My Best Friend's Girl [redux]
Monday, August 8
Pauper's Pub, Bloor Street
8:00 p.m.
I am notoriously late for those events where precise timing is not required. Not planes, not trains, but automobiles, sure.
Tonight, though, I'm on time, even early, because it's Jack's last night in town and I haven't seen him since I left him at the Royal York this morning. I was having my first cup of coffee when I remembered it was Monday, and though it felt like I was on vacation I knew I wasn't, and I had dogs to walk, a chapter in a textbook to edit, and a condo board meeting that afternoon.
"Remember what I said to you on Friday night? The, um, offer I made you?"
Jack put down his Globe and Mail and said, "You mean the anything I want, for as long as I want, for as long as I'm here offer?"
"Yes, that," I replied. "Well, about that... I'm afraid I'm going to have to renege. I've just realized there are a few things I need to do today."
You have to understand the look of abject terror that had fleeted across Jack's eyes when I made the original offer. For him, the idea of spending every minute of every day with anyone is frightening, so I don't take it personally. I reiterated that I hadn't asked him to spend every minute with me, but only that I was offering to be available for as many minutes as he wanted.
I was surprised, in fact, that he had wanted to spend as many minutes with me as he had. Friday night, all day Saturday, and all day Sunday, with only an hour or two here or there for me to pop home to change and look in on the cats. Things had been going better than I had expected all weekend. He was still here.
"That's fine," said Jack, "You go ahead. I guess I'll go to the Island by myself."
He actually sounded disappointed. I wanted to pinch myself, but of course he'd see me do that. I have a terrible poker face. It was all I could do to pretend this was a normal conversation, without any undertones. There are always undertones, but I don't think he heard this one.
"It works out well, don't you think? I mean, you said you wanted to go alone, anyway. I'll meet you later this afternoon, around beer time."
He had said exactly that on the phone last week. That he wanted to go to the Island alone for a couple of hours.
"I was going to ask you if you'd like to come along," he said then.
Now, I know what you're thinking, Gentle Reader, you're thinking that he was just saying that. That he hadn't intended to ask me to go with him, and was only doing so now because I'd told him I couldn't go. And that would be a perfectly understandable thought for you to have — but you would be wrong. You don't know Jack.
He says what he means, and he means what he says, and he doesn't play games. I know him, and I know what he's afraid of. He's afraid I'm Lucy with the football, and he's Charlie Brown.
"Do you know when Peter's coming?" I asked.
Peter is Jack's best friend. He lives in a town about an hour from Toronto, where I used to live ten years ago, and where Jack's family still lives. I knew Peter then, too, but I haven't seen him since those days. Jack told me once that Peter used to refer to me as "your beautiful married mistress I never had."
Jack's family is unaware that he is this close.
* * *
So I'm early, because I don't intend to stay long once Peter arrives, and I'd like to have as much time as possible with Jack before he does. We're meeting here at Pauper's, in The Annex, right near U. of T., because it's their place, their guy place. They were both co-op students and spent a few work terms living in this neighbourhood, and from the sounds of it they largely financed this establishment. Besides, it has a rooftop patio where you can smoke.
Peter arrives, and the two old friends address each other by their last names, with Mr. attached, in mock formality. They're cool. They're guys. Better, they're both men's men. None of that overly sensitive mushy stuff. I like men who are men's men.
They regale me with a tale of two boys, a great deal of beer, and a video camera, back in the days when a video camera recorded onto VHS tapes, and had to be carried on one's shoulder. I tell them about my car, my mother's old 1967 Beetle convertible. (It's a story I'll tell you, Gentle Reader, before the end of the summer.) There is some lapsing into Simpsons voices and Star Trek dialogue. This is their modus operandi, and it's all so familiar. It's only now that I realize I've missed it.
The waitress comes to ask if we'd like another round. She is wearing flip-flops, as is every female between the ages of three and thirty this summer. Go ahead and walk around looking like beach slobs, I think to myself. Makes my gold leather sandals look even better. And they must look pretty good because I caught Jack checking out my legs twice already this evening.
"Not for me, thanks," I say, and I stand up. "I'll be leaving you gentlemen now."
"But why?" asks Peter.
"I have to give you the opportunity to talk about me, of course," I reply. "But I'm just going down Bathurst to the Banknote, if you'd like to join me there later. Andrew is bartending tonight, and that means it'll be the all Frank Sinatra all the time radio station."
Both Jack and Peter can sing Frank Sinatra songs. They used to sing with the jazz band, from time to time, at a bar in Kitchener. I've heard them.
Jack also knows about Andrew and his baby.
He walks me down to the street. Jack, that is, not Andrew.
"You have fun with Peter," I say. "Do you think you might come down to the Banknote later?"
"I don't think so," he replies, "I'm pretty tired, and I have to get up early tomorrow."
"What time's your flight?"
"Ten o'clock. Why don't you pick me up at eight?"
Another surprise. I would have laid money that he wouldn't want me to drive him to the airport. Jack's the sort who likes to disappear with the wind. He's not a Bad Leaver like I am, like my dad is.
* * *
Monday, August 8
The Banknote, King Street
11:00 p.m.
I'm on my second beer at the Banknote, and I'm giving it less than a ten percent chance that Jack will show up here, and that's fine, it really is, because we've spent more time together in the last few days than we have in the last year, and that's serious progress, and now he's out with his friend and I've left them alone; I'm not being clingy-girl; and I'll see him tomorrow morning and everything is just as it should be.
I'm at my usual place on the far side of the bar, where Lulu is telling me about the plans for her birthday party next Saturday night. She's heard about Jack in broad strokes; the six years, yadda yadda; keeps popping into my life, blah blah; big and tall and handsome and —
"You know who he sounds like?" she'd said. This was a couple of weeks ago. "Mr. Big from Sex And The City."
So we're sitting there at the end of the bar, Lulu and I, facing each other, and she's yakking away, and then I notice that, though her sentences continue to run smoothly and proliferately, her eyes have drifted upward and she's focusing on a point a couple of feet above my head. She leans in a little closer and whispers,
"Big!"
* * *
To be continued tomorrow
Pauper's Pub, Bloor Street
8:00 p.m.
I am notoriously late for those events where precise timing is not required. Not planes, not trains, but automobiles, sure.
Tonight, though, I'm on time, even early, because it's Jack's last night in town and I haven't seen him since I left him at the Royal York this morning. I was having my first cup of coffee when I remembered it was Monday, and though it felt like I was on vacation I knew I wasn't, and I had dogs to walk, a chapter in a textbook to edit, and a condo board meeting that afternoon.
"Remember what I said to you on Friday night? The, um, offer I made you?"
Jack put down his Globe and Mail and said, "You mean the anything I want, for as long as I want, for as long as I'm here offer?"
"Yes, that," I replied. "Well, about that... I'm afraid I'm going to have to renege. I've just realized there are a few things I need to do today."
You have to understand the look of abject terror that had fleeted across Jack's eyes when I made the original offer. For him, the idea of spending every minute of every day with anyone is frightening, so I don't take it personally. I reiterated that I hadn't asked him to spend every minute with me, but only that I was offering to be available for as many minutes as he wanted.
I was surprised, in fact, that he had wanted to spend as many minutes with me as he had. Friday night, all day Saturday, and all day Sunday, with only an hour or two here or there for me to pop home to change and look in on the cats. Things had been going better than I had expected all weekend. He was still here.
"That's fine," said Jack, "You go ahead. I guess I'll go to the Island by myself."
He actually sounded disappointed. I wanted to pinch myself, but of course he'd see me do that. I have a terrible poker face. It was all I could do to pretend this was a normal conversation, without any undertones. There are always undertones, but I don't think he heard this one.
"It works out well, don't you think? I mean, you said you wanted to go alone, anyway. I'll meet you later this afternoon, around beer time."
He had said exactly that on the phone last week. That he wanted to go to the Island alone for a couple of hours.
"I was going to ask you if you'd like to come along," he said then.
Now, I know what you're thinking, Gentle Reader, you're thinking that he was just saying that. That he hadn't intended to ask me to go with him, and was only doing so now because I'd told him I couldn't go. And that would be a perfectly understandable thought for you to have — but you would be wrong. You don't know Jack.
He says what he means, and he means what he says, and he doesn't play games. I know him, and I know what he's afraid of. He's afraid I'm Lucy with the football, and he's Charlie Brown.
"Do you know when Peter's coming?" I asked.
Peter is Jack's best friend. He lives in a town about an hour from Toronto, where I used to live ten years ago, and where Jack's family still lives. I knew Peter then, too, but I haven't seen him since those days. Jack told me once that Peter used to refer to me as "your beautiful married mistress I never had."
Jack's family is unaware that he is this close.
So I'm early, because I don't intend to stay long once Peter arrives, and I'd like to have as much time as possible with Jack before he does. We're meeting here at Pauper's, in The Annex, right near U. of T., because it's their place, their guy place. They were both co-op students and spent a few work terms living in this neighbourhood, and from the sounds of it they largely financed this establishment. Besides, it has a rooftop patio where you can smoke.
Peter arrives, and the two old friends address each other by their last names, with Mr. attached, in mock formality. They're cool. They're guys. Better, they're both men's men. None of that overly sensitive mushy stuff. I like men who are men's men.
They regale me with a tale of two boys, a great deal of beer, and a video camera, back in the days when a video camera recorded onto VHS tapes, and had to be carried on one's shoulder. I tell them about my car, my mother's old 1967 Beetle convertible. (It's a story I'll tell you, Gentle Reader, before the end of the summer.) There is some lapsing into Simpsons voices and Star Trek dialogue. This is their modus operandi, and it's all so familiar. It's only now that I realize I've missed it.
The waitress comes to ask if we'd like another round. She is wearing flip-flops, as is every female between the ages of three and thirty this summer. Go ahead and walk around looking like beach slobs, I think to myself. Makes my gold leather sandals look even better. And they must look pretty good because I caught Jack checking out my legs twice already this evening.
"Not for me, thanks," I say, and I stand up. "I'll be leaving you gentlemen now."
"But why?" asks Peter.
"I have to give you the opportunity to talk about me, of course," I reply. "But I'm just going down Bathurst to the Banknote, if you'd like to join me there later. Andrew is bartending tonight, and that means it'll be the all Frank Sinatra all the time radio station."
Both Jack and Peter can sing Frank Sinatra songs. They used to sing with the jazz band, from time to time, at a bar in Kitchener. I've heard them.
Jack also knows about Andrew and his baby.
He walks me down to the street. Jack, that is, not Andrew.
"You have fun with Peter," I say. "Do you think you might come down to the Banknote later?"
"I don't think so," he replies, "I'm pretty tired, and I have to get up early tomorrow."
"What time's your flight?"
"Ten o'clock. Why don't you pick me up at eight?"
Another surprise. I would have laid money that he wouldn't want me to drive him to the airport. Jack's the sort who likes to disappear with the wind. He's not a Bad Leaver like I am, like my dad is.
Monday, August 8
The Banknote, King Street
11:00 p.m.
I'm on my second beer at the Banknote, and I'm giving it less than a ten percent chance that Jack will show up here, and that's fine, it really is, because we've spent more time together in the last few days than we have in the last year, and that's serious progress, and now he's out with his friend and I've left them alone; I'm not being clingy-girl; and I'll see him tomorrow morning and everything is just as it should be.
I'm at my usual place on the far side of the bar, where Lulu is telling me about the plans for her birthday party next Saturday night. She's heard about Jack in broad strokes; the six years, yadda yadda; keeps popping into my life, blah blah; big and tall and handsome and —
"You know who he sounds like?" she'd said. This was a couple of weeks ago. "Mr. Big from Sex And The City."
So we're sitting there at the end of the bar, Lulu and I, facing each other, and she's yakking away, and then I notice that, though her sentences continue to run smoothly and proliferately, her eyes have drifted upward and she's focusing on a point a couple of feet above my head. She leans in a little closer and whispers,
"Big!"
To be continued tomorrow
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