It’s been another hectic past few days. I’m finding it a challenge posting on a strictly daily basis, and I’m not sure if that’s a function of the lifestyle or not. Either way, I’ll keep trying my best to stick to my promised outline of daily posts. Since tomorrow will officially be my first day of homelessness, I will start by recapping my time with Linda. I’ll try to post a separate slew of updates in a later post.

Here goes:

Linda and I decided to meet for a drink at 9:30 at a karaoke dive bar.

What’s funny about that is this: I’ve always said I had retired from karaoke in 8th grade. My last performance was also my first, a chilling rendition of Coolio’s Gangster’s Paradise at Annie Lederman’s 15th birthday party. It was a memorable performance, and I figured I couldn’t top it. So at the age of 14, I hung up my live mic and called it a day on karaoke. I’ve made good on that silence vow ever since.

I had no intention of singing that night. In fact, I was feeling a little run down from the whole lifestyle juggling act that I almost considered postponing our meeting. So when Linda texted to say she was running late, I breathed a sigh of relief and headed to Trader Joe’s for a dose of my favorite cold-killer cocktail: liquid Vitamin C and peanut butter cups. We all have our quirks.

I arrived at the bar on time and ordered a Jack and Coke. I usually steer clear of liquor in favor of beer, as hard liquor has a notorious and magical effect on my inhibition filter, giving me the absolute and completely unchecked power of provocation. It’s a dangerous path to walk down, so I usually avoid it. But I figured I needed the boost tonight.

When Linda showed up, I was halfway done with my drink. I had brought in one of my dark-chocolate Trader Joe’s peanut butter cups to give to her. It was disguised as a welcoming gift, but it was really just a test. Pass/fail. I couldn’t imagine dating someone who didn’t think those things were amazing. We hugged and I presented her the gift.

“Oh my gosh, these things are amazing,” she beamed.

Pass.

Linda was every much the force in the bar as she was upon our meeting. Every new guy who stepped to the mic picked her out of the crowd, directing their song her way. It wasn’t that her appearance alone garnered the attention–she dressed conservatively and with little makeup–but her energy was unmistakable. For someone who claimed not to be much of a partier, she had a youthful ability to act free of inhibitions. Even before the liquor. Before I’d finished my drink, she had found a way to commandeer part of the older, more hilarious regular’s costume (the dude was wearing white leather gloves–I don’t know…) and pose for a little photo shoot:

Problem was, Linda also wanted to sing. At first I gave her my same tried and true excuse of retirement. She continued to press the issue. And to a certain extent, it worked. I began to question why I’d waste so much energy on this illusion that my performance needed to be perfect. Linda’s infectious energy–and the verve of the new horizons I was about to be tackling–got me thinking in a different way. I realized my refusal to sing was a huge cop out. I was escaping the (perceived) inevitable failure of singing in front of an audience. Since I wasn’t a singer, I wouldn’t give a credible appearance, or at least one I thought was good enough to satisfy my view of the perfect performance.

But dude, it’s just karaoke.

Linda didn’t have to say any of this to convince me to pick a song. Joe Nichols’ Brokenheartsville. I gave a marginally credible performance. Even the guy with the white gloves complimented my voice… and then proceeded to give me various other pointers on how to be a star karaoke singer like him.

Singing was freeing. And the feeling of letting go bled over to the rest of the night. Our conversations were animated and our dance moves were bold. I actually twirled Linda over my head. (I’m still not sure how I pulled that off, but it was cool.) Later in the evening, I saw an old coworker who commented on my suave. It was kind of magical. In the drunk way that a good night at the bar often is.

We closed the bar that night. Walking back to our cars, Linda was quick to note that I would not be “taking her home tonight”. This was fine by me. Too often do people feel pressured to have sex too early out of some unwritten obligation. Knowing that, I had no idea what to expect. Not that I could have guessed we’d have spent two more hours outside of the bar. Laying out all my blankets and cushions in the back of my car, I felt as if I was in high school again, improvising a semi-private sanctuary to enjoy a lover’s company. We had found a place to go after the bar closed, when we couldn’t go home and weren’t allowed to stay there.

When I finally got to bed, it was nearly 5am.

It was a wonderful evening.

– TOH