I have an iPhone 6 Plus and go to Coachella every year. I’m thinking about starting a blog and have been really into standup lately. I have a favorite microbrewery because I like my beer really hoppy, whatever that means. I have a fun Twitter feed and interesting theories about what could happen on House of Cards. Clearly, I am no slouch in the ladies department. I mean, I am funny, cultured, well dressed and well read, and any girl would take pride in dating a guy who is so keenly cool. And I have a ton of platonic female friends in my friend group. But, alas, the last few months have been what people in comedies would probably call a dry spell. Hard as it is to believe, I haven’t been with a girl in a long time.
I was devastated when my ex and I stopped seeing each other, except for the fact that when we stopped seeing each other, we couldn’t stop seeing each other, because we followed each other on Twitter and Instagram and were friends on Facebook. So I saw her all the time, her grinning profile picture shadowing my feed. “Unfollow her!” my roommates would roar. “You’re never going to get over her unless you unfollow her on all that stuff.” But I couldn’t. There was something so enthralling about being able to track her social life. Was she seeing someone else? I had to know. Besides, unfollowing her was too dramatic. Remaining friends on social media, however, showed I was unfazed, cool, chill and whatever. But I wasn’t any of those things. I’d find myself scrolling through her tweets and Instagram posts at 2 a.m., drunk. Her Instagram always included photos of other men. Men who, I could only assume, were better than me, knew more about album releases than I did, and had better takes to offer off-handedly during important cultural events, like the Billboard Awards (BTW, props to whoever booed Kanye and Kendal and Kylie, like seriousy it’s about time and LMAO at the censoring). Finally sensing the craziness of all this, I clicked “unfollow” and then “unfriend.” With this tiny act of defiance, I was finally free. “This is closure,” I told myself. “This is moving on.”
So it’s time to get back out there. I’ve been trying. Whenever I’m out with my friends at concerts or even just breweries, I try to talk to as many as possible. I don’t get a lot of positive responses—it’s surprisingly harder than you’d think to find a girl who shares my taste in music and opinions about shows (they need to at least be as caught up as I am because I tend to let the spoilers fly, especially when I’ve had a few beers and am excited by the prospect of someone of the fairer sex actually liking Game of Thrones or whatever show is being discussed at the moment). So many girls only listen to pop and not even critically, like they just don’t even know what they’re listening to. I guess that’s what I’m really looking for, at the end of the day, a girl that really knows her stuff. Like a needle in a haystack I’m afraid. But every once in a blue moon there’s that spark. And it’s truly magical.
I felt that spark last weekend when my friends and I were at a St. Vincent concert. It was there that I met Ellen, the girl who is going to be my date tonight and who, if I play my cards right, might even be my girlfriend. But I’m getting ahead of myself. So there I am with my roommates and we’re all standing around the bar. St. Vincent hasn’t started yet and they’re playing Girlpool over the speakers as the between-set music. It sounds pretty good and it takes me only about 45 seconds to recognize it. I turn to my friend Erik and point a finger at the ceiling, the universal sign for “You listening to this? This is good” (if that’s not in the ASL alphabet, they’re doing it wrong). Erik nods and leans closer to me.
“Trust me,” I tell him. “You’ll see this artist on the Coachella lineup in two years.”
Just then, a girl who was standing against the bar turns to us. She’s attractive and wearing a dark blue top with some pretty big jewelry around her neck.
“You know Girlpool?” she says to me, but kind of looking at the whole group. Clearly, there is a lot of mutual impressed-ness happening between all of us. But she was talking to me.
“Oh, yeah,” I tell her. I’m playing it cool now. “They’re pretty great.” She smiles at me and moves closer, now addressing me only and not so much the group. Already I’m feeling like something could happen here.
“They’re amazing,” she says. “Probably the most heartening band I’ve heard in a long, long time. It’s such special music.” She looks away for a second. “I can’t believe you like them, or even know about them.” Laughing.
“Yeah,” I say. “You’ll see this artist on the Coachella lineup in two years.”
“I already have my ticket,” she says and laughs.
“Really?” I’m instantly jarred back into reality. “When did they announce the lineup? Is presale available already?”
She looks confused for a second and then laughs again.
“You’re funny,” she says. I’m racking my brain for any recent Coachella news I remember seeing. Tickets cannot be available yet. That’s not possible. That’s almost a year from now. I fight the urge to take out my phone and check right now.
“I’m Ellen,” she says, sticking out her hand.
“Tom,” she murmurs. “Nice to meet you.” I am at a total loss. I can’t focus on anything now. I take a sip of my beer to buy me some time. Ellen is still looking at me.
“You like these guys?” I say, motioning with my pint glass around the venue, indicating St. Vincent.
“Who? St. Vincent? Yeah, totally, she’s amazing, she’s such a badass.” I notice my friends have sort of dispersed into the crowd.
“So badass,” I say, taking another sip of beer and nodding. Just then, St. Vincent comes out on stage and it’s gets loud in here. We are jostled by everyone around us moving closer to the front. I feel, somehow, rooted to the spot, connected to Ellen. I don’t know what to do next. A group of girls come up to Ellen and engulf her. She looks at me and waves and disappears into the crowd. I’m by myself now and don’t see my friends anywhere.
When St. Vincent (pretty good) is over I’m still waiting on the outskirts of the crowd. I can’t believe that’s how it’s going to end with the Potential Girl of My Dreams. I craned my neck to look for her the entire time but couldn’t really see her and didn’t want to be totally creepy and track her down in the audience. My friends come back.
“Where were you, dude?” Aaron says. “We were like four feet back from the stage. So awesome.”
“I know,” I say. I look around one more time for Ellen as we all make our way out into the warm night and then to Erik’s Forester.
“Tom!” I hear a high voice behind me. I turn and see Ellen walking away from her friend group toward me. Under a street lamp I can see her better. She has brown hair and bangs and a round face.
“Hey,” I say, sort of breaking away from my friends as well. “There you are. You totally…vanished.”
“My friends wanted me with them since I basically dragged them here,” she says, laughing. Then, seeing my grave face, she adds, “Sorry though.”
“No problem.” I shake my head. Silence. “Do you want to have dinner with me?” I say quickly. “We could…talk more about…Girlpool,” I add, in what I hope sounds like an appealingly suggestive way.
“Yeah, of course, yeah,” she says. “Yeah.” She takes out her phone and hands it to me. “Put yourself in there.”
I do and then she texts me so I have her number. I add a new contact: Ellen. I look at the name on my phone and smile and then I look at the girl in front of me and it falters.
“Text me,” she says. “I have to go.”
“I will,” I say. In the backseat of Erik’s Forester, my thigh squished up against Derek’s, craft-beer-drunk and riding home, I tweet an innocuous Drake lyric.
That was last weekend. I texted her two days later and after some clutch icebreakers (“Hi it’s Samba Guy, the Girlpool guy from the St. Vincent show last weekend”) we made a plan to meet at a ramen place she knew about this coming Friday, A.K.A. tonight. I’m getting ready, putting on my brand new shoes, which arrived just in time, and––most importantly––taking an extra large dose of serum. I can’t think of anything worse than transforming in front of Ellen’s face on our very first date (not that I intend to ever let her see that happen ever). I pick out a pretty nice looking sweater that’s still casual enough for a first date but looks like I obviously put effort into my appearance. I borrow Erik’s Forester and I’m out the door. I play Run The Jewels to get me pumped up and then when I’m a block away from Ellen’s building I switch it to Girlpool to really set the mood. I pull head first into a huge spot (I’m a pretty bad parallel parker and I’m stressed enough as it is!) that’s luckily vacant and jump out of the car. I send her a text saying I’m outside. Twenty minutes later Ellen comes out onto the sidewalk wearing jeans and a green shirt with an interesting neck area and big necklace.
“Hey,” she says. “Sorry I wasn’t ready, and my friend’s were like freaking out.”
“Not a problem,” I say. I passed the twenty minutes catching up on some Stereogum: there’s a new Run the Jewels parody thing that big-name artists are getting involved with called “Meow the Jewels.” They’ve raised a bunch of money for it already on Kickstarter. It’s absurd, but that’s the point. It’s like a joke turned reality. “You look great.”
We drive to the ramen place. Ellen either doesn’t notice or doesn’t comment on Girlpool playing at a good volume in the car. I ask if she’s seen the Mad Men finale yet. She says she still needs to watch the last few seasons first. I smile to myself. There’s a strong smoky almost medicinal smell I can’t place coming off of her clothes. “That’s cool,” I say. “It was really good.” She’s on her phone for the rest of the car ride.
Inside the ramen place it’s packed and noisy and a stressed-out looking middle aged woman is seating people and taking down names for the waitlist. I tell Ellen I’ll go put our name in. It’s about a twenty-five minute wait. I come back to where Ellen is standing by the glass wall and stand next to her. “Twenty-five minutes, she said,” I say. “Want to wait?”
“Where else would we go?” All around us, seated and standing, are other couples. I don’t see anyone I recognize but I feel nervous and exposed. I have no idea what to say to Ellen. I wish dinner was over and I was at home.
“I don’t know,” I say. “We could wait outside?”
“Sure,” she says. We step outside, me keeping the door open as she walks out in front of me. Another couple comes in as I’m still holding the door. The girl knows Ellen.
“Hiiiii,” she says to Ellen. “What are you doing here? I can’t believe this, hi.”
“Heyyyyyyyy,” Ellen says. “How are you! What’s up, have you been here before?”
“Yeah, we come here like a lot,” the girl says, motioning to the guy, who is now talking the middle aged hostess. “It’s amazing.” I smile at her and look straight ahead. Ellen makes no mention of me. I’m still holding the door open. The girl is still sort of standing in the walkway, Ellen is on the sidewalk.
“What’re you doing later,” the girl asks.
“No idea,” Ellen says. “Why? Are you guys gonna be around?”
“Yeah girl,” she says. “It’s likely. Text me later.” She goes inside and walks to a table where the guy is already sitting, his jacket around the back of the chair, looking at his phone. He puts it down when the girl sits down. Ellen sees this happen. It occurs to me they take reservations.
“You should have made reservations,” Ellen says to me. “It is a Friday.”
Twenty minutes later we’re sitting at a small table in the humid back corner of the restaurant. The glass wall against our table is fogged with condensation. Ellen draws boobs in it. And then adds a shaft, turning it into a dick and balls.
“I’m glad we could do this,” I’m saying. “It’s great to see you again.”
“Yeah,” she says. “I didn’t think you’d text me.” I don’t know what this means. I try to change course.
“You listened to Girlpool lately?” I ask. Ellen looks at me for a moment, placing something.
“Not really,” she says finally, excruciatingly. Another pause. She seems to decide something else. “So what’d you do?”
“I work at a start-up,” I say. “It’s called Winyl, it like pairs drinks with the perfect music.”
Imperceptible interest registers on Ellen’s face. I continue: “Like what’s the best song to play while drinking this IPA, that kind of thing…”
“So what would you pair with this right now?” she says, pointing at her ice water.
“Well I’m not sure, I mean, the app uses like an algorithm. You either input the drink, or you let it listen to the music. It can pair it both ways.”
“Can I see your phone?” she asks abruptly. I hesitate. “I want to try it in here.”
“Oh, it’s not done yet. Like it’s not an app yet. I’m sort of helping out on a freelance basis.” Another long pause. I look up at her. I realize her eyes are green and not blue (the glow of her phone had thrown off their true color) and say, “Do you have Snapchat?”
“No,” she says. “I’m old-school.”
“Oh,” I say. “I respect that.” And then: “There’s a new Run the Jewels parody thing that big-name artists are getting involved with called ‘Meow the Jewels,’” I tell her. “They’ve raised a bunch of money for it already on Kickstarter. It’s absurd, but that’s the point. It’s like a joke turned reality.”
“That’s rad,” she says. “That’s actually rad.” I smile at her and she looks right at me. It feels as if all the most exciting parts of a new relationship have combined with all the ease and familiarity of an old friend. The effect is something like spiked hot chocolate: warm, comforting, intoxicating.
“Do you know who Lord Huron is?” she says. I feel her foot nudge mine.
After dinner, I’m feeling sick from the ramen and my face and head is sweaty. I pay the check and we get up slowly and walk outside, emerging into the cool and actually very pleasant night. A dog is barking somewhere and the sun is just setting over San Francisco. We’re walking to the car now and I’m not sure what’s going to happen. I’m much more comfortable now, but now that we’re back in motion, in a new and uncertain environment, I don’t know what the next step is supposed to be. I decide to say nothing and just see what happens. In the Forester we sit for a moment. I almost speak––wonder aloud what we should do––when Ellen asks, “Have you seen the new Game of Thrones yet? I still need to watch it. We could do that. I don’t want this night to end yet. My roommates have HBOGo.”
“I actually haven’t,” I lie. “That sounds awesome.” Ellen actually looks excited. I smile at her and start the car. She plugs her iPhone into the tape adapter and “I Love You, Honeybear” by Father John Misty starts playing. How sexy is that?
– Samba Guy, May 18, 2015
