Emerson Dameron

You seem as though you're worn a bit thin. You're yawning a lot. Yawning more than talking. As part of my increasingly hopeless campaign to capture your attention, I prattle about nothing, I'm not even sure what. You flirt with the smug bartender. You're really an ace at it. Aside from that, you don't seem interested in anything.

We're both fresh off long relationships, neither of which ended well. A mutual friend sets us up, and we dig each other immediately. You're effortlessly charming and not afraid to put your foot in your mouth. You're rarely happy, but you like fun, and you don't tolerate conspicuous misery. Your presence fills me with adrenalin, and I behave like the arrogant, confident prick I've secretly wanted to become. We drink a lot.

We almost have sex in the back of Danny's, but they're trying to close the place and we don't want to be rude. We both think we're "classy," so we buy cocktails at Bungalow. The mixture of fear and excitement overwhelms me. I stop sleeping and start smoking again. You go out drinking with friends, get home after midnight, and call me. I hoped you would. I show up at your place with a case of beer, and we blast cheesy stadium rock.

We've known each other for a little over a month. We've never been together when we weren't drinking. This will be our last date. It's not going well. The dates immediately preceding this one didn't go well, either. I like you too much. I've invested too much in my assumptions about you. Somehow, I've given myself away. You don't trust anyone who would care about you this much. You drink a lot, but you're not stupid. Recently, as we sat in the reformed Tuman's Alcohol Abuse Center, you told me you liked being single, and you suggested that I get an STD test. But I still like you (you have an amusing way of phrasing things), and you wanted to meet me here before you left Chicago for the weekend.

The bartender encourages you to come by next week, after hours. You give me the rest of your beer, which I drink as quickly as I'm able. I walk you to your car. You don't offer me a ride home because you know I'll take it the wrong way.

After you drive off, I walk back over the bridge. I have a few more beers at my neighborhood tavern. The bartender closes up and asks me if I want to smoke a joint. We go to a place that doesn't close until four. At this point, I'm stoned and pants-pissing drunk, talking to strangers, prattling about nothing.

I arrive home. I wish you were here, but you're long gone. I puke up stuff I ate as a child.

(2006-11-14)

Also by Emerson Dameron

Argyle Activists
Some urban golfers insist on the game's sociopolitical significance, seeing in it a response to the prohibitive logistics and damaging environmental impact of regular golf, or maybe a protest of surveillance and conformity
(2006-10-17)

Just Lovely
On this Friday night at Ai Gallery, collaborative "mail art" looks as potent as ever
(2006-10-10)

The Car Club
It's Sunday morning on Labor Day weekend, and despite some spillover from a street fair on Division, Humboldt Park is not crowded and seems even more huge than usual
(2006-09-12)

Cooking Class
"I guess it's my job to teach you how to cook meth," cracks John Martiyy of the National Jewish Medical Center. He's surrounded by matchbooks, coffee strainers, packets of Sudafed and other domestic commonalities used in do-it-yourself methamphetamine production
(2006-06-06)

Big Wheels
(2006-05-16)

Circle Jerk
(2006-05-09)

Racing in the Streets
(2006-03-14)

Barflies United
(2006-01-24)

King for a Minute
(2006-01-10)

Pour Showing
(2005-11-15)

Arts Attack
(2005-05-17)

The Last Howl
(2005-05-03)

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