Last night I caught one of my favorite musicians at a local club. As in all such adventures, I dread the idea of going out solo, but once I’m off the couch and a body in motion, everything usually works out OK. I was running a bit late and missed the very beginning, and the house was a bit more packed than I’d been led to expect. I’d not brought cash since I didn’t want to miss another ten minutes of the show, but that meant weaving once through the crowd to the bar’s ATM, once back to the front door to pay and retrieve my ID from the bouncer, and then again to find a spot to stand.
This is an interesting social dance unto itself, every bit as complex as the unwritten rules of which-urinal-do-I-choose in a men’s room. First and foremost, it’s crowded; no crowd, no problem (well, different problem). Problem two, not wanting to further annoy anyone I’ve already bumped past twice in the last three minutes. Problem three, I’m six-two, so I don’t want to obscure anyone’s view. Problem four, I’m alone, and I don’t want to sketch anyone out. From the safety of your couch, this is oh-so-much-navel-gazing. Jeez man, you know they make Paxil for that, right? But in the moment, it is the gritty stuff of everyday, normal social anxieties. The kinds of silliness that keep people at home alone.
The first act (and main attraction IMHO) was awesome as expected, though the kids are always too cool to get much further into things than a little head bopping here and there. Especially for opening acts. Fuck all you shoe-gazers — this isn’t the zoo. You are, presumably, here to rock out. Standing there doesn’t cut it. There was a time when I’d let this stop me from really getting into a show. Not so much anymore.
Beer never hurts though, and I immediately hit the bar for my second to beat the rush. Afterwards, a brave, single soul has to venture back into the main room and reclaim some square footage, but the percentage of people heading to the bar and bathrooms usually makes this easy. So easy, in fact, that you’re left standing there with nothing to do but drink your beer, wait, and wish it’d taken a few minutes longer to stake out some territory. I contemplated this idly, while the main act finished setting up.
The woman standing in front of me seemed to be in a similar predicament, though you never can tell. I drank some more and weighed the relative merits of saying hello. Usually, the woman’s boyfriend will return within a few minutes, and you’ll be very, very glad you kept quiet. Often, I think single women chant little prayers to themselves, “Please don’t hit on me. Please don’t hit on me. Please don’t…” Sure, I’m projecting my own fears onto others. Perhaps that terror in her eyes is really the same as your own, “God, this would be a lot more fun if I just had someone to talk to for ten minutes so I wouldn’t feel like a total loser.”
That did it. She had her back to me, so I couldn’t begin to guess, and it wouldn’t matter — I’m not a good guesser. Soon we were chatting, if a bit hesitantly. We made our way through a few awkward silences, not all of which I had to break myself. The show started back up before we ran out of talking points, and that was that. Band #2 brought band #1 back for the encore, very nice. A couple of extremely well executed covers of songs I love plus the three beers in my belly — heaven.
The show finished up just after midnight, and the drive back to my neck of the woods, though long, would have me giving up on the night too early. I wouldn’t make it to the L__ until at least 1AM, but I was too amped up to just go home. I was so grateful for the additional motivation. I was going to need it. Friday night? The L__ at 1AM? It’d be a madhouse for sure. I didn’t have a buddy, nor had I brought my favorite crutch — the notebook.
I went ahead and prepared myself for the distinct possibility I wouldn’t see anyone I knew (which turned out to be true). I could always turn around and go home having given it an honest effort. The L__ wasn’t as full as I feared. I even found an empty bar stool which is pretty much the lynch pin for me. With one, I can hang out for hours. Without, and I’m sunk.
I’m too self-conscious (could you tell?) to put too much effort into specifically roaming around a packed bar looking for familiar faces. Most of the time, if this is necessary at all, I come up dry anyway. Instead, I ordered my beer, sat down, and tried to think happy thoughts. I can’t say I was too successful beyond avoiding un-happy thoughts. After a minute or two, I noticed that the woman two seats to my right was sitting alone. For how long? Was she there when I came in? I waited, emboldened by my friendly exchange at the club earlier, but apprehensive all the same. I got my courage up to around 80% when her date returned from the bathroom. I felt the tiniest letdown, but this was completely overshadowed by the fact that I’d not embarrassed myself.
The last few times I drank there, I swept my head around the room and noted with a note of depression that the male / female ratio was ridiculously unfavorable. I like the spot and the people, and I don’t know that I have the emotional fortitude to become a regular at more than one spot just yet, but I seriously considered going some place else. In reality, the crush of men makes the place a little more “safe,” and considering the state of my coping mechanisms, walking into a room full of women would probably make me wet my pants, truth be told.
In less than two minutes, I noticed another woman standing to my left. I assumed she was waiting to order a drink, and did my best impression of someone minding their own business. After several missed opportunities at catching the bartender’s eye, I started the mental stop-watch. How many minutes before her boyfriend shows up, I wondered. From the corner of my eye, I guessed that she didn’t have the look of someone waiting on someone. It was a guess, and I didn’t feel lucky. My glands dropped a small dose of adrenaline, and I did my best to ignore it, which is of course, impossible.
Oh well, fuck it. I introduced myself and toasted to a happy Friday. M__ was warm, open, friendly, drunk perhaps, but in control. She revealed that she’d been on some kind of date that had turned dramatic when there’d been a cross-pollenation of exes and space. He was outside, and she didn’t seem to be particularly interested in him coming back. We talked a bit. She’s in a band, separated, thirty years old. She didn’t look a day over twenty-five (not that I fetishize youth) and was a vision regardless. If I believed I had a league, she would definitely have been out of it. Her crew came back and spoiled my fun just a bit, but meeting her was whipped cream and cherry on top of a great night. What a treat.
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