Winter 2013 — THE POTOMAC

Girl Trouble

Robin Billings

Whenever I went over to the party house and this one girl was already there, she acted like we were friends. She liked lording it over me with her being a lot taller, like a fuckin Amazon, and then of course there were her big tits I had to contend with, because as tall as she was, they’d just about hit me in the eyes when she stood too close. That girl made “too close for comfort” a real thing and not just a saying. But the worst part was the way she drove. When she dragged me along to pick up more beer for the guys at the party house, because no way was she leaving me there without her, especially when the best-looking guy who lived at the party house was home, she drove like she was working out some kind of crazy puzzle directions just to drive down the road to the Convenient.

After a couple of trips, I had to know what the hell was going on, so I asked her.

“Turning left in front of traffic is dangerous,” she said. “Did you know you can get anywhere you need to go if you understand the map grid of the city, and you just keep turning right?”

“Hmmm,” I said. “Isn’t just turning left to drive a few blocks down to the store a lot easier?”

She tore into me then with her big loud voice, saying no, no, that was a mistake. It was not easier just turning left. Only stupid people turned left in front of cars. They were the ones who deserved to die. Clear out the population. Like Darwin talked about or something.

I kept ending up with girls like this who thought we were friends; girls who circled whole blocks to get where they were going instead of just going ahead and turning goddamn left and defying the oncoming traffic. You know; look left, look right, snap another look and turn, baby, turn. Take a damn chance every once in a while, why don’t you? I’m sure Darwin was a smart guy and all, but life’s too short to worry about this shit all time.

There are loads of girls like this one, just waiting to latch on and drive a person half crazy.

This other girl I used to know was just as bad in her own sweet way. She had a weird last name, like Cleveland or something; a name that was supposed to be a famous name or a city name or anything other than just the last name of some girl to hang around with.

I went out with her one night, down to the one row of good bars in town. We wandered bar to bar until we got tired of wandering and sat for a while in this one place that had a pretty good band playing. And the singer, he looked at me in the audience, and between songs he said their set was almost finished, that they’d be taking a break soon, and he kinda waved my way, and I smiled at him so he’d know I noticed him motioning to me. And then, when he started singing what he said was the last song of that set, with the colored lights up on stage flicking away to the beat of the drummer pounding on his drums, this Cleveland girl leans over and tells me she wants to go. She wants to go, that’s all. No big reason. But she was my ride, so I had to go. I look up at the singer as we stand up, and he’s holding out his arms in a suffering Jesus kind of a way, and he’s got a big loud what and a why screaming there in his eyes even though he’s still having to sing; and he’s looking pretty disappointed, so I shrug my shoulders and point to the girl. And we walk out.

I’m pretty sure that was all and only about her not liking him wanting to talk to me when no one had picked her out to talk to.

That’s why having friends that are girls is trouble. Because when you’re with them, they seal you in to their own little worlds. You have to be like them, and you can’t go off somewhere and try something new. They don’t like that. They want you to be what they want you to be. And you can’t try to be more.

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