Dear Louise,
That’s not your real name, but it rhymes with “Big tease,” so it fits you.
You were at the Silversun Pickups concert last night at the LC. I was there, too. You must remember me; I was the one you were dancing with during the show. My calm and rock-hard demeanor didn’t tell you this, but I fell madly in love with you. I wanted us to grow old together. And that wasn’t just the two 32-ounce AmberBocks talking.
You and I hit it off. I pulled out some of my best zingers and occasionally flashed that luminescent smile I knew you couldn’t resist. And while we were dancing, the people around us kept giving me the thumbs-up, apparently astonished by the notion that whatever magical voodoo I was enticing you with was working. Not that I don’t have the boyish good looks of Zac Efron, combined with the chiseled midsection of Matthew McConaughey—believe me, I do. But while we grooved together on the balcony overlooking the stage, it dawned on me that my years of living the single, bachelor life could now finally come to an end. I was ready to settle down with you: fix broken appliances, chop wood and not stop to ask for directions when we get lost. I could see it all illuminated before my very eyes. In fact, part of me wanted to leave the concert and go straight to Jared the Galleria of Jewelry (Oh yeah, he went to Jared!). And that wasn’t just the four Jager-bombs talking.
You’d brought along your guy-friend, who I’d initially thought was your boyfriend (brother, maybe?). Turned out he was gay, God love him. My buddy was an excellent wingman for me, too—pulling him aside to allow the two of us to get to know each other. And while the magnetic energy between our dancing bodies began to surge, I could tell—much like in the lyrics of that no-doubt-soon-to-be-Grammy-nominated Pitbull song—that you wanted me.
When you leaned your head back onto my shoulder and asked what I was doing after the show, I couldn’t say I was surprised. I’d been playing it by the book all night—stringing you along with my humor-tinged, down-to-earth charm, while remaining slightly aloof and seeming as though I wasn’t all that terribly interested. You said you were going to an after-party at the bar next door . . . that I should come. Even though my heart leapt—like a flock of majestic albatrosses taking flight amid a gleaming sunset—my smug ambivalence had to have thrown you for a loop. Despite the fact that everyone watching us seemed to be under the impression that you were way out of my league, I wanted you thinking the opposite. “Mmm, we’ll see,” came my subtle RSVP. You know, I’d have to shuffle some things around in my schedule, but, uhhh . . .
When the show finally came to an end, I turned to you and asked coolly: “So, can I get your number?” It might have been the two-and-three-quarters shots of bottom-shelf tequila talking. You looked up at me with sultry eyes and smiled, before whispering back that I “have to earn it.” OK, I remember thinking. I’ll play your game, Vixen. “How do I do that?” I replied.
“Come next door,” came your seductive response—that smile like a smoldering aphrodisiac, piercing the very depths of my soul. Then, without so much as a lasting glimpse, you turned and left with your friend. I thought to chase after you, to tell you to give back what you’d stolen from me . . .
. . . my heart.
But I thought better of it.
After exiting the pavilion and getting an earful from my buddy all about what a good friend he is and how much I “owe him” and how he totally “manned up” for me with your friend, I said my goodbyes—though not before retrieving my lucky white button-up that I’d left in his car—and headed back toward the pavilion. “You better get this girl’s number!” he yelled after me, as I threw it around my back. “Amigo,” I said calmly, buttoning the buttons, “You drive safe. I’ll be juuuust fine.” (I then proceeded to wink at him and lightly pump my elbow several times.)
I entered the newly coined A&R Music Bar with high hopes. I was going to finish what I’d started. Just like Private Ryan, I was going to “earn this.” I ordered a drink and began to scope the place out for you. A minute turned to two. Two turned to five. Five became 15. There was no sign of you or your friend anywhere. I continued to look, though, not so much because I expected to find you by that point, but because I didn’t want to appear like I was that guy at the bar by himself.
After I finished my drink, I headed outside, where I ran into my friend Julian of Columbus Pedicab. He’s one of those guys who drives people around town in the little taxi-carts on the backs of bicycles for tips. I explained to him my predicament—that I was beside myself, looking for you—and I asked him that, if we should elope tonight, could he pedal the two of us out of Dodge with aluminum cans dangling off the back of his pedicab, and shoe polish that, instead of reading “Just Married,” would say “Sorry Fellas,” because I will have just deprived them of the possibility of ever having you.
I told him that I was going to check back in the bar one more time to see if I could find you before I’d call it quits. I didn’t expect to find you, either. But no sooner did I step back into the joint than I saw you and your friend, standing up against some covered stage equipment near the center of the bar. Perfect, I thought. You wouldn’t think that I’d been waiting there for you. I’d shown up when I was good and ready.
I approached you. Our eyes met briefly, like a flashing bolt of heat lightning. You turned your back to me. OK, I remember thinking. I’ll bite. I wasn’t voted “Most Likely to be Pepe Le Pew” by my high school peers for nothing.
It took about three minutes of being completely ignored for me to realize that maybe the joke was on you. Maybe you just didn’t see me. How embarrassing that must have been for you! I stepped into your line of sight, only to have you quickly turn in another direction—the reflection of your shimmering golden hair suddenly blinding me under the bar lights. I meandered back into view, this time with a question. “What are you drinking?” You answered glumly without making eye contact: “Water.”
Yikes. I hadn’t felt that out of place since the time I accidentally wandered into a bat mitzvah wearing a “Jews for Jesus” T-shirt and craving a ham sandwich.
Maybe the addition of my lucky white button-up had thrown you off. Maybe you didn’t recognize me with a new shirt on and under new lights. After a minute or two more of standing idly by as you spoke to your friend with your back to me, I poked my head in. “Nice to meet you guys,” I said cordially. You barely acknowledged.
And as I walked the 20 minutes back to my apartment alone, I knew I’d passed your test. It’d been easier than I’d expected. You tried to pull the ol' dance-all-up-on-someone-and-flirt-like-crazy-with-them-through-a-whole-concert-before-asking-them-to-join-you-afterward-at-a-party-only-to-ignore-them-when-they-get-there bit. Unfortunately for you: I invented that bit, toots!
In the meantime, I'll use this blog as my waiting room, so-to-speak. When you inevitably come to realize that I've passed your little test with flying colors, I'll be here, waiting.
Your future toreador,
Ben
