500 Days of Pretty Woman
I’m at the Tar Pit having dinner when this bad ass chick walks in and posts up at the bar.
Z’s looks at me, whispers, “Look at her, she’s beautiful man.”
I whisper back, “Yeah, she’s tighty right. She ain’t got no booty, but she look good in the face though.”
Hamed’s like, “Go and talk to her.”
I’m like, “Nah, I’m good.
I ain’t really with approaching women in restaurants, plus it looked like she was waiting for somebody - Her head’d pop up every time the door opened and when it wasn’t for her she’d go back to playing on her iphone.
Fifteen minutes go by and she’s still sitting there solo.
Hamed’s all, “Go and talk to her bro. Just say ‘Hi my name is Jude, you are very beautiful woman, what is your name?’ And then she’ll talk to you.”
His English ain’t the best but I dug what he was saying.
I’m like, “Lemme get up I gotta use the bathroom.”
I’m walking to take a piss and I get it in my head that if she’s still there sitting by her lonesome when I get out, I’ll go speak.
I rock the piss come out and sure enough she’s solo.
I cut into her, “If you was my girl I wouldn’t have you waiting like this.”
It sounds like a bullshit line, but it’s true, I wouldn’t. Call me old fashion but I’m punctual when it comes to dates.
She’s like, “Excuse me?”
I go, “It’s obvious you’re waiting on someone and they’re late, so why don’t you let me buy you a drink and you can join our table, so you’re not sitting here all alone.”
She tells me she’s good with her water and asks me my name. I tell her. She tells me she knows me.
“How?”
“Eharmony, we were supposed to go on a date but I was in Spain and we lost touch.”
“Oh yeah, you shoulda called me when you got back….. Oh well. We can hang out now. You should take my number.”
I gave it to her, we talked a bit more, then her date showed up. I dipped.
You should’a saw this dude. Fuckin Hollywood cliche. He was 5’7” and dressed like a fucking tool - flaps on the back of his jeans and an overworked button down. I knew I had her.
Hamed said, “What did you say bro? How did it go?”
I tell him, “It went well and if she don’t hit me, then she’s into douchey agent types and ain’t shit I can do about that now is it?”
When I left that night she hit me.
Bingo.
We’re supposed to link that week.
Kismet I tell ya, it was kismet. We weren’t even supposed to hit the Tar Pit that night. I wanted burgers, Z talked me into it and I see her there all pretty and lonely looking sitting at the bar playing on her phone. If her date would’ve got there on time I never would’ve hollered at her, but he didn’t and I did and we reconnected after linking in the ether the year before. Shit was crazy, like I said kismet.
It was like one of those movies where the rich guy’s cruising the streets in his Lotus, looking for hookers and picks up a white one with all her teeth and he buys her some new clothes and he sees her as the pretty woman she is and not as the whore she’s acting like and they get married and live happily ever after.
It was like a romance movie. I fucking love romance movies. I love ‘em because they give me hope. Because deep down in this damaged psyche of mine i don’t believe any of it, but I want to. The same way I want to believe in magic, I wanna believe that that shit happens.
What I really believe is, you find a girl, get married and you get divorced and you pray she doesn’t rape you for half your shit. That’s what the fuck you do. I know it’s a messed up way of thinking but that’s all I know.
But that’s not all I wanna know, I wanna learn something different. So I guess you could call me a romantic. And I gotta tell you I was stoked when I met that chick in some romance, kismet, “what are the odds?” type fashion.
I hit her to hang out that weekend.
Nothing.
Maybe I’m being too desperate, calling her when I say I’m gonna.
I let it breath 3 weeks, hit her again.
This time with the text bullshit. I fucking hate texting. It’s soulless.
I text her anyway, let’s get up.
We make tentative plans.
I’m looking sharp.
She blows me off. No call No show.
Fuck her.
She hits me next day with excuses.
Whatever, it’s cool.
She ain’t hit me since.
This chick is out her fucking hook up.
I saw the dude she went on a date with.
You was at the bar waiting a half hour on a midget in distressed jeans and embroidered shirts and you gonna blow me off!?
Hahahahaha! No.
I played myself.
So much for Kismet. Sometimes coincidences are just that. Coincidence.
Life is life and movies are movies.
And these romance movies are about as bad for your head as divorce or porn. I got as much chance meeting some chick in a quirky way and having witty banter for the rest of my life, as I do of picking up a random girl off the street in my van and banging her on camera.
Romance movies make you develop these unrealistic expectations of what dating is, what love is and what it should be. It poisons your brain. It poisoned my brain.
It really ain’t like that. Half my homeboys who are married are pussy whooped bitches. Some of ‘em, their old lady is steppin’ out on ‘em. While other cats are totally dominating their girl and That ain’t for me either. Just a handful of ‘em, a handful I actually like what they’re doing.
It ain’t no 90 minute romantic comedy, life keeps on going after the credits roll.
Look I’m gonna find a woman I’m crazy about and that I gel with and get along with and all that shit, but I know this - when I do find her, some days she’s gonna get on my fucking nerves and some days she won’t and it’s gonna be some work and they don’t show that in the romance movies.
And when my grandkids ask how we met, I’ll answer, “Through a friend.”
Now if you’d excuse me, I’m gonna go look at some porn.
