Working Nights

I live too far from the bar.

It is hurting my sex life.

A vast number of chubby women find me incredibly attainable. Now, I know that I am not the finest catch to ever drive a primered pickup through this town, but I would like to find someone where there might be some mutual attraction.

My introversion doesn't help much. I'm sure incredibly nice and stable women hang out in the clubs, but I don't want to put up with the noise and smoke. I'm sure that there are nice girls in church, but the stench of the world must be all over me, permeating my skin. The experiences and doubts of a rough life spent in places the red, white, and blue God of an old life doesn't exist, seeping out of my eyes and ears, offending their sensitive and tender spiritual offlacatories. I try to hang out in the coffee shops or martini places, but my agrarian roots are dug deeply into my speech and plowed into the furrows of my face, turning away all the prospects I could have in that venue. My vernacular and my truck draw in girls from the far reaches of the valley, girls who want to talk about Garth Brooks and wear Rocky jeans. I'm not a hick. Don't let the muddy truck and Hank Williams CD's fool you, sisters of the earth.

I see everyone around me as being so linear. At the most a parabolic curve of understanding and environment.

This is not my biggest challenge. You see, they make this magical juice of impaired judgment called "whiskey". As I drink enough of it, it slims down the heavies, fills out the skin and bones crowd, and slings me roughly into a state of non-committal conversation on anything. I know a lot, and when I'm drunk, well dammit, I sure can talk about it all with the authority of a veteran operator in incredibly diverse fields. Caterpillar diesels? Hell yeah I know about the integrated precombustion chamber on their injection plugs. Horseshoeing? Damn right I know about it., you best watch them toes. Event horizons? Black Holes? Penne, Robusto, Marinara? Don't get me started.

So, this leaves me in a peculiar state. At least in the morning following. A state of needing desperately to get the hell out of wherever I ended up quietly, so as not to wake her up. Awkwardness follows. There's something to be said of the Navy life of fake names and leaving the continent the next day. The only challenge there is the facing your comrades the next day. A couple months at sea sure knocks off some ugly points on your prospect, but your friends eyes are wide open, and they talk about it for months.

All that being said, the last time I wanted some of this "whiskey", I went to a bar claiming to be a river of said product. The Whiskey River was full of people. They ground and gyrated and drank. As did I, friends. In fact, I ground and drank and conversated my way into a ride home, though we both knew the terms and conditions of the ride. Tomorrow, I would have to tell her to go, and then deal with the smells of guilt and biology that take weeks to wash off. On the way to my house in the country, miles and miles away from town, something odd happened. The drive was long and winding, Grand Junction faded away, Fruitvale came and went, the slums of Clifton appeared and disappeared. By the time we crossed the river, I had sobered up.

A light of truth, reason, and responsibility flooded the car. I didn't want to date this girl. I wasn't even attracted, except that all healthy and young females excite me, at least a little. What would I do tomorrow when she wanted to stay? What would I tell her immediately after when I would want to take a shower and emerge from the steam coffin to find an empty house? How would I explain that my attraction to her had a statute of limitations? We got up to my house and sat on the couch and talked. Actually, she sat on the couch lustily, I conspicuously took the recliner and held it as an easily defensible position. We talked for hours until she left, disappointed.

I live too far from the bar.

What I'm listening to: Hank Williams, Long Gone Lonesome Blues