Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 203

You guys,

I was 30 years old and newly single after having spent my entire 20s in a relationship, and I was going out.

I squeezed myself into a tight blue mini dress, put on too-high heels, curled my hair, and went to the bar with my friends. After shots I did a lap of the space. This would become my regular move in my single life. Go to a bar, drink shots, then ask one of my girlfriends, “Wanna do a lap?” But tonight I was feeling frisky and ventured off alone. I walked slowly through the crowd, hoping to notice someone, hoping to be noticed. I came upon three guys who conveniently stood in my way of nowhere and said excuse me so I could get past. One of them held my gaze—his name was Brad. I don’t remember what I said, only that I became aware I was ignoring his friends and only speaking to him. 

Later I went to the bathroom with my friend Lauren and told her about him. “So do something about it!” she yelled. “Go give him your number! What if he already left??” Shit. She was right! I rushed back into the bar and walked straight up to him. 

“Hey,” I said. “I didn’t want you to leave without saying bye.” He looked at me with a charming smirk on his face, and a girl standing next to him glanced in his direction then walked away. “Oh shit, you were talking to that girl, I’m sorry.” 

“No, it’s fine,” he said, “It’s just that she just gave me her number so I don’t want it to look like I’m just putting another number in my phone.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll just give you my card.” (It was 2014 and I had a business card that read: “Charlie Bleecker. Actor. Writer. Producer.”) 

I went to the bar with Lauren and when I looked over he was talking to that girl again. I took a shot of whiskey. 

My friends and I ended up at another bar down the block. Forty-five minutes later I got a text. It was a picture of the actor, Adam Scott (I told Brad he reminded me of him) and a message underneath: “This guy?!”

I wrote back, “Haha I love it. He is sexy.” Lauren read this exchange over my shoulder, grabbed the phone out of my hand and wrote back as I protested, “U r sexy.” 

As I slapped Lauren on the arm, Brad texted back and asked if I was still around. We met outside and he offered to drive me home.

When we arrived at my place—a renovated garage in Marina Del Rey—I giggled and said, “Okay, this is happening right now. You’re coming inside.”

I learned he was single for about a year after a 7-year relationship, which to me meant we were destined to be together. I repeatedly told him he was super cute.  

“If you tell me that one more time,” he said, “I’m going to kiss you.” Eventually I said it again.

The next day I couldn’t get Brad out of my head but restrained myself and didn’t text him. Late that night he texted and we made plans to meet Monday night after my writers group because I’d be closer to where he lived. As soon as the plans were made I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, I could barely even check my email. 

Monday I woke up at 3:45am and showered, then lay in bed thinking about him and what might happen that night. I had my acting meeting in the morning where I sat and obsessed over Brad. I had my improv class in the afternoon where I stood and obsessed over Brad. I had my writers group in the evening where I thought, I just need to see him and get it over with so I can stop being a completely useless human being. 

This was it. Meeting him at his place. Exactly what Lauren told me not to do. “Meet somewhere in the middle,” she said. “Do not go to his place.” I pulled into the parking garage and walked into the elevator area. What is it going to be like when I see him?

He walked through the door, on his phone, because he’s so cool. We walked up to his place and I said his full name to show off that I did, in fact, know his name (because I accidentally kept calling him Brandon the night I met him). He nodded. “Oh, so you do remember some things, I’m impressed.” 

“Yeaaa, it was on the keypad when I buzzed in,” I said, then commented that this was a really nice place. “Thank you,” he said. “I own it. It’s all mine. Built it brick by brick.” He touched the walls as we walked. 

“That is not brick,” I said. 

“Built it with whatever this is,” he said.

Then I was in his apartment and he asked if I would like a drink. Sure, I said. Water.

He got me a glass and we sat down on the couch, me opposite him. “How’s that side of the couch treatin’ ya?” he asked. 

“It’s good, very nice,” I said. 

He asked if I was hungry. “No,” I said, “I haven’t been hungry since I met you.”

“Woah, is that like a sexual thing?” he said.

“No,” I said. “It’s just a fact.” 

I touched my face, as I do when I’m nervous, then told him about a scene I always do for acting workshops where the character is really nervous around a guy. I told him I like to do the scene because I’m always nervous around guys, too. Then I started saying my lines: “So this is how you woo a woman? Take them back to your granite-countered bachelor pad, put on the perfect song, and make them a drink?” 

“Oh, Crazy, Stupid, Love!” he said. Then he leaned forward.  “Give me your glass.” 

I clutched the glass tighter. “No, I’m good.” 

“Okay, but eventually I’m going to take it from you.” 

There was less to talk about now and more pauses where we just looked at each other. Then he stood. “Give me your glass.” 

I jumped up. “Can I use your bathroom?” I said.

When I walked back in the room the lights had dimmed and a song played from his phone. He put his hand out. “Come here,” he said, and pulled me down next to him so we were shoulder to shoulder. I commented on the song—nice touch. 

“See what I did there?” he said.

“I do, yes. …. So,…”

He put down his glass. “Alright, I’m done with this,” he said, then grabbed me and pulled me on top of him.

Two weeks later we will share a slice of pie and he will tell me how great it is that we can be so honest with each other, and then he will tell me that I’m not ready for a relationship because I was in one for eight years. He will walk me to my car and kiss me. Then he will hug me for much longer than will ever make sense to me.

—

Until next week,

Charlie