“Men are like buses- they come every fifteen minutes.” The first and only time I heard this comparison, I rolled my eyes so hard I thought my pupil was going to detach from my eyeball. At the time, I had been soaking in a bathwater of tears from my previous relationship that had demised two years ago and my thoughts on moving forward were no where in motion. I had been waiting for a bus that had steered off course, all the while I was bypassing every bus that made a stop, so to speak. Three years have passed now, and not until two months ago had I decided to hop on the next bus.
It was a warm night in Hermosa Beach when I agreed to celebrate a girlfriend’s birthday at Sharkey’s Bar and Grill. Originally, my plans were to watch the Lakers vs. Mavericks game at home with a nice cold beer, but a little bird informed me that my ex’s “make-out partner” was going to be there. I had extreme interest in knowing what this girl was all about. Was she prettier? Did she have my sense of humor? Was she a fashionista like myself? It's only normal. I suddenly caught myself driving 55 on a 35 mph zone to my bff’s house with my sexy magenta top that exposed my upper back. It's that shirt that screams "I look damn good, and I didn't try very hard."There is nothing more regretful than looking like shit when we encounter two people- an ex and his girlfriend/“friend”.
Upon arrival, I was immediately embraced by my overly intoxicated friends who had had a head start since three o‘clock in the afternoon! My heart was pumping, knowing that I would soon be face-to-face with this “friend.” As my BFF, Bev, and I were being introduced the whole bunch, I finally heard the birthday girl introduce me to the “friend”. I stuck my hand out and said “Hi, nice to...” My big smile died down as I focused on the center of her face. Her nose was large and pointy. Her eyes were tiny and stretched apart. I looked down at her sandals and stared at her unpolished toe nails hoping that she didn’t catch me staring at the center of her face and slowly shifted my eyes up to her pink American Eagle top. I shook her hand thinking to myself “I’m not at home watching the game because of you?” I grabbed Beverly’s hand, and made our way to the bar for a Corona. Beverly gave me a smile- when you’re best friends with someone for 15 years you learn to read each other’s mind- and I smiled back. Upset at myself for the above-the-ceiling curiosity I had for this chick and the thought that I had to look my best for her, I downed my beer and ordered a Mai Tai. It was going to be a long night.
Back at the table, it seemed as though Bev and I were visiting from another planet. We couldn’t comprehend the drunk gibberish conversations. Probably because we were sitting so far from them -we were practically sitting on the next table- praying their careless free movements wouldn’t spill their beer on either one of us.
“Excuse me, but is this table taken?” asked a tall handsome black man.
“No,” said Beverly. Beverly instantly locked eyes with the black man. She recognized him, but couldn’t remember from where. “Hey, you’re Walter’s friend!”
Walter was an old high school friend whom Beverly had recently flirtatiously texted for a month before he grew some balls and invited Beverly to a Dodger game... with his friends! (strike one, you’re out!). “Black mamba” here was one Walter’s friend who had joined them at the game.
“Beverly, right?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, but I can’t remember your name.”
“Michael.”
“Nice to see you again Michael. This is Angie.”
I looked over Beverly to see not only the “black mamba”, but two persian men sitting across from him.
“Pleasure,” I said.
“This is...” Michael unsuccessfully yelled over the cheering Laker fans. I shook their hands as though I had heard their name when in fact I didn’t hear not one sound (Can I buy a vowel?).
Beverly continued small talk with her “black mamba”, as I continued watching the Laker game- the Lakers were losing. Somewhere between my deep concentration on the game and how much I despised Kobe more than ever, I could feel myself being watched. I glanced over catching one of the persian men staring at me. I looked back to the plasma television thinking he would turn away, but he kept his eyes on me. I looked back at him.
He was about 5’9, and his celebrity look-alike was George Clooney, definitely. He had dimples that complimented his smile. You could tell he was a chubby child growing up, and had to work out excessively to control his weight. His style, extremely casual. He was wearing khaki shorts with a white printed tee.
“Are you a Laker fan,” he asked.
“Right now, not so much”
“Let me guess, you love Kobe”
“I’m actually not his biggest fan”
“You’re probably the first girl that I know that doesn’t like the guy. I just hope you like Prince.”
“I love Prince! Purple rain, purple rain!,” I sang off tune. I was on my fourth drink, and being the light-weight that I am, I was already tipsy.
“What’s your favorite song?”
The change of topic confused me. Persian man must really like Prince to have changed the topic from Kobe to 80’s pop.
“The way you make me feel,” I replied with a face full of question marks.
“Well I have a proposition for you. You see I have two Prince concert tickets and I know nothing of Prince, so maybe you can join me and teach me a thing or two....”
“If you’re not familiar with his music then why buy tickets?”
“I heard he puts on quite a show”
Sober me would have said “no thanks”, however, buzzed Angie says...
“Sure, what’s your number?”
We exchanged numbers. Before I could save the number, my phone asked for the name the number belonged to. Name? Damn, I never caught his name. I titled him Prince Ali.
“So tell me a little bit about yourself,” Prince Ali asked.
I was pleased to hear that my Persian prince actually wanted to get to know me. For one, it showed that he was not too drunk, and second, he wanted to make sure he is not taking a psycho to the Prince concert.
As we chit-chatted about ourselves, I learned that Prince Ali was an alumni at California State University- Northridge, who majored in Psychology and is currently working for his father’s company. Why are all Persians so business savvy? I have enough trouble juggling my own bank account, and minding my own business.
What he learned about me was that I had never dated outside my race. It was not by choice, but because of my surroundings. My hometown is half hispanic and half black leaving my options narrow. He also learned that I had never agreed to a date from someone I just met at a bar. My fear is to become like one of those girls you read about on magazines like Cosmo Girl or Teen People that got raped, but you find it difficult to feel sorry for them because they brought it upon themselves by going to a man’s pad after the club or by taking a ride from a complete stranger.
I normally find myself intimidated of men, but he gave me a good vibe. Perhaps it was the beer that made me feel courageous. Perhaps, when men and woman are perfect for one another they click instantly. All I know is that I left the bar that night with my head held high and I opened a new chapter in my life.
Perhaps my persian prince never rescued me, I’d like to think I rescued myself by navigating an alternate route. When it comes to dating, we need a sense of direction, otherwise we may be stranded waiting for something that we will probably never again cross paths with.
