The Purple Tux

With just enough education to perform.

Harrier Investigations: Low Expectations

It was that time of year again, all right. The time of year when young people everywhere spend ridiculous amounts of money on useless trinkets, the time of year when teenage melodramas receive their highest ratings, the time year when a boatload of romantic comedies hit the theaters, and the time of year when the condom dispenser in the public bathroom in Central Park is most likely to run out of rubbers. Halloween was just a fond memory, one to grasp for and long for, only it was certain that the ugliest, loneliest, and most misunderstood beast of them all was the fellow looking back at me when I looked into my mirror.

Yeah. Valentine’s Day. How much different would the world be if Halloween and Valentine’s Day were flipped around? Not very much. Only the lucky, likable ones would get treats on October 31^st either way.

So it was Sunday night, February the thirteenth. I knew that if I wanted to be responsible, I should show up on time at the office the next day. But the benefit of being self-employed is that you could set your own hours and do your own thing, if you so wanted; I would never fire myself. It was a tempting thought. Not showing up at the office wouldn’t accomplish much; it’d be more like my middle finger to a society whose women have passed me over time and time again.

No. That wasn’t true. I can be an angst-filled resentful bachelor sometimes, but I like to hope that I never cross the line into the teenage sissy area. My interest in emo begins and ends with Weezer’s Pinkerton album.

What I wanted was just what every other sensible young man wants at this time of year. How about a little romance? Relationship optional, of course. Maybe I just wanted the day to be about me for a change. Maybe I just wanted to see Janie Sweder one more time.

Janie Sweder was the one I let get away. I met her some months ago when she hired me to investigate her old boyfriend and his shady dealings. Janie and I just clicked with each other. I’ll admit that I have no idea if she felt the same, but she was pretty much the first dame in a long while that I felt attracted to. Someone once told me that whenever a guy reveals deep or private emotions to a girl, it’s the equivalent of a girl flashing herself to a guy. I suppose that made me guilty of emotional flashing.

I had her phone number written on a piece of paper sitting next to the phone on my drawer right next to my bed. Every once in a while when I was feeling a little lonely, I’d consider dialing her up, but I never did. She’d probably see right through me. I was embarrassed at how I’d handled myself the last time I saw her and I was sure that she didn’t forget. It would have been too awkward for me to look her in the eye again.

What I longed for most was a different woman to grab my heart and run away with it into the cold, lonely night, stopping only for candles and a blanket with which to stay warm within the dark confines of a relentless feeling of seclusion. Someone new to get my mind off an improbable future with a woman who’s long since forgotten me. I was so sick and so tired of holding on to this juvenile dream, caught up in my fantasies of wooing the fair maiden, warped in my own perverted belief that a woman like her belonged with, well, not just a man like me, but me.

Her phone number beckoned me as I sat on my bed, taking my shirt off and getting ready to sleep. At only eleven thirty, it was still relatively early in college-town terms. Then I remembered that this town goes to sleep by nine in the PM. It was Davis, not Berkeley. What was the use of calling her? At this hour, she might even be sleeping and all I’d do is just trouble her and feel self-conscious for doing so, even if I kept silent after she picked up the phone.

The most private and inner thoughts I have throughout the day are continually punctuated by deep and meaningful sighs.

Screw this, I thought, putting on a new shirt and exchanging my sweat pants for a pair of dark blue jeans. They don’t call it comfort in a bottle for nothing. Even the most ironic statement has a hint of truth in it. I grabbed my wallet and pulled on a coat. Then I stepped into the chilly Davis night.

Downtown in Davis doesn’t mean much. Whereas in a city’s downtown area, the streets would have multiple lanes and the sidewalks would be extra wide to accommodate a multitude of denizens, Davis keeps it simple. It was basically the same as a typical residential district, except there were a lot more stores and restaurants, along with the occasional movie theaters and parking lots. I drove around a bit in my 4Runner before I gave in to my initial temptation to hit my favorite bar. Located just a couple blocks up from the Amtrak station, the aptly named The Bitter End was always a favorite haunt of mine. Too bad I gave up alcohol over a year ago. But like most things in life, once you’ve had a taste of something, you can never resist coming back home again, even after moving on to bigger and better things.

I strode into the bar. It was pretty empty, aside from a dozen or so lonely souls, which wasn’t surprising since the next day was a workday and many of the older college students in the town would also have class. I didn’t really want to drink but I felt brainwashed by Hollywood movies that my only recourse was to drink my sorrows away. And I wasn’t living in the world of A Clockwork Orange. I’d feel stupid asking the bartender for a glass of milk. Hell, I didn’t even think they served milk here. I was standing near the doorway wondering just what I was doing at a bar when I didn’t want to drink (even though I did- but at this point, I wasn’t too sure any longer). While I was being an idiot, a woman’s gentle but insistent voice called out my name.

I looked over in the corner. Sitting at a table by herself, it was Veronica Beaumont. She was nursing a drink I couldn’t identify (some private detective I am, huh? I have a real eye for details, that’s for sure.) and she waved to me. I waved back and walked over.

“Why hello, Vera,” I greeted her as suavely as I could muster in a bar called The Bitter End. “How are things going for you?”

Veronica motioned for me to sit down with her, so I daintily lowered my ass on the hard oak chair. “Hi, Damon. Sit down, sit down. I just got here a little while ago. What are you doing here?” she asked.

“The obvious answer would be that I’m here to consume copious amounts of alcoholic beverages, but actually, I realized when I walked in that I didn’t want anything to do with drunkenness or debauchery tonight.”

Veronica smiled. And what a smile! Her lower lip always gave me the impression of a pouting, if insolent brat, but it was offset by the tinge of mirth in her sharp brown eyes and the dimples that appeared in her cheeks whenever she turned up the corners of her mouth. All at once I felt protective of her and wanted to take her away from this seedy bar, this little rundown shack of a joint where felonious and wanted men would try to pick up on her to use her for pleasure and for pain- and not the pleasant kind of pain, at that. Then I remembered we were only in Davis, California, and I relaxed my guard.

“My, you sure have a way with words, Damon,” she said. “You ever think about becoming a writer?”

I didn’t mean to laugh at her innocent question, but I couldn’t help it. The image of me writing something that people actually cared to read was just an image that was so unlikely that my mind couldn’t fully picture it. I guess the natural response to things we don’t understand is just to laugh them off. However, I did feel a little bit guilty for barking my laughter. That feeling soon passed as she laughed alongside me.

A moment of not unpleasant silence washed over us and Veronica finished whatever it was she was drinking. I admired the way she tilted her head back as she drank. Her short brown hair looked nice and healthy the way the dim light of the bar reflected off her crown. Her eyes closed in momentary ecstasy, with her throat pulsating gently as she swallowed the last few of her drink. She placed the empty mug on the table but her eyes remained closed for another few moments. A husky sigh registering her contentment escaped her as she licked her lips clean, savoring whatever flavor remained on the edges of her mouth and leaving no particles to be wasted. I caught a flash of pink tongue licking pouty red lips. I couldn’t help but grow excited.

Too soon, she opened her eyes again, her feet back in The Bitter End. We made eye contact very quickly.

“So,” she said, “are you going to have anything to drink or not?”

“Nah,” I replied without any hesitation. “I don’t think I will after all. How much longer do you plan on staying?”

She studied her watch for a few seconds and then she said that she was done and she asked if I wanted to stay in The Bitter End or go somewhere else to enjoy pleasant company and stimulating conversation. I told her I was ready to leave for better things, and we gathered ourselves and left. As we walked out, I glanced back at the bartender. He was disappointed that I didn’t want anything to drink because it used to be that I came in to the joint all the time. He offered me one on the house, but I told him that I was looking to keep as clear a head as possible tonight. I left him a five dollar tip for old times’ sake. He was a good guy and deserved a little bit of cheer. He ought not be working so hard for The Bitter End anyway.

Veronica and I left the bar. The chilly night air cooled us off.

“Where to, Damon? We could go to my place, but…” her voice trailed off before she continued. “You’re the only one who lives at your apartment, right?”

I fought down a fantasy in my head and managed to nod so it was decided that we were going to my place. Veronica had parked her car not too far from where I’d parked mine, so we drove over to my apartment. It was a brief drive. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen tonight and I was scared to think of it. By the time we finally walked through my door, I felt like the last man on Earth. Veronica must’ve been lonely or drunk to waste her attention on me. It didn’t seem like she’d had that much to drink, so I figured it was the former.

“Have a seat,” I invited.

She plopped down on the sofa, grabbing the remote as she did. There wasn’t too much on the television. She scrolled through a few channels until we got to one of those late night reruns of an NBA game on ESPN. I sat down on the other end of the sofa. We both watched with mild interest for a couple minutes. The sound was barely audible; only with some straining of the ears could we effectively hear the announcers. The TV’s gentle, hypnotic buzz entranced us for far longer than it should have. The commentators were having the only conversation in the room. But that’s the thing with being with Veronica- things are never awkward with her around. It was part of her charm, or least what I liked about her. She was never one to feel forced to make conversation. Plus she was quite attractive.

Finally, by about the time the fourth quarter rolled about, she turned the television off. She didn’t ask me if I wanted to continue watching or not, she just used the remote. I figured this was a reflection of how she must like being in control of things. But it didn’t matter. The game was a blowout anyway. And I’d already seen the box score on the Internet before I had left for the bar in the first place.

The sudden silence assaulted my senses like whiff of ammonia to a sleeping man.

“So,” Veronica began tremulously, “tell me how you’re doing.”

“Fine. Work is going fine. I’m making enough to get by, I suppose. So things are going just fine.”

“That’s good to hear. So, any big plans for tomorrow?”

I frowned. “Tomorrow? What’s tomorrow?” I’d forgotten it was Valentine’s Day tomorrow, even though that was the whole reason I went down to The Bitter End in the first place. Yeah, my mind just gets shot to hell whenever I’m around the smoking dames.

She must have thought I was being sarcastic because she replied with a roll of her eyes, “Okay, not tomorrow, I mean technically today. Look what time it is. It’s Valentine’s Day already.”

“Oh.” I didn’t much know what to say to that.

“So, are you seeing someone?”

“Nope.”

“Neither am I.”

Her words hung in the air for a minute, framed by voiceless hopes and a boundless, meaningful silence. I was tempted to sigh wistfully, just to see what would happen, but thought better of it. We sat on opposite ends of the sofa and avoided eye contact for a moment or two. Finally, and this was not entirely to my surprise, Veronica moved one cushion over, breaking the invisible force field separating our lonely souls. Only then did we look at each other once again.

“You know,” she spoke softly, gently sliding an arm around my shoulder, “I’ve wanted to do this for a while now.” Her arm forced me to lean towards her. I shifted my head slightly to meet her full-on. Our faces were mere inches from each other, potential energy waiting for that kinetic burst of passion.

We pulled away laughing, when two sets of teeth clicked and clacked with each other. That’s what happens when you don’t coordinate your efforts in open-mouthed kissing with your partner: a dangerous outbreak of onomatopoeia.

“Sorry,” we said to each other, almost simultaneously.

“Damon, I’m afraid I’m a little tipsy,” Veronica said, bashfully.

I paused a moment, letting the smile linger on my face before I answered.

“Yeah. I think I am, too.”

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