"Good On Paper" from The Direction Of Home by Christopher Gutierrez


     We started flirting online a while ago. Our schedules never coincided with the right amount of free time, so our banter resigned to a handful of playful texts. After a few weeks of plans falling through, we finally made time to meet after 1 a.m. in the shittiest of local bars. The kind of place that tries and fails at transporting you to a beachside Mexican resort. Every night, a different suburban cover band rolled through, butchering '80s hits while drunk single moms raise their giant margaritas and yell out mating calls of, "Woooo!" and "Yeah, baby!"
     I walked past their windows in disgust more than a dozen times but now, here I was, tired and cranky, but finally with enough time to pull my ass away from the comforts of my warm apartment.
     I scanned the room. It was slow for a Wednesday night. About 30 people scattered about in tiki booths, while a handful made fools of themselves on an empty dance floor. The colored lights spun around, blinding me like an accident on the expressway. I didn't see the single step in front of me and almost tripped, which is only slightly less worse than an actual trip, since you still have to play it off like it never happened. She wasn't there yet, so I made my way toward the bathroom to pee and fix my hair.
     I noticed my zipper was down. I reached down to pull up my fly when I heard, "Oh, uh, hello."
     I chuckled and said, "Oh, hey," as I reached in for a hug. "My zipper is always falling down."
     She smelled nice and her large breasts pressed against my chest. We sat at a booth away from the band's firing range, poised behind a large fake tree. I jokingly complained about her being late and how terrible I looked, even though I looked exactly how I always did. Grumbling about my appearance indicates my level of insecurity and anxiety. Throughout the years, I studied and assessed my first date behavior with a fine-toothed comb, finding and extinguishing all signs that I'm not as confident as I present myself to be. But like a dam about to burst, the pressure of the water powers through a crack somewhere.
     "Holy shit, I usually don't look this terrible," I said. In all actuality, I did.
     She was the singer of one of the suburban bands I mocked in passing, and her band frequently played this club. For some reason, I found this endearing. Any woman with a passion for a specific interest immediately jumps up a few points on my attractive scale. I have gone on hundreds of dates with unimpressive women. During the course of the date, I intentionally ask the open-ended question, "So, tell me things."
     "What kind of things?" they always respond.
     "That's the genius of the question," I say with a smile. "See where you take it."
     Sometimes they tell me about their children, about their school, about their travels, about sex. The question is designed to provide insight into their intentions. They tell me what they think is important for me to know. The subject of children indicates how important they are in their life, and if I'm not OK with this, then I should probably leave. School demonstrates they value intelligence and a career-minded man. Travels indicate how adventurous they are, and how they like to brag about the one time they ate barbequed rat in Kenya. Something they did so one day they could impress a stranger with a story in a coffeehouse. And sex, well, they talk about sex because that's how they view me. They assign me a place in their life, and most of the time I'm completely OK with this. It's what I expect. I'm open with my past, hell, I even post the stories so they know what they're in for. It intrigues them. They want to know what other women found compelling in me. In my pants. And I'm more than willing to satisfy their curiosity. But I have no expectations or illusions of them impressing me. Most people I meet, most people in the world, are unimpressive.
     Once you make the realization, you no longer feel cheated. Rarely do people tell me anything real or substantive. They think, "Why should I reveal my secrets, my inner workings, my hope, my dreams, my prayers, my fears, my passions? Why make myself vulnerable to this guy?"
     Sometimes the words that tumble out of their mouths are so boring, I'm almost obligated to pry. I ask questions. I dig deep into their chest to satisfy my assumption that most people are boring, hollow creatures blindly strolling through life long enough to fulfill their idea of the American Dream and not offend anyone along the way. I still hold out hope for the few who need the push, the right question to set them off on a rant, a tangent to give me hope of other living, breathing, loving, deliberate people.
     "But I don't want to give away all my secrets," they say.
     "Why not?" I shoot back. "Why not give it all away? Why not tell everyone everything?"
     They usually sit there in shock. This is what I came for. It's the only real moment of the evening.
     "Why not tell me about your abuse or your fears or how you bite your toenails when no one is around? People keep a safe three-foot emotional distance and expect everyone else to 'give' first. How can you expect to find substance when you refuse to be bold with your life? It's bullshit."
     Their expressions range anywhere between open-mouthed silences to smiling nods of approval to outright indignation. That's what I want. A real moment. Give me something real and you get it back tenfold. But you'll never get what you don't deserve.
     Our surface banter struggled. I was tired and the music was loud. Since her band often played here, she knew the staff and they kept approaching our table to say hello. I didn’t mind the reprieve in the awkward conversation, but it derailed the small amount of conversational progress I attempted to make. I started digging until I heard, "OH MY GOD! What are you doing here?"
     I slumped in the booth and sighed.
     "I haven't seen you in forever!"
     Probably not the best place to meet. A large, burly guy with massive forearms plopped down next to us without any introduction.
     "Oh my God! How have you been?" she exclaimed.
     Checking the time, I wondered if it was rude to leave after eight minutes.
     "Chris," she said, smiling at me. "This is..."
     I couldn't hear his name over the band's screeching rendition of "Jessie's Girl.: I reached out my hand and shook his. I recognized him. He was the bouncer who carded me when I walked in. He was nice enough like most of the world is, but he invaded our booth. It's obvious I was a boy sitting with a girl. Obvious to everyone in the bar, but clearly not him. Maybe he didn't give a shit and pulled the alpha male move of confidently strolling in and stealing "my lady." At that point, I would have preferred he did so I could've escaped. I sunk further into the hard booth as they discussed mutual friends. Through the fake tree's leaves, the band played a Brian Adams song while wearing beer helmets. I wondered if they were having fun. I wished I were as oblivious to the world as they seemed.
     I heard her ask how his girlfriend was doing. With his chin in his chest, he replied, "She's OK."
     "Just OK?" she asked.
     "She's amazing and all." He paused and looked her in the eye. "But it's just not there, you know?"
     I leaned forward. "Is it like all of your friends love her and everything she is, has accomplished and wants to become, and she's amazing on paper?"
     "Yeah! Exactly!" His eyes grew wide and he lurched toward me over the table. "You know what I'm talking about?!"
     "More than you think, my friend."
     "I mean, she's wonderful--"
     I cut him short. "She's wonderful and does an amazing job of making you feel loved and appreciated, but you can't shake the feeling that she's not 'the one,' right?"
     "Totally!"
     "And you spent your entire life desperately searching for the person who fits this idealistic mold. Then you find her. One who lives up to all of the expectations, yet for some unidentifiable reason, you can't help but have one foot out the emotional door."
     He said nothing.
     "And do you lie next to her at night thinking there's someone else who understands you better? Someone out there who makes you nervous and challenges you? Do you lie next to her feeling like a bastard because you have those thoughts?"
     Hearing the words he didn't have the courage to speak aloud or admit to himself overshadowed his previous excitement in having a companion on this journey.
     "Yes." He was defeated. Demoralized.
     "Do you repeatedly try to convince yourself she should be the one, because it makes sense? Do you secretly pray for the day you'll wake up and everything will feel right?"
     "More than anything."
     "And you know the feeling is possible because you felt it with others, right?"
     "Yes."
     "And you stay awake at night feeling guilty because she deserves to have someone feel the way about her as she does about you."
     "Every night."
     "My friend, I hate to say this, but I don't envy your position" The band finished their set and walked offstage to a smattering of applause. "Because you will only find true appreciation for her once you lose her forever, and she'll be the one you refer to as 'the one who got away,' because everything is romanticized in hindsight."
     The music ended and he didn't speak. The bar lights flickered on and he pouted in his seat like a 10-year-old boy who just found out his dog died. I turned to my "date" and said, "And on that note, I think they want us out of here."
     Everyone slid out of the booth and I put my coat on.
     "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ruin everyone's night," I said with a collar-tugging grin.
     "No dude," the bouncer said to me. "You're right. I wish you weren't, but you are."
     I walked into the cold night and she quietly stood next to me. I didn't know what she thought because she didn't say. She wouldn't say. They never do. They wonder why no one takes them seriously. I guessed her thoughts, but I continued walking toward her car. She asked if we could extend the night. I asked what would she suggest at 2 a.m., and she said she didn't know. I knew what she implied, but if she didn't have the balls to say it, she wasn't getting it. I said I was going home and she asked again if we could continue to hang out. I said no again, that I was tired.
     And I am tired. I'm tired of people without passion or the balls to scream. I'm tired of people not saying what they mean or asking for what they want. But most of all, I'm tired of giving my all to a world that only gives back in tiny, almost unnoticeable, bursts of sunlight and inspiration. So I went home. Alone. To rest up and do it all over again the next day. Because I refuse to allow the hundreds of black clouds ruin it for my one ray of sunshine.
     Wherever she is.