Shame Bagel Always Satisfies
Warning – Not Safe for Family Members
It’s 9am on a Sunday and I am the most terrifying person in this restaurant. Want proof? The single guy sitting next to me just got a breakfast sandwich on French toast and I was like, ‘Is that a breakfast sandwich on French toast?’ and he refused to engage in rapport. I’m still wearing last night’s black dress, black tights, blue bike shorts in lieu of underwear. My messy hair has been pulled into a mocking facsimile of a ponytail and there’s a giant bruise on my neck. I am alternately staring fixedly into space and smiling with pure love and soul acceptance into the eyeballs of strangers — all while scribbling these notes in sleep-deprived cursive into my waiter’s order pad. All while eating a MOTHERFUCKING ACTUAL BAGEL IN SEATTLE ! Thank you Roxy’s Diner.
Last night I went to my first show at the Crocodile. La Luz was playing. I’ve been hearing about them for months, ever since a friend in Austin saw them perform and texted me about it this spring. I biked down to Belltown after an easy night at work that moved a little faster than I did. After briefly getting lost in the Bermuda Triangle of Denny, I was there. Crowds queued outside, smoking cigarettes, waiting for nothing. My friend had already bought me a ticket. I went in.
Dude York was on stage so I decided not to find my friend just yet. After six months of singledom and solitude, people make me a little bit antsy. I watched Dude York alone, backpack on my back, and when they finished and the crowd thinned I saw my friend. She was with people I knew and more. I took a swig of vodka cranberry from her water bottle and wandered away to find more booze and to people-watch. Every girl looked like Grimes.
A friend of my friend won a dance contest. She deserved it. And then La Luz came on. They were good — in a surf rock girl band background music kind of way. This was their album release show and they played out the full album in order. Which was cute. But really, it was kind of boring. I used to go to underground punk shows in Buffalo. I saw a tiny metal band in Ballard last week. I need music to fit the setting: classic rock for driving; Ella Fitzgerald at home; James Blake in the shower (if the shower I just took is any indication). La Luz would be perfect for… a high school makeout session. Live, I want something a little more ridiculous.
We split after the show. The dancer went to Capitol Hill. My friend and her boyfriend grabbed a bus back north. And I — buzzing off espresso and whiskey and sexual inattention — decided to chance the writhing hellscape that is the Frontier Room. It was as disgusting and dude-heavy as always. I accepted a whiskey ginger from a married man from Brazil, agreed to kiss him on the cheek, and then refused to stop talking about Portugal. Why would anyone want to be kissed on the cheek? By a stranger?! After he left I danced with another guy. He bought me a shot of whiskey; I learned his birthday is the day after mine; I correctly guessed that his little sister was born on September 11, 2001; we went back to his place.
We didn’t do it. He did try to stick shit into my ass like it was a toddler’s shape-sorting toy. And I was like, ‘A square can’t fit into a triangle! Call me when you learn geometry.’ He also chewed on me as if I were a delicious bagel and he a teething Jewish infant and now I have to wear a neck scarf to work.
But he broke my heart, this man, this boy, one year and one day younger than me. He moved here from Mass a year ago, recruited by Amazon straight out of college. He makes more money than I do I’m sure, and lives alone in a nice apartment with a brand new kitchen and no furniture. His living room empty save the framed photo of him and his siblings that says, ‘We Miss You!’
I tried to sneak out while he was sleeping. No dice. “You’re not going to say goodbye? You’re not going to leave me your number? I feel so used.” So I wrote my number on the bottom of an empty case of beer and I took myself out to brunch.