A First Date in the Bronx

“Hey Terry, I’m headed out.”

“Okay Micky, where you going?”

“Down to Donovan’s.”

“At this time of night?”

“Got a date.”

“Really?”

“Nah. But you never know.”

“It’s a bit late for a date.”

“Not when you’re hunting drunkies.”

“You mean desperates.”

“I mean whoever the hell lets me buy em a drink.”

“You need a wingman?”

“You got money?”

“Nah.”

“Then fuck off.”

“Asshole.”

“I’ve got enough coin for two drinks. If that doesn’t get the job done, then I’ll be right back here on the couch with your sorry ass.”

“I’ve got wine.”

“Huh?”

“Boss gave it to me at work.”

“All right. Plan B. I rustle up a couple of Bettys, and then I’m right back here for you and your bottle.”

“Should I pick up a bit?”

“What do you think? How many women our age like fucking a man who lives like a twelve-year-old.”

“Twelve-year-old with a bottle of wine.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. At least put some pants on, man. They don’t need to see your wang and gibblets until the main event.”

“I aint a caveman.”

“You mean, you aspire to stop being a caveman.”

“I’ve got standards.”

“I would hate to see what our world would be if you didn’t.”

“Well, fuck you too, Micky.”

“Just clear up some of those dishes, wipe the crumbs and Kleenex off the couch, and get ready to party!”

“On it.”

The front door clicked, and Terry turned to survey the catastrophe that carpeted every inch of their two-bedroom flat. Inherited from his father just a year earlier, the vacant corners of the hardwood-clad apartment had gradually formed into bottle bunkers and box storage as Terry and Micky drunk and dined their way through waves of takeout. ‘No one can live on lo mein and pepperoni pizzas forever,’ his mother had warned him. He was going to prove her wrong or die trying.

Two blocks away, just inside the heavy oaken doors that formed the gateway to Donovan’s, Micky stood, his back tight against a dark corner just off to the left of the ladies’ room. He flexed his auditory bones, listening intently for the tell-tale signs of gastrointestinal evacuation, or as he and Terry liked to call it, the magic sauce. He heard the door swing heavily, a deep sigh, the first dry heaves, and finally, the slick and torrid flow of drunken relief.

Bingo. He’d drawn a winner.

“Oh, shit.” He heard as someone muttered her way back out and into the dimly lit bar.

“Wet-nap, my dear?” He asked, fully prepared with an arsenal of comfort. Mints, tissues, wet-naps, quarters, condoms, even roofies. He was ready for anything. Anything except rejection, that is.

“Fuck off.” Oh, she was a feisty one.

“I heard you in there, and I just thought with all that…you know.” Shame always worked.

“All that what? You were sitting out here thinking to yourself: “There’s a ripe one I can take advantage of. Surely someone else got her liquored up and did all the work?” Is that what you were thinking?”

Well, yes it really was, but he didn’t tell her that. “Look, I don’t know what your problem is…”

“I didn’t have a problem till you started talking. So, as of right now, you’re my only problem.”

“Mint?”

“What?”

“You want a mint?” He could run down his inventory, see if there were any attractive items that might catch her interest, but it was easier if she freshened up before the cursing started.

“Why?”

“Because…you know?” He mimed a doubled over prayer to the porcelain gods, then mock blew into his own palm and pinched his nose for effect.

“Oh, so you and your superhuman ears were listening in on my proud moment in the toilet, and so you think that perhaps I might be desperate to hide my lapse in judgment from the world with something minty fresh?”

“Um…yeah.” He stared at her.

She stared back at him, took a deep breath, and quietly muttered, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Give me a fucking mint.”

“Here.” He handed over a small white pastille, realizing almost immediately that it was not the Altoid he had intended, but was instead stamped with a butterfly, the widely known street code for Molly, better known as ecstasy.

He reached out to stop her, but she had already slipped it into her mouth where it all but immediately dissolved. “Thanks….?”

“Micky. Or just Mick.”

“Like the mouse?”

“Listen, I need to tell you something?”

“What now, Mick? You gonna comment on my radiance, my beauty, my nice cans, ask me to twerk?”

“Would you?...No, wait. That’s not what I wanted to say.”

“Then what, Mick? What’s the big boy words you’re going to use to get into my pants?”

“Hold on, first, what’s your name?”

“That’s what you want to know?”

“For now.”

“Amber.”

“Look, Amber. When I gave you that pill…”

“Oooohhhh.” Amber squealed and turned toward the small, 8 x 8 dance floor just off the main bar. There is an unspoken rule among drunk girls that when Shania Twain plays, nothing else matters. Attentions are directed towards lyrical accuracy, hip-swaying, and boot stomping. And that is it!

“Amber…I need to tell…”

“Shut up, Mick! ‘I feel like a woman.’ She was singing now, moving like a slow, swaying wave toward the dancefloor. He hesitated and she reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulled him gruffly behind her, and then blasted her way between two high-top tables, nearly toppling the drinks and patrons in a single, swift movement.

“What the actual fuck?” A muscular beast of a man demanded, slapping a heavy hand onto Mick’s shoulder as the beer sloshed out of his glass and onto his phone.

“Sorry mate.” Mick started. “She’s had one too many.”

“You’re gonna be sorry, you piece of shit.” The brute rose and reeled back his arm and glass in a pitcher’s stance. But before he could finish hurling the half-full glass of golden liquid, Mick stepped deftly sideways and turned Amber with him. They spun together like a Viennese waltz and came to rest against an empty stool near the glossy bar. The glass and its contents, however, arced unfortunately through the air and splattered a nearby brawler with abundant tattoos and pungent vehemence with the lukewarm slosh of beer and ire.

“Who the fuck?” The brawler demanded, and leaning out from behind Amber’s gyrating hips, Mick slyly pointed at the heavy-handed man with the bulbous biceps and then went back to his dancing queen.

“Man, I feel like a woman…” Amber sung off-key and too loudly. But her words effectively drowned out the keening rising from the brawl behind them as tattooed fury blended two muscled brutes into a writhing pile of fists and sweat.

“Time to go, my dear.” Mick entreated, talking close to Amber’s ear as she turned and swayed with the music.

“Go where?”

“My place?”

“What’d you give me?” It wasn’t accusatory, but his throat tightened as he watched her mouth twist from frown to dazzling smile.

“What do you mean?”

“I feel like I’m floating!” Next to Amber’s head, a barstool exploded in a shower of splinters as the two-man brawl had quickly expanded into an all-out rumble in the Bronx. Mick took Amber’s hand and pulled her along the backs of the patrons seated at the bar, their faces were anxious as they ducked and bobbed away from flying glasses, chairs, and fists. Once through the front door and out into the cool air, it felt as though the entirety of the war was contained within that small, oaken box, and Mick and Amber stood swaying quietly, entirely immune. Their breath pulsed, whisps of grey misting over in the yellowish glow of the streetlight.

“I’m going home.” She declared, watching Mick’s face drop at the sudden realization that he was about to be abandoned to the night.

“Come home with me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you drugged me.” Her words were slurring, but she kept a smile on her face that he found to be quite confusing. Was she mad at him, or was the rush of endorphins washing away her wrath?

“I didn’t mean to. I though it was an Altoid.”

“It wasn’t?”

“It was Molly. Sorry.”

“Pretty heavy for a first date, Mick.”

“I’ll take one too.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Take one. Right now.” He did. She watched. The sounds in the bar were growing louder and far off in the distance they could hear the trill of sirens that seemed to rise out of the bowels of the city.

“There, see. I took it.”

“And now…Goodnight!”

“Huh?” She waved her arm and a bright yellow taxi squealed to a stop.

“Maybe you want to…”

“Come here, Mick.” She pulled him close and kissed him hard, their mouths pulsing, tongues darting, bodies heaving together. Then she pushed him back and stepped off the curb. She opened the door and climbed inside. Then, just as the driver was about to pull away, she turned back and held out a card.

“Give me a call. You’re a pretty fun first date. Can’t wait to see what you come up with for a second.”

“Okay?” Mick was stupefied, and he watched them drive off as the doors to the bar burst open behind him. The heat and cries and stench of beer washed out into the street. It felt humid and sticky. He turned quickly and stomped off into the darkness. As he walked, he looked back over his shoulder several times, watching the scene evolve as though in stop motion. There was fighting and crying and broken glass. Then red and blue lights and sirens. Then shouts and tasers and the silver glint of handcuffs. Then he turned the corner and was immediately consumed by the silence, the emptiness of the night air.

Mick walked back to his building, both dejected and somewhat intrigued. A second date? He’d never been on one before. He lived between the sudden and narrow bounds of trickery and lust. First dates were as far as he ever got! This was something new entirely. Hell, they’d talked, they’d danced, they’d done drugs together, and they’d survived an all-out brawl without being mortally wounded. If that wasn’t the makings of a spectacular first date, then he didn’t know what was.

He opened the door to the apartment with a heavy sigh, laid his keys down on the entry table, and stared at the card in his hand once more.

“Mick?” Terry called out from the couch.

“Yeah, Terry?”

“You alone?”

“Yeah, Terry.”

“Come in here.” Mick walked toward the voice. Rounding the corner, he could see the bluish glow of the television and smell the sweet aroma of some sticky icky. Stepping into the room, he almost collapsed of shock and surprise. Where reams of paper, pizza boxes, and Chinese food cartons had once stood were the empty, shadowy corners of their small, but surprisingly spacious living room. It was clean! Actually clean.

“What the hell happened here?” Mick asked.

“Have a glass.” Terry handed him a cracked, but usable wine glass and poured in a generous four fingers of merlot.

“Thanks, Terry. Fucking amazing.” He noted, sweeping his arm around the space in awe.

“Thanks, man. I knew you’d appreciate it.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Should keep for a while.”

“I hope so!”

“Where’d the ladies go?”

“It’s weird, Terry,” Mick started, taking a deep pull on the wine as he settled into an overstuffed La-Z-Boy chair.

“How’s that?”

“I think I just had a first date.”

“Sweet.”

“It was. It actually was.”

“That mean there’s gonna be a second.”

“You know what, Terry. I think so.”

“She nice?”

“She’s something else. A real wildcat.”

“Then we’d better save some wine.”

“A first date, who’d a thought?”

“Lucky bastard.”

In the distance, the sirens faded, and darkness reclaimed the streets.