The Ringer

This morning, at 5:00 a.m., I went into my closet to sleep since the sun was beginning to rise and my apartment was flooded with eastern light. My belly was full of Scotch. I was having that rotgut sensation that begs for greasy-spoon breakfast fare, but since I'd just gotten to bed at 3:00, my head was too light to wander out in search of it. I lay there in the closet, my pillows propped up on a basket of clothes, wrapped in my quilt, hiding from the sun for hours. (Here's the view I hid from.)




I hadn't been so stupidly yet satisfyingly Scotch-drunk in a long time. There's some kind of relief in it.


Last night, I was to meet the Ringer at Hye Bar, a Scottish pub supposedly known for its Scotch selection. (It did have an extensive selection, including Cragganmore, my current favorite.) As soon as I left my studio, the clouds burst and despite my umbrella, I got soaked. I called my date from the train, begging for a ride from the nearest stop. Probably relieved I was calling about a ride rather than cancelling our date, he agreed, worrying aloud that I would think his car was dirty. We found each other at the station and went to the bar for its famous Scotch. However, the bartender was unused to serving the stuff. Poor little dear had to climb up onto the bar to get to the Cragganmore, literally a top shelf liquor.


"I've never drunk Scotch with a woman before," the Ringer blurted, making the whole thing sound a little dirty.

"There's a first time for everything," I said, wondering what terrible sort of women the poor, uninitiated gent had been subjected to in the past.


We chatted and then went to Blue Bayou for burgers. I couldn't read the Ringer except to notice he always seemed to be holding something back. He seemed to want to say things and then withhold them. I rambled on as best I could about Mexico, the Bahamas, my writing, whatever I could think of. Every now and then he'd chime in with a story about India, cruises he'd taken. I realized he was nervous.


He kept receiving text messages and apologizing. Finally, he said he was going to his friend's house nearby--it was he who had been texting. I thought, "Gee, date's over, I guess. What the...?" But he immediately extended the invitation to me and said if I came with him there would be plenty of fodder for my writing and he'd throw in a ride back to my house as well. "Count me in," I said, relaxed by the earlier Cragganmore and the Sauvignon Blanc I'd had with my turkey burger. Actually, I felt pretty relaxed around the Ringer anyway. He made me comfortable, except for his nervousness.


We got lost. Finally, somewhere around 800 north, he got out to ask directions, noting aloud that he was a man willing to do so. We arrived at the huge three-story house in Bucktown and were greeted by a lively, attractive, warm couple who ushered us into their kitchen and plied us with drink. We then talked about books, and little else, until two a.m.


I didn't know such magical places existed. Places where a girl walks in, is told she's gorgeous and sweet (why has that word been coming up so much lately? Gods have I changed if that is really the first impression I give off these days), is handed a rocks glass of smoky Scotch, and then gets to talk about her favorite subject with enthusiastic, intelligent, effusive conversation partners. I felt so at home it was bizarre. The woman of the house reminded me so much in spirit of my dear El-Zizabeth. Such a beautiful sensation; comfort among strangers.


The only frightening thing was that when the woman of the house mentioned her one year-old child, my date said "I love babies!" I'm pretty sure I didn't succeed in keeping the look of horror off my face.


Why is it I end up with these truly sweet, wonderful men normal women would kill for; meanwhile, the womanizing cads I would actually prefer to date go for the women who are looking for the stable, kid-loving Lifetime Network poster boys? Life is patently unfair to all of us. What a mystery.


The Ringer was loopy by the time we took off, and as I opened the car door to go into my building, he said, "I would really love to kiss you."


Twist my arm. Hey. He really is turning out to be a Ringer.