"The Patron Saint of Phoenix"
Beep beep beep.
Well I've succeeded in neglecting this thing all year (sans some minor, barely noticeable rebranding). What can I say? This year has been a chaotic mess, and I just had another guinea pig die this past week. So like, good times, all around.
The same day that transpired, tho, was the same day as I was scheduled to do Bar Flies @ Valley Bar, which is a storytelling event I've always heard about but never have experienced. I have a hard time with events on weekday nights - it's hit or miss if I'll actually make them. But Bar Flies is a big deal - sponsored by the Phoenix New Times - and I was quite honored to have been tapped to participate. So even though my eyes were glassy from crying on and off all day, I did it, and it was a great experience. If you're in the area, I would highly recommend checking out the once-a-month event. I know I'll be trying to go more in the future.
Things are down for a while, and then things are up, aren't they? I have no expectations at the moment, really. Just wanting things to close on a positive note.
So without further ado, here's the story I read Thursday evening.
--
"The Patron Saint of Phoenix"
I was sitting by myself at the Yucca Tap Room (as I often do), reading a self-help book by Brene Brown one night in January 2016. I tend to read at bars when I’m alone. I’m very self-aware about being alone in public and taking up as little space as possible. I tend to be by myself in public so I’ve become very familiar with it over the years, and what you need to do in these situations to ensure you remain invisible.
“Hey, do you mind if I take this seat? My boyfriend needs a place to stay,” a woman approached me. Her face was devoid of emotion.
“Sure,” I gestured my hand for her to take the chair, and to take it quickly. I didn’t want to talk to her more than I had to.
I don’t mean to be cold, but I’ve not had the best experiences with people. A therapist once diagnosed me with hypervigilance. I am always on guard. Especially when unknown men try to strike up conversation with me. Then I am especially on guard. But in today’s “Me Too” world, who can blame me?
“Are you by yourself?” Another voice asked me shortly thereafter. I look up from the crisp white pages of my new book and I see myself facing a diminutive fellow who looks more boy than man. His hair was so blonde it was almost effervescently white, and behind his wide-frame glasses he looked scared and bemused.
“Yeah but I’m reading,” I implore him to fuck off in the most polite and hurried way possible. “I’m not interested in talking, sorry.” I returned to my book.
“Oh.” He was undeterred. “I’m here from Utah on work. I’m at that big car convention up in Scottsdale. I’m staying around here though, I have my bike.”
“Ah. Nice.” I continued to pay more attention to my book than his presence. I wished he would ramble off and find someone else to bother.
“I’m not trying to hit on you or anything. I don’t know anybody here, and I want to have a good time, but no one is friendly. And my co-workers all seem kind of boring.” I looked up at him again, narrowing my eyes. And then something in my heart snapped, and this weirdly dormant maternal part of me kicked in.
“Well, that sucks. Where are you here from?”
“I live on a farm.” I pictured the opening from “The Waltons.” Well, that explains a lot.
He introduced himself as Derrick. He reminded me of “Where’s Waldo.” There was something very childlike about him I felt bad about, and could not explain exactly why. I hated myself for doubting his intentions. He was a sheltered boy surveying his surroundings, taking everything in with a hint of suspicion or disbelief. His body was very thin - I was quite aware at times that I felt like my figure dwarfed him. And if he hadn’t told me his age (32), I would have easily mistaken him for a first-year high school student who had ditched his parents for the evening.
“So are you going to stay at the Yucca all night?” I inquired, putting my book back in my bag. He shook his head.
“No, probably not. I think I’m going to explore. You wanna come with me?” But I was headed into downtown Phoenix to raise a ruckus with my friend Jack, so I turned his offer down.
“Oh. That’s okay though. Can I have your number?” I thought about it for a moment, and then relented. Derrick reached for his phone in his pocket, which happened to be a flip phone. Oh, God.
“I’m going to text you. Is that okay?” I told him it was, paid my tab, and ordered my Uber. In the car, I made a mental note that I had done a good thing and decided to relax for the remainder of my evening. And I breathed a great big sigh of relief that Derrick had turned out not to be creepy.
15 minutes later, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
“Help me I’m lost.” For a moment, I stared at the name. And then: Oh.
“Who’s texting you?!” Jack yelled at me above a steady stream of music.
“Oh some guy,” I responded. Jack openly scoffed at me.
“You’re gay, Britt,” he told me as if this was news I was hearing for the very first time. I ignored him, and turned my attention to my phone.
“How are you lost?” I typed to Derrick. It took a few minutes, but I received a relatively timely response.
“I don’t know. I went to Q and Brew. I almost fought some guys. Now I’m on the side of the road.”
“The side of the road where?”
“Uh I think this road is called Baseline. Where am I? I think I should eat something.”
“What do you see there?!”
“Some place called ‘BOSA.’”
“Okay, go there. They have donuts and stuff. Like bagel sandwiches.” I retired my phone to the pocket of my jeans.
An hour or so later, this arrived: “I just ate 12 sugary donuts and I have a stomachache. I need to go home and go to sleep. Where is home?”
“Call an Uber.” I texted. “Do you need me to call it for you?”
“Why are you still texting that idiot? He’s going to think you’ll put out for him. Stop misleading him!” Over the sound of my fingers working away, Jack’s shape swayed above me. He was gradually becoming more agitated with my unintentional ignoring.
“Would you shut up?” I snapped, making a “shut up” motion with my hand.
“No wonder you can’t ever get any dates with girls,” Jack mumbled, turning his back toward me. I shifted my entire focus to Derrick yet again, consciously deciding to ignore my friend, who was kind of an asshole.
“Oh no no. I’ll text you when I get home,” he wrote back. “I think I can figure it out. I think? But thank you. You’re like the patron saint of Phoenix. A lot of people must love you.”
“Ha, ha.” I pushed my phone back into my jeans one last time.
This wasn’t the last of Derrick, though. No, he didn’t disappear into a donut-filled catatonic state. For the next week he was in town, without fail, every night I received a new message from him asking me my whereabouts and if I wanted to join him for a self-described “Yucca burger, Yucca beer, dinner somewhere.”
In the short time we collided, Derrick and I became quick, close friends and confidants. I opened up to him about all the quandaries in my life. Derrick listened. He told me about how he he had accidentally slept with a married woman shortly before leaving for Phoenix. It was my turn to listen.
“She told me my boxers looked silly.”
“Why would she tell you that?”
“Well, they ARE “Spiderman” boxers.” And then he pulled down his pants to show me quickly.
“Jesus Christ! Keep your pants on!”
Derrick also told me about the farm he lived on, his menagerie of his animals, the beauty of Utah, and his strained relationship with his parents.
“If you come to Utah, I’ll show you the animals,” he promised. I told him I would someday, even then knowing as the words fell from my mouth I wouldn’t.
Flash to now. I recently traveled to Northern Arizona, joined by only my miserable company. I found myself wandering out at night to the local bars in the tiny downtown. I played the role of the visiting, mysterious stranger quite well - as I didn’t talk to anybody. I didn’t even bring a book this go around.
At the second bar I ventured to, a young stocky man plopped down next to me, dressed like he had recently emerged from a North Pole expedition.
“You alone?” I nodded. His eyes were rough and blue, and for a moment my sinking heart beat that we were about to embark on a Derrick-like adventure. Even though I had alienated my original travel partner earlier that week, I would have someone to share things with, someone to talk to over cold beers and equally cold winds.
But at some point that evening, realizing my intentions weren’t of the physical variety, the young stocky man got up and walked into the starry Arizona night, leaving me to watch him. I lingered for a moment, thought of Derrick, and returned to kiss my beer.
Well I've succeeded in neglecting this thing all year (sans some minor, barely noticeable rebranding). What can I say? This year has been a chaotic mess, and I just had another guinea pig die this past week. So like, good times, all around.
The same day that transpired, tho, was the same day as I was scheduled to do Bar Flies @ Valley Bar, which is a storytelling event I've always heard about but never have experienced. I have a hard time with events on weekday nights - it's hit or miss if I'll actually make them. But Bar Flies is a big deal - sponsored by the Phoenix New Times - and I was quite honored to have been tapped to participate. So even though my eyes were glassy from crying on and off all day, I did it, and it was a great experience. If you're in the area, I would highly recommend checking out the once-a-month event. I know I'll be trying to go more in the future.
Things are down for a while, and then things are up, aren't they? I have no expectations at the moment, really. Just wanting things to close on a positive note.
So without further ado, here's the story I read Thursday evening.
--
"The Patron Saint of Phoenix"
I was sitting by myself at the Yucca Tap Room (as I often do), reading a self-help book by Brene Brown one night in January 2016. I tend to read at bars when I’m alone. I’m very self-aware about being alone in public and taking up as little space as possible. I tend to be by myself in public so I’ve become very familiar with it over the years, and what you need to do in these situations to ensure you remain invisible.
“Hey, do you mind if I take this seat? My boyfriend needs a place to stay,” a woman approached me. Her face was devoid of emotion.
“Sure,” I gestured my hand for her to take the chair, and to take it quickly. I didn’t want to talk to her more than I had to.
I don’t mean to be cold, but I’ve not had the best experiences with people. A therapist once diagnosed me with hypervigilance. I am always on guard. Especially when unknown men try to strike up conversation with me. Then I am especially on guard. But in today’s “Me Too” world, who can blame me?
“Are you by yourself?” Another voice asked me shortly thereafter. I look up from the crisp white pages of my new book and I see myself facing a diminutive fellow who looks more boy than man. His hair was so blonde it was almost effervescently white, and behind his wide-frame glasses he looked scared and bemused.
“Yeah but I’m reading,” I implore him to fuck off in the most polite and hurried way possible. “I’m not interested in talking, sorry.” I returned to my book.
“Oh.” He was undeterred. “I’m here from Utah on work. I’m at that big car convention up in Scottsdale. I’m staying around here though, I have my bike.”
“Ah. Nice.” I continued to pay more attention to my book than his presence. I wished he would ramble off and find someone else to bother.
“I’m not trying to hit on you or anything. I don’t know anybody here, and I want to have a good time, but no one is friendly. And my co-workers all seem kind of boring.” I looked up at him again, narrowing my eyes. And then something in my heart snapped, and this weirdly dormant maternal part of me kicked in.
“Well, that sucks. Where are you here from?”
“I live on a farm.” I pictured the opening from “The Waltons.” Well, that explains a lot.
He introduced himself as Derrick. He reminded me of “Where’s Waldo.” There was something very childlike about him I felt bad about, and could not explain exactly why. I hated myself for doubting his intentions. He was a sheltered boy surveying his surroundings, taking everything in with a hint of suspicion or disbelief. His body was very thin - I was quite aware at times that I felt like my figure dwarfed him. And if he hadn’t told me his age (32), I would have easily mistaken him for a first-year high school student who had ditched his parents for the evening.
“So are you going to stay at the Yucca all night?” I inquired, putting my book back in my bag. He shook his head.
“No, probably not. I think I’m going to explore. You wanna come with me?” But I was headed into downtown Phoenix to raise a ruckus with my friend Jack, so I turned his offer down.
“Oh. That’s okay though. Can I have your number?” I thought about it for a moment, and then relented. Derrick reached for his phone in his pocket, which happened to be a flip phone. Oh, God.
“I’m going to text you. Is that okay?” I told him it was, paid my tab, and ordered my Uber. In the car, I made a mental note that I had done a good thing and decided to relax for the remainder of my evening. And I breathed a great big sigh of relief that Derrick had turned out not to be creepy.
15 minutes later, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
“Help me I’m lost.” For a moment, I stared at the name. And then: Oh.
“Who’s texting you?!” Jack yelled at me above a steady stream of music.
“Oh some guy,” I responded. Jack openly scoffed at me.
“You’re gay, Britt,” he told me as if this was news I was hearing for the very first time. I ignored him, and turned my attention to my phone.
“How are you lost?” I typed to Derrick. It took a few minutes, but I received a relatively timely response.
“I don’t know. I went to Q and Brew. I almost fought some guys. Now I’m on the side of the road.”
“The side of the road where?”
“Uh I think this road is called Baseline. Where am I? I think I should eat something.”
“What do you see there?!”
“Some place called ‘BOSA.’”
“Okay, go there. They have donuts and stuff. Like bagel sandwiches.” I retired my phone to the pocket of my jeans.
An hour or so later, this arrived: “I just ate 12 sugary donuts and I have a stomachache. I need to go home and go to sleep. Where is home?”
“Call an Uber.” I texted. “Do you need me to call it for you?”
“Why are you still texting that idiot? He’s going to think you’ll put out for him. Stop misleading him!” Over the sound of my fingers working away, Jack’s shape swayed above me. He was gradually becoming more agitated with my unintentional ignoring.
“Would you shut up?” I snapped, making a “shut up” motion with my hand.
“No wonder you can’t ever get any dates with girls,” Jack mumbled, turning his back toward me. I shifted my entire focus to Derrick yet again, consciously deciding to ignore my friend, who was kind of an asshole.
“Oh no no. I’ll text you when I get home,” he wrote back. “I think I can figure it out. I think? But thank you. You’re like the patron saint of Phoenix. A lot of people must love you.”
“Ha, ha.” I pushed my phone back into my jeans one last time.
This wasn’t the last of Derrick, though. No, he didn’t disappear into a donut-filled catatonic state. For the next week he was in town, without fail, every night I received a new message from him asking me my whereabouts and if I wanted to join him for a self-described “Yucca burger, Yucca beer, dinner somewhere.”
In the short time we collided, Derrick and I became quick, close friends and confidants. I opened up to him about all the quandaries in my life. Derrick listened. He told me about how he he had accidentally slept with a married woman shortly before leaving for Phoenix. It was my turn to listen.
“She told me my boxers looked silly.”
“Why would she tell you that?”
“Well, they ARE “Spiderman” boxers.” And then he pulled down his pants to show me quickly.
“Jesus Christ! Keep your pants on!”
Derrick also told me about the farm he lived on, his menagerie of his animals, the beauty of Utah, and his strained relationship with his parents.
“If you come to Utah, I’ll show you the animals,” he promised. I told him I would someday, even then knowing as the words fell from my mouth I wouldn’t.
Flash to now. I recently traveled to Northern Arizona, joined by only my miserable company. I found myself wandering out at night to the local bars in the tiny downtown. I played the role of the visiting, mysterious stranger quite well - as I didn’t talk to anybody. I didn’t even bring a book this go around.
At the second bar I ventured to, a young stocky man plopped down next to me, dressed like he had recently emerged from a North Pole expedition.
“You alone?” I nodded. His eyes were rough and blue, and for a moment my sinking heart beat that we were about to embark on a Derrick-like adventure. Even though I had alienated my original travel partner earlier that week, I would have someone to share things with, someone to talk to over cold beers and equally cold winds.
But at some point that evening, realizing my intentions weren’t of the physical variety, the young stocky man got up and walked into the starry Arizona night, leaving me to watch him. I lingered for a moment, thought of Derrick, and returned to kiss my beer.
Comments
Post a Comment