Blame New York
Posted on | March 28, 2009 | 1 Comment
The first time I saw B was at the beach’s 17 meter marker. I was walking with J after a four-hour midday session and carrying my 7’4″ Nectar. It was just after high tide.
To be clear, I didn’t see B so much as hear him. He shouted hello to J, to me, then headed into the water. I didn’t think much of it until the following night when I saw him again. I was alone, starving, and looking for a way to kill the evening. Roommate J was having a Boys’ Night Out in Tamarindo before leaving for Witch’s Rock the next afternoon.
I still don’t know what B saw me nor what compelled him to bring me along on his 25th birthday night. Cigarette behind ear, ukelele on back, he got behind the bar to serve me Cuba Libres once it became clear his friends forgot to pick him up for his own sunset watching party. (Everyone assumed someone else was supposed to get him.) He was serving me fish tacos with fresh guacamole when S came screaming apologies out of her van and drove us both to the weekly jam session in which he played.
“By the way,” he said, after we had arrived and he tricked me into playing a round of pool. “I want to apologize for being rude to you yesterday.”
“Yesterday…?”
“When I said ‘hello’ on the beach.”
“Oh yeah – that was you?”
“I kinda hurried past ’cause your friend – J, you said? – gave me a look.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, um,” he sucked in his breath. “When a guy wants to check out a girl that’s like, with another guy, you always give the other guy the first nod – out of respect, you know – before sneaking a glance at his girl. So I’m ridin’ up, say ‘sup’ to him, about to look at you – except he never breaks eye contact. He keeps like, lookin’ at me out of the corner of his eye – like ‘i’m gonna cut you’ – so I couldn’t give you the nod without feeling bad about it.”
“You mean, J gave you the stink eye?!?” I burst out laughing. “Well, let me assure you I am not his girl. But that’s hi-larious.” The game continued and led to a team match (I the weakest link), as we verbally sparred with each other. I don’t remember what we talked about or how late we stayed up, only that there were many laughs in between.
At some point, however, he asked (rhetorically? seriously?) “Ok, so you’re not with J. But how are you single?!?”
I paused and blushed sheepishly. “I don’t know.”
Because I don’t. I don’t know why, for instance, there are so few boys in my city (if any! sigh) who give my heart that one-two punch of chemistry and inspiration that it craves. Or why it seems to require me too much energy to go on a first date, even two, or why the third time never feels like it will be a charm. I don’t know how come I feel perennially inadequate in New York: not hipster enough / not corporate enough, not retro enough / not modern enough; not cute enough / not sexy enough to garner any extraordinary attention. Or when there is someone with that devious eye twinkle, they never see that spark in mine. Here, I confess I feel more adolescent than I actually was as an adolescent.
I don’t recall how I responded but I must’ve managed to mumble some of this.
I grew tired before the jam session ended and B chivalrously drove me on his moped back to my hotel. After I hugged him good night, he called out behind me. “Nancy?”
“Yes?”
“Blame New York, darlin,’” He said decisively.
“It definitely ain’t you.”
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