Taxonomy One. 35 with 2 children. He gazes forward into the sky through the office window. 47th floor. He knows that at some point that once milky white phone with all the blinking lights, now covered with smudges, will ring. He knows that ring will throw tantrums in his ear canals. She'll call him to tell him that it's over. They're done. After 13 years. He wants to cry. He wants to scream for his secretary. Secretary. That's right. That woman. Women. They're the problem. Always have been. Maybe today he'll just surprise them all. Maybe he'll get up from his cluttered desk, take in a deep breath, adjust his tie, walk over to the big office window, survey the traffic 47 floors beneath him, laugh, walk back to his phone, dial up the secretary, tell her to cancel all his appointments, hang up and make a running start at the window. Maybe.
Suddenly he remembers something his foreign exchange roommate back in college told him about women in America. He smiles for the first time all day. The phone rings.
(2008)
Taxonomy Two (Rugby House) 10:45 PM, Arrival. There’s a cigarette between my lips and a gathering out back. I hop the fence and greet the strangers at the table before me. They break conversation for a moment, stare, and continue. The cigarette takes forever to burn and I’m thirsty. 10:47, I balance the forever burning cig on a nail that protrudes from a shingle of the shed and run into the kitchen via the den. Quiet party thusfar. "Jungle Juice or Shiner?" "Jungle Juice, my man." The coloration of the red cup in my hand nearly matches the pigmentation of my newly acquired tan that only goes as high as the sleeves of my shirt will allow. I soberly, clumsily stumble my way through the den and back outside to find my cigarette still balanced on the nail. Victory. 10:55, Girls, girls, girls. Well, three of them anyway. They’re talking about how great it is to be women. Why? I have no idea. I tell them about the horrible nightmare I had the night before. They guess quite accurately that I’d dreamt of being a woman. "It was horrible," I say, "I was short, had huge knockers, which, admittedly, were fun, but worse was that I actually knew what 'colors' like lavender and periwinkle look like. Weird." They laugh and I laugh, but laughter is followed by an awkward silence. 11:07, Flirtation. Dalliance. Her name is Nancy. My name is what it’s always been. At parties, anyway. I offer her a cigarette. She says no thanks, I’m breathing. I mockingly laugh at her sarcasm and tell her that trenchant females are just my type. She doesn’t know what trenchant means, and I gasp in shock because she claims to be an actress. She sips her drink, and darts her eyes in other directions, perhaps looking for a more attractive, less annoying guy. 11:32, Some of my pals show up. I’m working on my second cup of jungle juice, and from my vantage, I can see that the den and kitchen are packed with people itching to not be sober. Wes asks if I’ve had any luck. I assume this is in reference to women. "What do you think, man? See a woman attached to my arm?" 11:53, Dancefloor. Shitty music. No one cares. Pretty girls, though. 12:09 AM, Almost done with my second cup of jungle juice. Feeling nothing. Dreading the line in the kitchen. For some reason, I keep looking at the foreign exchange girl in the corner. I’ve seen her around campus. She’s pretty. Hmm. 12:15, Cup number three. After the hellacious line, I step outside for another cigarette. I notice my thespian friends in the corner. Nancy is with them. I shade my eyes and mingle in the opposite direction. I see Wes chatting up a girl. He’s drinking something of his own concoction no doubt. I sit at the picnic table, sip and smoke, perhaps hoping that maybe some poor drunken girl will plop herself next to me. 12:17, No such luck. I get up. 12:30, Dancefloor. The music still sucks. Still, no one cares. The girls are prettier, and maybe I’m just little buzzed. The foreign exchange girl is dancing with a guy I’ve never seen before and I get brave and start to dance. With a guy. He’s really drunk and just smiles at me. The song abruptly switches to a salsa. I can’t do this. After a few measures I retreat to the corner. I need more alcohol. Another cigarette. 12:45, I get my fourth cup. It seems low on alcohol, so I pour vodka into it. My cup is half jungle juice, half vodka. A deadly smelling combination. I know because I asked the foreign exchange girl. She was waiting in the bathroom line. Her name is Mari and she’s from the north of Spain is what she tells me. "It stinks," she exclaims. "What, the north of Spain?" I ask. She laughs and says no, the drink. "Oh, well... I’m sure in some places it does," I say. "No. It’s amazing," she insists. I tell her I love her accent, but she doesn’t believe me. "A lot of people hate it when Spaniards speak English, but not me, I love it." This is about when I realize that I’m quite possibly drunk or "crunked" as Wes might say, and I should probably quit while I’m ahead. 1:02, She really likes taking pictures. I’ve been in a lot of them. Wes taps me on the shoulder and says that "Bohemian Rhapsody" draws near. I say this to Mari and her friends. "Don’t make me explain it, just follow me." "Bohemian Rhapsody," for the uninformed, is a classic Queen song that, for many my age, was made popular by the film "Wayne’s World." At the Rugby House, the song is played at some point in the night, and we drunkenly gather and sing and dance to it. 1:14, "Ooooh baby, can’t do this to me baaaaby. Just gotta get out. Just gotta get right out of here." I come out of the scrum with only half a cup of jungle juice left. Mari laughs at me. I tell her that not everyone can be so beautiful. She offers me a cigarette. "Did we just have sex?" crosses my mind, but for some reason, gladly, this phrase does not escape my lips. 1:38, I’m drunk. Unequivocally so. Mari and her friends are still around. I begin to wonder how in the hell I could not have scared them off. 2:03, We’re out in front now. Her friends are very drunk and kissing on each other. I’m pretty turned on, but I say nothing. Mari mentions that I’m the first drunken American guy that hasn’t tried anything. Am I not living up to expectations? Should I be? I ask her if this is a bad thing. She says it’s a good thing. In my head I think it’s a horrible thing. I’m so horny. 2:30, She’s so drunk, her English sounds terrible, and I tell her to just speak Spanish. 2:40, I’m too fucking nice. I have her number, but I’m too fucking nice. 2:48, I go to sleep early.
© Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2008)
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