Devil Monkey Boy

I'm in the Village and I'm just another asshole. All around me a sea of guys in striped shirts. They outnumber the women, two, three to one. I am just one of many. I hate the scene and am thoroughly out of my element.

There is one girl who sidles up close to me on her way out. She breathes in my ear, "Hey there, handsome" as she presses against me. A moment later she is gone. It's just a tease. It means nothing. As meaningful as a line of coke.

I can't be here. I'm not going to make any meaningful connection. Walk away.

Time was, a place like this would fascinate me. I'd come. I'd watch the pretty girls. Maybe I'd even talk to one or two. Now, I can't stand the bullshit. It's all just a front, an eminence front, it's a put on.

--------------------------------------

A week later, I get a call. It's Gabrielle. I don't hear the ring, because my phone's still on silent. I just hear the beep from the voicemail message.

She's in the neighborhood, going to have a drink at a local pub. I look at the television. Matt Damon can't remember who he is. He fears he might be a killer. I sympathize with his existential dilemma, but, hey, we've all got our own problems, buddy. I pick up the phone.

I find Gabby at an unnamed pub with a green facade. It's on Fifth and seems friendly enough. G's at the seat at the corner of the bar. I sit and order a Red Stripe. Same beer that I was drinking at my place, yet it tastes so much sweeter here, out of a pint glass.

We nurse our beers and run through the important topics: life, work, love, jumping out of planes and landing back home again. At the bottom of the glass, we find our way to the next venue.

It's a GLBT bar on 4th Avenue, my street but not necessarily my crowd. And yet it's more my crowd than those East Village meat markets. At least here I can actually talk to a person. It's relaxed and groovy, as Mister Izzard would say.

I return from the bathroom. Gabrielle has met someone. I miss her name in introduction. Gabby does too. Later, I will acquire it on G's behalf. Lori, or Laurie, or something like that. They hit it off. Lori's attractive, interesting, and 32. She seems to be into Gabby. I play wingman, as best as I'm able. On the way out, they exchange numbers. I cheer for G. But silently, because I'm subtle like that.

I echo Iceman as we part in front of my place: "I'll be your wingman any time." No striped shirts tonight, no assholes, no fronts. Just me, beer, and a friend. That'll do nicely, thanks.