievous all at once; Amanda the spaced out brunette, who has visited our apartment with Cassie on exactly one occasion, whose true personality is difficult to gauge in that I suspect it’s usually chemically enhanced, though sexy and outgoing enough that we’re unlikely to quibble much over this point; and Melora, easily the coolest of Cassie’s current friends, witty and bright, even unfailingly pleasant toward us, a rare trait from this crew indeed. Smooth skin often trending toward a natural year round tan, a firm handful of breasts and backside to match, lusciously full lips, her shiny locks Vinn diagrammed somewhere between blonde, brown, and ginger. Rumor has it she might sort of dig Dylan, too — although his outlandish getup could alone represent a deal breaker, unless it’s so over the top that it works to his advantage.
Otherwise, they are flanked by a chunky blonde in a red shirt, who has an admittedly pretty face but thinks much more of herself than she should; her cute short, skinny, equally blonde friend; another even better looking, height-challenged girl with long, dark black hair; and finally, a mild mannered girl in a yellow shirt and a full head of matching locks. This latter crop introduces itself to us, but of course we instantly forget half their names — with good reason, I believe. If we are convinced that, by and large, most of these teenyboppers represent a waste of time, or at most just our fallback options, then that’s equally true of them. Every indication flashes red to confirm that they didn’t come all this way just to hook up with us, either.
Yet it doesn’t appear we can avoid the line dancing, regardless. Drinks in hand and introductions over with, half these girls immediately storm the scuffed wooden dance floor. Seems they know a thing or two about the choreographed, officially sanctioned moves meant to accompany these country & western chart toppers, and their expectations that we try to keep up is just one more fiery hoop to jump through. Well aware that we are likely destined to make asses of ourselves, he and I nonetheless recognize that it’s a possibly unavoidable starting point, if we hope to meet any cowgirls, and blend in with this crowd. So with a shrug, able to recognize the inevitable when it greets us, we join the fray.
Fortunately, after laughing at our woefully unprepared boot kicking and hip clutching maneuvers through a trio of songs, these girls realize that we are a lost cause. Too bad that this brief respite only leads to the next preposterous stunt, however, which is their giddy insistence that we all give a raised left hand to riding that mechanical bull with the other. And here we are backed into a much more brightly lit corner, because whereas a grizzled ranch hand might rightly dismiss line dancing as hokey tomfoolery, no such escape hatch exists with this. For now we are getting into macho posturing territory. No self-respecting dude can back out of a bull riding challenge. Or this is my take on the situation, anyway, as Dylan instead waves his hands and says forget it, preferring to hang back at a table with his pitcher of beer and watch this rodeo-clown-level comedy from a safe distance.
If being truthful, I will admit that I do secretly wish to try this. Blowing off any thought of looking like an idiot is somewhat of my forte, perhaps even my greatest attribute. And when in all seriousness is this eyeless, dispassionate yet still quite demonic creature going to stare me down again? Still, this isn’t the same as declaring that I wish to be first out of the gate, from our posse which consists of me and half our girls. And yet this is what winds up happening. Everyone stands in a circle at the elevated platform’s edge, debating with nervous titters who will take these reigns, before I eventually say screw it and step right up there.
All that separates us from riding this electrically charged barnyard animal is a few dollars and a waiver. Once these formalities are dispensed with, I approach the gym mats upon which this bull stands, currently idle, where a pair of grinning galoots run this elevated show. Those are some ten gallon hats, now, perched atop these hombres’ heads — by comparison, I realize, mine is more a two liter, or maybe more accurately one of those single serving bottles from a cooler by the checkout line. It’s only here that I realize, too, how high this stage is, making it observable from just about everywhere, with a spotlight beaming down to broadcast my ineptitude to the masses.
“You wanna hold on with one hand and steady yourself with t’other,” the wrangler charged with shepherding suckers onto the ride suggests. He, like his equally tall and beefy sidekick manning the juice, casually oozes this requisite southern accent either born with or acquired, and both fully flesh out their getups in a manner Dylan and I can scarcely sneeze at. Or is it just galloping that last mile, to adopting some twang and mastering these higher level props, that we truly require in order to pull this off?
As I climb aboard and his buddy flips the switch, it’s apparent that this particular angle is doing me no favors in its current state. Eight seconds is the gold standard, but I might not even last two, faceplanting into the unforgiving gym mat with a hard THUD before I even know what hits me. Wobbling off in these suddenly much more ridiculous feeling boots, to a smattering of snickers or even outright guffaws emanating from — but not limited to — the girls behind me and these guys running this show.
When Cassie easily doubles my time, these feelings of ineptitude compound, although I tell myself I had scored more points just by proving myself game to this absurd stunt. Yet the next contestant, that raven haired pixie, does just as well, and while there’s an obvious joke here maybe about how these girls have lots of practice with bareback riding, ahem, in precisely this manner, the truth is this clown here wants to hop in the nearest barrel. Only when every single female readily bests my duration by a country mile does it occur to me that they’ve most likely just dialed back the intensity against these women. Even if this doesn’t quite explain how Melora handily endures well past the eight second mark, though denying that she has ever done this before.
As I return to the big, round, centrally located table where Dylan has laughed at the action from afar, he’s chatting with some random middle aged couple who also survey it with no interest in participating. They are friendly and all, but we both recognize that none of this, while amusing, is getting us anywhere with our stated goals, of picking up strange girls with nothing else but the allure of this cowboy mystique. And now a second conflicting viewpoint has emerged: do we have it all backwards? Wouldn’t it make more sense to wear this gear everywhere else except for a cowboy bar, wouldn’t that stand out to a greater degree?
A valid point worth investigating, perhaps, but since we are here, the time has arrived for testing our theories in this specific laboratory. Armed with the dregs of his pitcher, we belly up to the nearest bar, and for the next hour plus, while killing another plastic jug of beer, he and I try our level best to converse with every worthwhile candidate drawing up anywhere near our midst. Yet these efforts are nowhere near remotely successful, producing nothing worthwhile to even pick apart about the process. And soon enough the cavalry is coming for us, in the form of these young girls we have sort of thrown our lot in with for the evening, announcing that they wish to head out. Nimbly suggesting a different mountain pass as the way forward, we talk some of them into an afterhours gathering at my apartment, which is halfway between here and the campus area to which they are headed. Although the only three takers are…Cassie, Melora, and Amanda, i.e. the three we already knew prior to this evening.
And even one of these we’re not so sure about. Amanda vacillates between a curious pair of states, bubbling forth with an excessive friendliness one moment, then wanting to claw our eyeballs out the next. We don’t detect that this is alcohol related, however, especially as she hasn’t drunk much while here. Therefore her behavior leaves us grasping at straws, milling around on the floor during these tab closing stages.
“What is she on?” I joke, more a wild stab in the dark than any informed diagnosis, “gas station speeders?”
Nonetheless, Cassie and Melora share an amused glance and a giggle, then beam over at me as the former states, “how did you know?”
“Hey man, that reminds me. What is up with Big Phil?” Dylan asks, slightly pacing and somewhat restless, as we continue standing here with our drinks. “Is he alright?”
“That’s a very good question,” I tell him, “I have no idea. I think he’s just in the dumps over this Jen chick. He basically never leaves his room these days.”
Without explanation, Dylan nods a couple times, but then sallies forth with a perimeter check around the bar. Watching him from a distance, it looks like, knowing that closing time is fast approaching, he wishes to take one last appraisal of the scenery. Price check over at table five. And six and seven and eight. As for the rest of us, a few silent seconds pass before Melora unexpectedly blurts out, “who’s Big Phil?”
“Oh,” I tell her, “he’s my roommate.”
“Oh…okay…”
“Yeah he’s a really cool guy and all, but, I don’t know, he’s just going through some tough times right now,” I add, attempting to think on my feet how I want to compose this thought, and keep this conversation flowing for as long as possible, “…like I was saying, he’s really into this Jen chick and…”
“Hey!” Cassie blurts out, cupping her sizable left breast in one hand and shaking it a little, “I got your Big Phil right here!”
Mostly nonsensical yet nevertheless apt, this wisecrack reveals a lot, among them that Cassie’s getting a wee bit tipsy. Though the others may nor may not know this — we’ve never explicitly mentioned it to anyone — it’s also true that we have a smidgen of history ourselves. I’m sure a few suspect this to some degree, but she and I have both silently read from this same page all along, the one where we’re getting a kick from not revealing anything. The have they or haven’t they? plotline is maybe mostly associated with long running TV shows, yet it remains an underutilized stunt here in the real world. And she’s had as much fun perpetuating it as I have.
Those shenanigans were all put on hold a couple years ago, however, like just everything else our respective serious relationships torched. Getting back to where we were before, with the constant flirtations that occasionally led to a little more, if even possible at all, will plainly take some effort. Whether sensing this or just plain coincidence, Melora and Amanda both drift away, leaving us standing here alone apart from our drinks.
“No, but what I meant earlier was,” she begins, though looking around the room as she sips her drink, as though reticent to make eye contact, “why do you never pick up the phone to call me?”
Caught between trying to come up with some clever wisecrack, and/or referencing the still remarkable fact that she just shook her tit at me and referred to it as Big Phil, instead I just blurt out the first weak excuse that pops into my head. “I keep telling you that I don’t have your number!” I declare, turning to her with a playful smile.
She shoots me a coy smirk in response and says, “well, we’re gonna have to change that tonight.”
“Hmm! Am I to take this to mean…you would like to pick up where we left off, with our last adventure? Do tell!”
Cassie laughs outright at this, though icing down this notion with a tongue click, admonishing me by saying, “Yeah but wait, I thought you were interested in my little raven haired friend, as you call her. Brittany.”
Busted, I don’t deny this, cackling an admission. “Um, yeah, I guess you could say I was hoping to…venture way down yonder on…her Chattahoochee.” A joke only made possible by assimilation into this cowboy scene, proof positive that, much like the square dance ready attire, the country lifestyle is slowly seeping into our bones. Sure, that’s it.
“You know, a few of us went to see this psychic earlier today,” Cassie tells me now, in the manner of someone implying that this thought carries some importance.
I chuckle and ask her, “oh yeah? What did she have to say?”
Fully facing me now, Cassie’s smile broadens into a broad beam as she explains, “she told me I need a little more excitement in my life.”
“Oh yeah? Well see, that’s what I’m here for! A little excitement.”
“Just a little?” Cassie questions, as our faces drift closer.
“Just a little,” I crack, “well, for starters, anyway.”
These flirtations are just as vague and open ended as everything else, however. More than anything, this outing has left us more confused than we started. Accompanied by girls who were trolling for guys, but wouldn’t approach any, and readily shot down any who approached them. Dylan and I meanwhile encounter similar results in our own efforts with strangers — put out to pasture by a long range rifle, before we even draw near. And quite obviously none of these women are running up to meet us unprovoked. But then, too, among our own crew of females, we’re virtually ignored when we do try and converse with them…which is only slightly preferable to how they entirely ignore us when we don’t.
We must give more weight to this concept of wearing cowboy gear to non-cowboy bars instead. Dylan and I have no choice but to make some idle conversation with the plain looking blonde, but she’s even duller than the rest of the girls. Despite our not even necessarily hitting on her at this late stage, it doesn’t matter, she sees villainy in every word, an offense in every syllable. He and I are doomed at the first vowel, the initial overexuberant silent consonant.
Nothing remains for us here. The short hot skinny one with jet black hair, Brittany, is walking a few paces in front of us, outside, in the parking lot, and I conjure up the spirits of a couple months past to smack her enthusiastically on the ass.
“Whoo!” she spins around and laughs.
“You got it!” I tell her triumphantly, happy with this infinitesimally small victory. But no, she doesn’t come back to my house.
