Thirty-two perfect, gleaming, bleach-whiter than mine (and I bleach, honey) beautiful pearl soldiers stand at attention in a shining two-row, rank and file dream of a winning smile.
And I am a total sucker for a winning smile.
I’ve also been down this road too many times already. Not just been down it, but veered off the side, jumped the curb, a smashed car burst into flames while rubberneckers gaze on and shake their heads in pity. I bought this T-shirt a long time ago, and I’m suspicious as hell.
He tells the bartender he’s paying for my drink, and orders his own, a beer and a shot of that old wife-beater standard, Jack Daniels. We chat. I’m enthralled by his smile, but it’s just a feature, and eye candy has no nutritional value whatsoever, totally bad for you and even worse for those gorgeous, stupidly white teeth.
“Wait, you do what??”
“Director of engineering at Impressitech.”
Engineer. Oh no.
Having figured out a while back that my G-spot is in my brain, I know I’m in trouble.
I scrape the surface, and see a glint of gold. Hmmmm….
This guy was brainy, a quality I was having difficulty finding. He works with nuclear tech. He explains the installation of lead to protect areas against ionizing radiation. He elaborates about the science behind radioactive isotopes as a cancer treatment. I am completely fascinated, my original goal was pursuing a degree in science before the church took over my life. I’m hanging on his every word like a TMZ reporter talking to an informant who just caught Justin Bieber in an inappropriate liaison with Lady Gaga and a goat.
He orders another beer and shot of Jack.
We chat about the area, he is an outsider as well, and has had the same difficulty I have had, finding this area remarkably close-knit… awesome if you’ve been in Big Suburb your whole life, not so great if you’re the new kid in town. Honey, it’s going to be a while before anyone lets you in.
He orders a third beer and shot of Jack.
I ask if he just got done with work… is he catching up? What’s going on here?
Nope, he just headed over from another dive bar… and my newfound guydar tells me immediately that this is not normal drinking, but Jackdude seems perfectly okay, so I gloss it over.
Jackdude walks me home that night, and I give him a demure kiss and leave him, I really like this guy and have learned that acting on your feelings too quickly is a really bad idea, so, bye bye guy. gotta go, here’s my number.
He contacts me the next day. And the next. And the next.
He asks me about myself. My life. My history. My childhood. He wants to know everything about me… always at a bar, always over a shot of Jack and a beer. He never allows me to pay for anything, he always opens the door for me. He is spectacularly old fashioned, chivalry is alive and well with Jackdude. He even has a slight Southern drawl, making him seem even more gentlemanly in a Gone with the Wind kind of old world respect, tinged with a balmy breeze and the scent of Gardenia. I envision wisteria swaying in the warm air. Oh, mercy me, I do declare, I have the vapors!
The third date, he is over at my house and pulls a flask from his jacket.
Really? A flask?
I thought a flask was something you emblazoned with initials and a date, a donation to your groomsmen’s collection of pointless trinkets to commemorate your lifetime sentence to some woman buried under layers of white chiffon. A mere relic soon to join the dusty garter belt and sixth-grade trophy on a forgotten cobwebbed top shelf. Yet here it is, his humble offering of Jack Daniels to make the night complete.
We talk. And we talk. Then we talk some more. I get to know about his humble beginnings on a farm. He is kind and compassionate, and speaks fondly of the farm. He knows nothing about music, and loves country. I despise country with a passion, but this man is so wonderful, I’m willing to tolerate it. Driving with him is an aural contest. Which singer whining from the radio lost the most girlfriends/mommas/dogs/farms/trucks/tractors? I play a funk song for him. He doesn’t like it, he doesn’t get it. No one lost anything in Brick House. That’s okay, he’s so wonderful in so many other ways. He’s the kind of guy who dutifully walks around the car, opening the door of his Mustang for me, and I’m not complaining. And at least it’s not an El Camino.
He takes me dancing. He loves to dance. Is this guy for real? For the first time ever, I have a guy dragging me out to the dance floor. He teaches me to Texas two-step, while Chris Stapleton croons out something about Tennessee Whiskey. Whatta cliche, and yet I am entirely swept off my feet.
I’m falling in love with Jackdude, and for the first time I sense I’m just as important to him as well, a delightful mutual connection.
Then suddenly, I can’t find him.
I look amongst the sea of faces, this joint is packed to the soffits, blaring music loud enough to render any normal speaking voice totally worthless. Where the hell did he go? It’s an urban sprawl of a bar with several different areas. Everyone is taller than me, and my view is shoulders and chests, and guys backing into me, not seeing me or realizing anyone was right behind them. Tall people, can you please be more aware you may be backing right over the petite brigade? Honestly.
Oh! But there he is, somehow in this actually pretty nice bar, he managed to find a trio of folks who had maybe twelve teeth between the three of them, and looked like they all lived in a house that surely had a hitch on the end, sheets on the windows, and something containing Drano and battery acid cooking up in the corner. Oh, shots. They’re doing shots. “Honey, I met these nice people. Would you like a shot?” I decline, shots have generally been too strong for me, but his new…friends are more than happy that Jackdude is willing to cover the bill for several rounds. I wonder how many they’ve had? Did he just meet these people?
And I miss the cues that are right in front of me. The sheer volume of hard liquor going into this guy is Guinness-worthy, and why wouldn’t he take me up to the bar with him unless he didn’t want me to know how much he was drinking? I rationalize he never seems drunk, so I excuse away, sailing on my little ship Denial, veering closer and closer to the dangerous falls that crash to their completion on massive granite outcroppings from the ground below.
I ignore it all and allow myself to sink deeper into the enticing sea of romance.
He’s falling in love with me, too. We are so close when we’re together, people comment on our relationship, although I realize at some point that he knows a ton about me, and I know very little about him. What is he hiding? I know remarkably little about this seemingly perfect Romeo.
We go to a bar.
We go to a bar.
We go to a bar.
Weeks pass, and though I’m having an incredible time with my new boyfriend, I’m slowly becoming pickled in all these bars. It’s his thing, and I acquiesce, and when in Rome and all that. You really do become like those you spend the most time with, and I’m drinking more than I ever have, and not paying much attention to the orange light glowing angrily away on the dashboard, because I’m in love, and that’s all I really wanted.
Wasn’t it?
One night, we go to his house instead of mine. He has projects everywhere, being an engineer. He jokes it’s a fixer-upper. I joke when’s he gonna fix’er up? But he’s an engineer. He can totally do this. He builds things, makes things, invents things. Totally fascinating, and like the prey of a Viperfish enthralled with the beautiful light before him while the massive jaws are preparing to snap shut, I’m utterly fascinated with Jackdude’s mind, his creativity, his all of it, but where am I? Who am I? The real Monica is a lost and forgotten doll in a dusty attic corner, the excitement of a new relationship having eclipsed all reason.
Because all reason would have noticed the utter lack of any sensible food in the fridge, and the presence of little other than a half-bottle of Jack Daniels on his kitchen counter, its only companion a totally empty bottle of Jack Daniels right next to it, currently only being occupied by air. The other counter pals sharing space with the booze are Mr. Maalox, Dr. Imodium, and Sir Aspirin. Yes, folks, I was this dumb. This version of love is truly blind, and I’m stumbling through the darkness not aware of the hazards around me. And he is so sweet… the wisteria petals swirl on the breeze around me and blow the warning signs right out of my head, and the flame of caution extinguishes…a burnt wick in my mind smoldering with a last wisp of alarm smoke, then black, entirely out.
He always contacts me at the last minute… 6 pm, hey, wanna meet me at you know where? And I dutifully drop whatever I’m doing and head out the door. Within minutes, I’m back in his arms in front of an overpoured glass of Chardonnay, all caution to the wind. My weight is creeping up…but he loves me, so no matter.
I invite him out of town to a massive St. Patrick’s Day festival, but the only place we can get a hotel is twenty minutes away in Tiny Town.
Before you know it, we are speeding in his fancy Mustang up to the very area I had left behind, and when we arrive his flask is there to blunt the anything I feel as we enter the lobby of the hotel.
As we are checking in, I hear a perky voice behind me… “Hi, Monica!”
A rather rude slap of sobriety smacks me in the face.
A church lady from way back at Pastor South’s church is beaming at me, and I stumble over words spitting out a decent greeting as I check in with a man who is clearly not my husband. She lives in Tiny Town, has lived here forever, and I have known her for at least… what? Twenty-fivish years? She was in the original church with the strict rules, women can’t cut their hair, secular music is of the Devil, the one in which I could only wear skirts.
So what the hell is she doing in this hotel?
Worship Leader Gone Wild 