So… in the ever exciting adventures of trying to find love in L.A. including Dean and Dean II... here is the latest piece that has wound up on my shit list... let's call him Scatman...
So me and Scatman bum around the Sony electronics store where he proceeds to flirt hard core with the young sales associate for a good twenty minutes while I just sort of aimlessly walked around the store, trying to curse the concept of a $5,200 television but finding it increasingly hard to after slipping on the 3D goggles(!) and watching scenes from some High Definition cartoons on a 72” screen (!!) They even had a laptop hooked up to one of those screens and I googled around for an extended period of time, observing my own website in movie theatre high definition. I remember thinking that none of that stuff could fit into my lifestyle right now and feeling a little light headed and faint thinking of the lifestyle that could accommodate that. The house it would take, the income, the occupation to yield such an income; the education it would take to yield such a job to yield such an income; the tenacity it would take to yield such an education to yield such a job to yield such an income that could sustain such a home with such accoutrements; the type of friends who you would invite over to such a house who would appreciate the tenacity you would have to yield such an education to yield such a job to yield such an income that could sustain such a home with such accoutrements… and the reciprocal emotions of said friends or the lovers or would be lovers who have either been repulsed or enamored by your “lifestyle” without the slightest curiosity about your “life” or… you. And maybe you forgot who you were in that pursuit, or maybe the pursuit became you and that’s all you had. And would that be such a bad thing if at the end of the day you get to watch Shrek 3D on a 72” high definition plasma screen in a house in which this would be but one… just one, small piece of entertainment… in only one room. I almost fainted. Literally. I almost fainted. I actually swooned.
I left to get some coffee and a little air while Scatman yammered on and on with that guy talking about God knows what. I’m assuming his sky high aspirations to have that lifestyle, his none too subtle hints of sexual attraction, asserting that hyper-ego of his. I felt sorry for that dude… a little. He’s working on commission. I think any sales person knows fairly early if someone is actually going to give up the bucks or if the schmuck is a well-intentioned “tourist” there just to have a good time. But this was a young guy; couldn’t have been more than 25. I think he knew that Scatman wasn’t in the market for a goddamn thing sold in that store. I think he was intrigued by him… so much so that he was eager to buy what Scatman was selling… a little adventure, a little attention, a little fun.
When I came back after my fruitless trek for coffee, he was still yammering on. I could tell that the guy was a bit smitten, a bit curious to know more… about Scatman, about me even. He seemed like one of those guys who were ripe for the picking. Like, if I were to win the lottery and I went back up there and was like, I’m that guy you met a couple of days ago. I got $32 Million and no real plans. You want come with me and help me make some?” He would leave, right then, right there. His bag would already have been packed. It would have been right there behind the cash register. That guy… was ready for “more”. And Scatman indulged that fantasy for him.
Then he kind of took it away. They may have exchanged numbers, I don’t know. If they did, the way Scatman left (somewhat abruptly and emotionless) indicated that I was not to know. And if they didn’t, then that guy sat there for over half an hour listening to Scatman blabber on and didn’t sell so much as a mouse pad in all that time. In either case, when we left, that guy had this look on his face, I don’t know, maybe I’m putting too much into it but… I couldn’t help but feel this certain energy from him, the same energy you get from the puppies in the cage when you leave the pet store, that sort of, “I really want to go with you” energy. I talked to him for a minute and he seemed intrigued but I couldn’t help but feel like the guy and Scatman had invested some time together and there needed to be some… “closure” I guess is word. This new and exciting stranger walks into his life and he seemed just young enough to still believe in magical serendipity, but Scatman just left. He just left. And there I was, trying to make small talk. But… I guess I’m not strong enough to intrude on someone else’s serendipitous moment. I politely excused myself and told him it was really nice meeting him. I caught up with Scatman who made some comment about some store in our peripheral vision. I couldn’t say anything, I just looked at him. He responded, “What?” All I could think of to say was, “You’re kind of a douche.”
So Scatman. What do I feel about Scatman? Or rather, what did I feel about Scatman? I want to be in love. I really do. I feel I have so much to offer right now. I really feel as if I can be a really great boyfriend and Scatman seemed, if not the perfect receptacle for that love, at least a really great fit. I could see us, flaws and all, working through this crappy life together, bruised, fucked up, him the douche, me the asshole, maybe we could evacuate ourselves to some sort of solace together. It was definitely on my mind when I asked if he wanted to hang out. I know he said he didn’t want a relationship. And I wasn’t trying to second guess him. But I was trying to make the option open for him if he decided to change his mind. I would be the strong one, accepting his indiscretions, putting up with the mindless flirting and extra-curricular fucking… because I would love him and at the end of the day, he would love me. We would be some urban version of Larry and Althea Flynt. I was ready for that. And in the meantime, until we exchange vows… I would have some fun…
A couple of days later, I’m at Hamburger Mary’s. Because I’m driving, I drink nothing but about two bottles of water... which I think greatly decreased my fun and humor on this particular excursion. I didn’t have a bad time, but I can’t say it was necessarily good either. I was a little bored.
Then Scatman shows up. The club is packed. I can barely hear him. He’s with his friends. I’m with my friends. We kiss a little. He says he’ll be back. I say ok.
The majority of the night I walk back and forth between the conclaves of my friends positioned diametrically opposed to each other in the club, one set on the furthest edge of the dance floor, the other on the furthest edge of the outside smoking patio that has so much smoke wafting from it that it looks like the building is on fire. I never really have one consistent conversation with anybody, just little snippets and observations. I don’t talk to one new person.
My friend, Louie is there. He’s part of the group on the dance floor. Since he knows everybody I ask him the backstory of a few people that I think are cute and I want to approach;
“What about him?”
“His name is George. He’s 21. That 6’7” tall, 410 lb white guy he’s dancing with is his lover. I know he looks 55 but he’s actually 39. George needed a place to stay.”
“What about him?”
“Bobby. Doesn’t like Black men. Currently has a White boyfriend. Currently has several White boyfriends.”
“What about him?”
“He’s nice. He’s a really nice guy. He likes unprotected sex. He’s HIV+”
And it just went down from there.
I bump into Scatman a couple of times during the course of the night and there is this tall, thick, dark skinned dog faced dude all over him. I never see them kiss but they are most definitely intimate. I try to man up, I try to put up with this extracurricular flirting, I try to be the straight guy. Besides, we haven’t exchanged vows… I try to have some fun…
… to no avail. I am way too sober, way too cerebral, and just processing every little thing; the Black/White ratio in the room, the Black/White ratio in the music being played, why is there only one bar in this big ass club, didn’t they used to play music videos while the music played? Now what they have on the monitors is this notice that says if you text a message to this particular phone number, the text will show up on the screen for all to see. You can request songs to the DJ like that because the DJ gets those text messages too. So a good HALF(!) of the people are on the DANCE FLOOR(!!) are TEXTING(!!!) All of the monitors scroll messages like “Play Britney!” or “Gaga Rules!” or “Who run the world? GAYS!!” or “Tony is a bottom who takes 12 inches or more” or “Why are there so many fat guys here?” or “If you don’t like fat guys you came to the wrong place bitch!” or “Yeah Bitch!” or “Fuck You” or “No Fuck You!” or “No! Fuck You!” or “Play Robyn!” I am just way to sober for this.
After a while I decide to dance again for a good long time. I take off my shirt and just dance in my tank top. I throw my shirt in a far corner of the dance floor where I’m dancing only to find some White guy who is dancing close by… who seemed to almost intentionally find the shirt and try to do some African tribal stomping dance right on top of it. Instead of blowing up like I wanted to (besides what did I expect by throwing my shirt on the floor) I simply walk over, pick up the shirt, hang it on some wall ornament behind the White African stomping guy, then throw a stare at him that would have seared right through his soul if my eyes were lasers
After dancing for about half an hour, I think my night is done. I go back outside to try and dry off; I look like I have been swimming at this point. I go by the door that leads outside and feel the breeze and smell the smoke coming in. I lean on a nearby pool table and “People Watch” while I casually listen to my friends’ conversation as they sit on a couch across from me. Scatman comes over.
“How’s your night been going?” He says.
“It’s okay. It’s alright.” I say.
“Since you’ve just been ignoring me all night, just been hanging with your friends.”
He’s rolling his eyes. He’s walking away from me.
“Are you fucking kidding me?! Are you serious?! Are you fucking serious!?” I say.
“Doing your ‘Mean Girl’ thing all night and completely ignoring me.”
He’s serious. He’s actually upset.
“Dude! You have been hugged with up with niggas since you walked through the goddamn door!” I bark back.
“Well you were supposed to come over and pull me away and say you wanted to spend some time with me.” He retorts with an attitude and a neck roll I haven’t seen so viciously pulled off since Thelma on Good Times.
“Are you retarded? Are you out of your fucking mind?!” I screech.
He looks at me, rolls his eyes one last time and then sashays away.
And as if on cue, the music goes off, the lights come on, then the security guards start to do their predictable yet still always annoying barking to get out of the club before… the world ends. I put on my shirt and make way outside. I catch up with Louis. Now all this time Louis has referred to Scatman as my “boyfriend”, which I think is kind of cute. So when I catch up to him I tell him,
“My ‘boyfriend’ is really mad at me.”
To wit he replies, “Your boyfriend is kissing somebody. Right behind you”
I couldn’t help but laugh “Yeah, because he’s mad me.”
Louis, not understanding said, “How can he be mad at you when he’s kissing someone else.”
“No, listen… he’s kissing someone else… because he’s mad at me.” I try to explain
Finally waking up Louis says, “Ohhhh… I get it! He’s trying to get back at you!”
“Yeah…” I say, “…we’re doing this now. This is where we are.”
And this is when I turn around and there he was, kissing that dark skinned dog faced boy, eyes closed, tongue out... I could just read his thought bubbble, "Oh please dog faced boy... please, please… please find me attractive! If you can't validate me, who can!?"
And I was officially… done. There was no emotion. There was no feeling. I was completely sober and standing in the middle of what felt like an airless vacuum of reality where judgment and feeling didn’t exist. There was no right. There was no wrong. You can’t blame a scorpion for its sting no more so than you can blame the sun for rising. It’s just nature. Watching him kiss that boy was just as emotionless as watching water go down a drain or a cat eat kibble. Watching him all I kept thinking was… he is what he is… and God bless him for that. I gave everybody a hug, got in my car, put on my Kathy Griffin audiobook and left that parking lot without looking back one time.
On the freeway, however, the air came back… my blood returned to me, my breath returned to me. By the time I got home, my discontentment with Scatman was palatable. It wasn’t searing, but it was noticeable. And in the course of nursing that paper cut of a wound before it festered into a huge infection, I did take some time to be culpable for the situation myself. I think that’s why I don’t “hate” him. It’s like that phrase I heard RuPaul say, “You don’t lose power; you can only give it away.” I gave it away. Dude… I gave it away. “Hating” him would be giving away even more. Besides, I can’t play victim here. I mean… really… I dug this hole. If it’s any consolation… it’s a pretty small hole. I mean… I don’t know how I’m coming off but… I am pissed, that’s for sure… but I’m far from devastated. I remember devastation. I remember not being able to breath with my husband passed or when Dean dumped me. That’s low. That’s devastation. This is so nowhere near that. It’s just irritating really. It’s always noticeable when someone gets added to your shit list.
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