You Could Drive A Person Crazy

My date was halfway through a story about the time he was abducted by a UFO when it suddenly hit me.  

Maybe I make bad choices with men.

 His name was George.  I met him at the Gym Bar in New York City and was immediately smitten.  He was a strapping handsome thing with a barrel chest and a head full of wavy salt and pepper hair.  Rugged features.  And a killer smile.  He also had a boyfriend.  A rotund Asian, a couple of decades younger than George.  My friends knew that I had a crush, so we basically barged into their conversation one Sunday at happy hour.  My friends Keith and Bill started it up with the usual pleasantries.  My friend Kip and I stayed back and summed up the boyfriend.  Turned out that George was some kind of former Army guy who routinely rescued families in Third World countries from various horrors like interment camps and killing fields.  Also turned out that the boyfriend and his family were rescued from an interment camp when he was a little boy.  Flash forward two decades when they start dating and realize that George was actually one of the soldiers who rescued him.  I thought the whole thing was bullshit bordering on Woody Allen-Soon Yi creepy, but my friends were captivated.  They talked for what seemed to be an eternity, but I didn’t get very much time with George.  After they left, I was still incredulous.

            “What an amazing story!  Don’t you think that’s an amazing story?” Kip asked.

            “Nope, it’s bullshit,” was my reply.

            “No, it’s not,” Bill defended.  “And I thought the boyfriend was nice.”

            “I wonder if he’s here illegally.”  I was nonplussed. 

            A month or so later, George came into Gym Bar by himself.  I was by myself, so I started up a conversation.  I learned that he was a former soldier in Special Forces, forty eight years old, and recently single.  I decided not to bring up the ex-boyfriend for fear of him launching into the Killing Fields story again.  We talked for another hour or so and planned to go on a date.  A movie followed by dinner.  Before he left, he gave me a very long, very wet kiss.  And that’s all it took.  I was in lust.

           I have a history of making stupid choices when it comes to men.  From being too available to making a fool of myself, it’s been a long list of doomed relationships.  The very first guy I had a one-night stand with was a bartender in Birmingham.  He spent the night, didn’t give me his number, and left the next morning.  I went into his bar the next night.

            “Um, I thought last night was really great.  And, um, I hope you did too.  Because…well…I was hoping we could go steady.”

            Lucky for me, no one else heard and even luckier, he was too sweet to laugh in my face.  The next guy did give me a phone number.  A disconnected one.  Then there was the super hot married attorney, the guy who would call in the middle of the night on cocaine fueled rants, the guy with the emotional intelligence of an ant, the raging alcoholic who pissed on my shoes, and the guy who collected dolls.  Not to mention Tommy the Crack Smoker who kissed me and blew crack smoke in my mouth.  I thought he was smoking marijuana.  Unfortunately, I was more naïve that I thought I was.  Fortunately, I didn’t inhale. 

            So I was excited about George.  He seemed to be…dare I say it…normal?  There were no external signs.  No clues that he was a weirdo or a psychopath or liked antique baby dolls.  And the next week, on a chilly wet evening, I met George at the movie theater on West 23^rd Street in Chelsea.  He already had bought the tickets. 

            “We’re going to see ‘Paranormal Activity’”, he announced.  “I hope that’s alright.”

            Fuck no, it’s not alright!

            “Sure!  I love scary movies!”

            I loathe scary movies.  I was at a slumber party when I was eight years old, and my friends put on “Friday the 13^th”.  I had to call my mother to come pick me up.  I was a senior in high school and went to see “The Silence of the Lambs.”  I slept on my brother’s floor for a week.  He was 14.  A friend of mine took me to see a little movie called “Scream” when I was 23.  It was brand new, and she heard it was funny.  I slept with my lights on for two weeks. 

            So I was not thrilled to be seeing this particular scary movie, partly because I already heard it was scary as hell and partly because I knew that my roommate wouldn’t let me sleep on his floor.  But the thought of cuddling up to George during the scary parts eased my mind a bit.  We got some popcorn and found seats.  I have decided that a lot of bone-dumb idiots go to scary movies.  So there was a lot of talking back to the screen around us.  And every time someone around us spoke out loud, George would tell them to shut-up.  And every time he did that, I cringed.  So by the end of the movie, George was wound up tighter than a drum, and my back was sore from cringing so hard.

            We decided to eat at Niso’s on 8^th Avenue at their bar.  I knew the bartender and needed a cocktail after all that screaming and carrying on from the movie. 

            “I really enjoyed the movie,” I lied. 

            The bartender brought us our cocktails and a menu.

            “Yeah, me too.  It so reminded me of my entire life.”

            “Huh?”  I was perplexed.

            “Well, I’ve had a fair amount of paranormal activity around me for my whole life.  My childhood home was haunted.”

            I reached for my wine glass.  I had a sinking feeling I was going to need a quick refill.

            “Haunted?”

            “Yep, haunted.  We think the ghost was the original owner and died unexpectedly in the house.  He would roam around at night and appear over my head holding a knife to my throat.”

            Yep, I’ll need a refill.

            “Then when I was in Special Forces and on the submarine, I had an affair with my bunkmate.  It was so hot until the ghost of one of my exes found out and started haunting me.  He would wake me up every night making noises.  Then I actually saw him one night, and he had a huge knife in his hand.  I woke up the next morning with a cut down my forearm.”

            What the fuck was an army guy doing on a submarine? 

            “I’m…um…wow…it’s just…”  All I could do was stammer.

            “Yeah, it’s so crazy.  By the time I was in my thirties, I would have the most violent dreams.”

            “Well, maybe those were all dreams?”

            “Oh no!  Those ghosts were very real.  I haven’t seen any ghosts in a really long time though.”

            Since your medication kicked in?

            “Oh well that’s a good thing at least,” I offered.

            “Yep but I still have violent dreams.  So violent that there were many nights when I would wake up in the middle of the night with my most recent ex, and I would be punching him in the face really hard.”

            I was horrified.

            “But it’s ok, it’s ok!  Because I was sleeping!”

            Nothing says I love you like a left hook while you’re asleep.

            “But the worst of all was the night I was abducted by a UFO.”

            I looked around for the Candid Camera.  Even the eavesdropping bartender was wide-eyed.

            “UFO?  You…were…abducted?  By a UFO?”

            “Yep, they took me up and did all kinds of tests on me.  But one thing that might interest you is that they don’t put the GPS chip in your shoulder like everybody thinks.  They have to put the GPS chip inside you so that they will always know where you are.  But no, they don’t put it in your shoulder.  They put it in your calf.  I’d show you my scar but I have jeans and boots on.”

            I looked at the bartender.  “Check!”

            “But we haven’t eaten, and you should probably eat.  You’ve had three glasses of wine in the past twenty minutes.”

            And since I’m passive-aggressive and because I get really horny when I’m tipsy, I stayed for dinner and a quick public makeout session.  While we kissed, I reached down and inspected his package.  Basically to see what I was going to be missing.  Apparently, the aliens not only performed testing, they also cut his dick in half. 

            We said our goodbyes, and I made my way across town to my apartment.  The evening had taken such a left turn into Crazytown I wasn’t even scared anymore about the movie.  And the evening was so bizarre I wasn’t even sad or upset about the apparent fact that I wouldn’t be dating him or marrying him like I planned.  So I learned a few things.  I learned that there aren’t always initial clues that a guy may be certifiable.  I learned that if I want to date in New York City…or life in general…that I will inevitably have to wade through a large share of toads on the road to my prince.  And most importantly, I learned that if I’m ever abducted by a UFO, I won’t have to wear shoulder pads to cover the scar.  But it also means I won’t be able to wear culottes.

            So it’s a win-win.

Another Winter in a Summer Town

          I got here on Friday.  I had my first panic attack on Friday.  The town was dead.  Hardly anything open.  The last time I walked down Commercial Street in September, I had to fight the throngs of people.  On Friday, I walked down Commercial Street and saw one person. 

            What the fuck have I done?!

            I have moved back to Provincetown until September.  The end of the world.  The tip of the cape.  And in the winter, I can attest that it is, indeed, the end of the world.  Locals have told me that the winters are actually milder than in Boston and New York.  And true, the weekend was nice.  But upon arrival on Friday, it was bitterly cold.  The only people out and about were walking their dogs.  Luckily, I have friends here who like to drink.  And Friday night, we did just that.  A cast of characters so colorful that they really are stranger than fiction.  My roommate from last summer who can drink till he drops.  Another friend who can do the same, but not before he yells at someone about politics.  And finally, a charming queen with a penchant for oversized glasses and who never wears long pants.  Even when it’s ten degrees outside.  His name is Mrs. A.  I have no idea what his real first name is.  Just Mrs. A.  Only in Provincetown. 

            They took me to a local talent show on Monday night.  It was snowing when we left my house.  The walk down Commercial Street took twenty minutes.  The only person we saw was some old drunk stumbling home from his watering hole and singing “Let It Snow” at the top of his lungs.  When he passed us, he apologized.  We ignored him.  So he let out a big loud “FUCK YOU!”  And just kept right on singing.  By the time we got to the restaurant, I wasn’t expecting much.  But it was actually quite charming.  Cozy restaurant packed with locals.  The show started to wild applause.  People here are thirsty for something to do, I suppose.  Some lumberjack dyke sang some Michael McDonald.  A stoner got up and announced that he is a pothead (duh) and then proceeded to screech some song he wrote.  An ethereal lesbian with wild crazy curly hair and a British accent sang an original song she wrote about her bicycle while playing a piece of tin siding.  And finally, a tall barrel-chested man—a practical giant—walked up to the microphone.  I was expecting a booming thunderous voice.  Out came a sweet quiet rendition of Mancini’s “Moon River” which always makes me cry.  And it did.  But only a little.  Even if the show wasn’t Broadway caliber, or even Duplex caliber, it was still entertaining, fun, and quite nice.  Four glasses of wine didn’t hurt.

            So I’m making do.  The days are long, the nights are longer.  Even though I have friends here, I have a lot of time to think, dream, plan, write.  My reasons for coming weren’t clear to some and crystal clear to others.  For one, New York City—my home that I love—didn’t really welcome me home with open arms.  I found it to be rude, grating, difficult to maneuver, and impatient.  Maybe we should have stayed separated a bit longer. I went on countless job interviews.  Interviews for jobs just like the terrible one I left last March.  And after each meeting, I walked out completely dejected and depressed about the thought of working there.  The only job I remotely entertained taking was as the personal assistant to a very gifted actress.  However, the pay was literally next to nothing, and well, I’ve got to eat.  Being here last summer taught me that there is more out there.  I want to be a writer.  This will once and for all allow me to prove to myself that I have the discipline and patience to see it through.  Because if I can’t find the time to write here, then it’s over. It will also buy me more time to figure out what I want to do if I can’t make a living as a writer.  I have eight months to figure it all out.  And finally, Provincetown…the community….the vibe…the people…they all got into my gut.  I wanted one more shot at it.  One more summer of abandon where I work my ass off but feel fucking great about it at the end of the day.  A friend asked if this was my mid-life crisis.  After all, I just turned 35 again for the fifth time in November.  I said no.  That was so last year.  Besides, I was knocking on 40’s door last summer in a very tiny, very snug, very red bathing suit in front of a pool full of strangers and not once did someone tell me to cover up. And queens aren’t shy about telling someone to cover up.  So turning forty didn’t bother me in the least.  This is just about constantly challenging myself, going in new directions albeit temporarily, and new adventures.

            I firmly believe that we are sent messages constantly from God or the Universe or Whatever.  Some come at us through friends.  My good friend Valerie just sent an article to me yesterday about a man who quit his six-figure job in New York City to become an actor.  He hasn’t made it yet, but he’s giving it a go.  My good friend and writing teacher—even though I haven’t been in her class in a few years, she will always be my writing teacher—sent her blog my way yesterday.  She talked of greatness and what it takes to be truly great.  And that is practice.  Everyday.  Honing a craft, perfecting the art.  Whatever art or craft that may be.  Practice it….all the time.  So Valerie made me realize I’m not that alone, and Nancy through her terrific blog told me to keep practicing, practicing, practicing.  Finally, my horoscope literally the day before I left New York City.  I saw it at my good friend Kip’s restaurant on my second glass of wine.

            “Make the most of the Sun’s last few days in Capricorn to travel.  It does not matter if your journey is short or long, it matters only that you are on the move.  What you discover will brighten up your life.”

            God...Universe...Whatever?  You have my ear.