I invited two friends to an outdoor party at 8 pm last Friday. (It’s sounds silly and it frustrates me to do it but, for the sake of anonymity, I’ll call one friend “Apple” and the other “Orange.”) By 8:15, Apple still hadn’t shown and Orange wasn’t answering her phone. I wanted to hang out with friends and enjoy the warm weather. Instead, I was walking to a bar party alone. I finally reached Apple. She said she was at a different party four blocks away; she’d leave in an hour to meet me. “I think I’m gonna go home,” I told her. “I can’t reach Orange. I don’t really know anyone else at the party except the host. And, I really hadn’t expected to stay here too long.” My intention wasn’t to guilt trip; still, Apple felt bad. She left her other party and walked the three blocks south to meet me. When she arrived, her eyes were unfocused and her speech was slurred. At times, I couldn’t understand her sentences. She seemed drunk, not tipsy.
“Want me to get you a water?” I asked. She walked to the bar and ordered a glass of white wine. If I was annoyed before, now I was pissed. I’d invited her to the party, and now I felt like I’d been resigned to a babysitting job that I hadn’t applied for. She didn’t ask me to watch over her, and maybe that wasn’t my job to do so anyway. At the same time, I was worried (maybe overly so?) because — even though I hadn’t known Apple long — I’d only ever seen her that drunk once before. Also, I was slightly embarrassed. I’d been invited to the party and the drunk girl was my guest. So, when Apple walked over to the host and a group of other men and asked for a light, I joined her to keep an eye out.
“Where’d you guys go before this?” The host immediately asked. “She’s really drunk,” he said to me in a hushed voice after Apple lit her cigarette. Apple and I sat down and joined The Host and a guy I didn’t know at their garden table. The stranger dude had perfectly smooth skin, a great smile, and a head topped with thick tufts of dark wavy hair. Energetic and funny, he seemed to have a knack for making women feel like they were the center of his universe when he talked to them. I’ll call him Mr. Charming. “Hi,” I said as I introduced myself. He flashed me a dashing smile, extended his warm hand and responded, “Hi, I’m Charming.”
The four seated around the table became a threesome when the host left us to mingle as hosts are wont to do. As I chatted with Charming, my mood improved. Better to focus on a cute boy than a drunken girl, right? It was probably a selfish act; I should have paid more attention to Apple. She wasn’t saying much, and she didn’t know anyone else at the party. She eventually left the table and went to the bar for another drink. Orange arrived and took her seat. “What’s going on with Apple?” she asked me, “I just bumped into her on my way in and her speech was completely slurred.”
I rolled my eyes and brushed it off with a wave of the hand before introducing Orange to my conversation partner. “This is Charming,” I said. Small talk ensued until Charming eventually left the table to mingle with other party members. My eyes darted over to the bar and I saw Apple showing a bartender her dance moves. Another guest of the party came up to me and suggested that I should check in on my friend. “She doesn’t look like she’s doing too well,” he said. A party girl during my college years, I’d made a drunken fool of myself, dodged projected vomit, said and done things I later regretted, and wrestled keys from a woman who didn’t seem sober enough to drive. Much of that halted when college parties gave way to careers and I replaced drinking buddies with real friends.
When Apple returned from the bar, I mentioned additional people had asked me if she was okay. I was concerned, but I probably sounded judgmental and rude because Apple seemed annoyed. She picked up her purse and spun on her heel before spitting out, “I’m gonna go.” I felt like a bad friend, but I let her leave. I later followed up to make sure she got home okay. (She did.) Orange and I prepared to leave the party. I said goodbye to Mr. Charming and, downstairs on the streets, Orange and I got into a tiff over stuff that’s too long to repeat here. Damn it if this wasn’t a long night.
The next day, Mr. Charming contacted me and said he’d like to meet up. I accepted and, on Sunday, we enjoyed each other’s company at a Brazilian restaurant. With a Long Island Iced Tea in front of him and a strawberry Caiperena at my lips, we discussed the host, Orange, Apple and the Friday night party. He seemed surprised that Apple and I were friends. “The drunk girl was with you? It’s one thing to go out for drinks, but she couldn’t even hold a conversation. THAT’S your friend???” he joked. I got Apple’s back; I explained that she’d been stressed at work, and she’d already attended a party earlier that evening. Maybe she’d had too much to drink, but I didn’t feel comfortable talking about it because she wasn’t there to defend herself. So, I steered the topic away from her and toward me. Mr. Charming and I talked about my past lovers, dates in New York, my longterm affair that never turned into a marriage and his marriage that turned into a divorce.
Although we’d only met days before, he already reads FUNKYBROWNCHICK.com. The host from Friday’s party told him about it. “Yeah, it’s Funky Brown Chick,” Mr. Charming said, “but, I really wanna know more about the girl behind it. There’s more to you than sex and dating. You’re more than just that girl.” I told him it was difficult to lead a fractured life. Details about my dates were online but I maintained a private life of friends, family, jobs, a guy pal from back home that I cherish, etc. I’m more multi-dimensional than my blog reflects, I said. “Anyone who blogs will tell you that the best stories are the ones that can’t be blogged,” I told him. His lips curled into a delicious grin, “That’s a pity.”
Indeed, my friend, it is.
April 21st, 2008 | Print This Post
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| [10] folks got down with the Funky Brown
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