The Cigarette Vignettes – Drinks

Josh Blockwell’s The Cigarette Vignettes return with one or two drinks.

 

Drink with Eric

It’s dark by the time we arrive at the bar. The place is crowded with younger people gearing up for the night ahead. Are all these people old enough to drink? They all look so young to me. I swear the guy who took my order had acne and a brace. I’m getting old. How long is it going to be before i’ll be talking to complete strangers on a bus about ‘The old neighbourhood’?

                Two beers are placed in front of us and I light a cigarette. No ashtray, great. Eric talks about the party, he thinks its going to be a pretty quiet affair. Apparently some of his East Village friends are going to bring over some ‘pretty rare records’. I’m pretty sure that means that i’m going to be subjected to four hours of an incomprehensible cacophony of instruments i’ve never heard of. I’ll either leave smelling heavily of grass, or throw myself out of his ‘Observation Lounge’.

                I’ve managed to steer Eric’s conversation away from women for a change. This is a mixed blessing, as he’s now talking to me about work. I consider asking him if there are any vacancies, but after some thought I realize that I honestly have no idea what Eric actually does in the first place. I consider the possibilities of moving elsewhere; maybe a fresh start is actually what I need. I could move back to Chicago, be closer to my parents, but I’m sure that would mean seeing an analyst on a daily basis. I turn around and ask for an ashtray.

Fiona is sitting there.

I get up and leave the bar.

First drink With Fiona

It starts with all those awkward questions. What do you do? Where do you live? Do you like it here? I really hate that, but it seems to be a rite of passage for a ‘first date’ for lack of a better term. The bar is empty tonight and I get paranoid that the bar staff are watching and quietly analysing us. They probably think I’m a desperate stockbroker and she’s an underdressed hooker. People always think the worst of you. I light a cigarette and pass it to Fiona.

The smoke obscures her face briefly; it reminds me of one of those old films. She’s wearing the sweater I liked when we first met. I’m tempted to ask where she got it but that might be too strange a question for casual conversation. People always say that you instantly click with people you like. In my mind it seems that you fumble your way through awkward conversation topics until something meaningful comes out the other end. Maybe that’s just me. She mentions The Velvet Underground, John Coltrane, Artie Shaw, I pause in amazement and light a cigarette.

Cigarette smoke fills the bar as we exchange the names of bands, photographers, authors in some sort of frenzy. It’s like we’re both trying to best the other on our knowledge of music and art. The stunted small talk seems to have finished and this is the end result. Thank Christ, I don’t know how much more of that I could have taken before running out in front of a passing taxi. Awkward conversation is the bane of civilisation.

I order another drink and she finally asks me the question I dread. “Do you enjoy writing for commercials? Really?” I think hard about my answer. Do I really want to get all angst-ridden on our first night together? “Its not ideal I guess. But there’s nothing else around right now.” There, that’s pretty neutral, I hope. “Yeah, but do you really get any satisfaction from it?” She asks. I’ll admit, the pat on the back I received for my last toothpaste commercial was about as empty as this bar.

“You want an honest answer?” I ask.
“Shoot.” She takes a drag.
“It’s the bottom rung of the writing career.”
“Really?” She looks surprised, I have no idea why.
“Put it this way, even the writers of soap-operas and kids shows look down on us.”
“You’ve seen that happen?”
“No, but I can imagine they’re sitting there in their offices thinking ‘This job is terrible, but at least I’m not writing Sugar-O’s commercials.’ Trust me, don’t go into advertising.”
“You could be selling cigarettes to kids.”
“I didn’t say there were worse jobs out there.”
“You could always call it a day if you hate it so much?”
“Like I said, there’s nothing out there.”
“That’s because you aren’t looking hard enough, just give it up, opportunities will come along.”
“If I quit my job I’ll lose my apartment.”
“Apartments aren’t everything.”

I stub my cigarette out. “Look at us, it’s our first night out together and we’re already bickering. This is a pretty deep conversation for the two of us.” She nods and stubs her cigarette out.

“I mean, do you see couples in films discussing aspirations and career choices on their first dates.” She looks up from her drink. “A date? This is a date?” The world pauses for a second, my stomach seems to drop. I start to panic; I consider walking out now, just to get away from the awkwardness. She cracks a smile. “I guess you could call it that.” Wow, I never thought I’d live through a cliché.

She looks around, takes her sweater off and drapes it over the back of the chair. “I mean, look at those guys by the window, what do you think they’re talking about?” I run my hand through my hair and light another cigarette. “He’s clearly on leave from the forces; she put an ad out in the paper asking for a burly man, preferably from a military background, interested in casual meetings and occasional group sex.” She laughs. “They’re probably talking about where he’s served overseas. She’s interested in all the other guys he’s served with, its one of her funny little kinks. She likes a man in uniform.” The guy turns around; I look away quickly and pretend to change the subject. “You always seem to think the worst of people, you know.” She smiles. She’s beautiful.

“I didn’t say that was a bad thing.”
“So you’re suggesting you enjoy occasional group sex?”
“I didn’t say that either. Stop putting words in my mouth.” I blow smoke at her. She laughs.
“Well they could be having a wholesome conversation about the family they want to raise. They could even be brother and sister for christs sake.”
“Shit, do you know them?”
“Not at all, I just wanted to counter your view of New York. We’re not all decadent and perverted you know?”
“I guess you’re right. But I didn’t say group sex was either of those things.” Am I flirting? Or can I expect a quick kick to the crotch and a face full of pepper spray soon? I’ll probably be on the front page by Tuesday. ‘Local pervert caught and arrested in downtown bar – Decries he was ‘joking’, trial begins tomorrow.’
“Well do you want to go home and try it out?”
“Wait, what?” She laughs and orders two more drinks. “Thank god you were joking. I have inadequacy issues already, a night like that would kill me.”
“Tell me about it. Wait, how did this conversation even start? We’ve been talking about this for a good few minutes. We’re just as bad as those guys over there.” They look around again; we need to leave soon before an open brawl kicks off.
“So you admit they were probably discussing it? Now who’s seeing the worst in people?”
“Fuck off.” She laughs.

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