Alive and Dirty

Jen adjusted her skintight skirt as she plopped down into the booth seat across from me. A gust of Curve perfume overpowered the scent of freshly skewered scallops that had been tickling my nose as I watched her enter. The busy bee chatter of all the other patrons melted away, or maybe surrendered, to the confidence in her voice.

"Couldn’t pony up to the bar in this joint, eh?"

I smiled and laughed politely at her comment because I knew it was her way of telling me we were getting drunk no matter how suave this place may have been. Jen’s hair matched the table’s place setting. It looked carefully arranged in an elegant design of culinary perfection. Each piece strategically placed in its spot. Seemingly flawless, but in reality both her hair and the table probably only took minutes to create.

My gaze drifted above her hair and I noticed the painting behind her. My father had pictures of that same boat with at least twenty sails, sitting statuesque like amongst rough waters. The canvas was delicately pieced together with the swift yet painfully exerted strokes of a mediocre artist. In the dim light, my eyes were drawn back down to the unblemished post-modern canvas of Jen’s face.

I noticed the audacity drip from her freshly glossed lips when she barked, "Two martini’s. Extra dirty." before the waitress—dressed as a man to avoid discrimination lawsuits—could even set our mountain spring in a crystal glass on the table. I knew why she ordered them that way. I could see the reason sparkle in her eyes even through the blinding flash of her earrings. Jen likes to say dirty. Even more than the owner of this restaurant wanted us to feel that the lobster was caught fresh from the Atlantic that morning, Jen wanted the world to know she likes to say dirty. The beautiful masquerade of glam, eloquence and pride on the outside of both Jen and the restaurant was nothing more than a simple façade. Inside Jen’s empty word, dirty, lied the same insecurity that kept the manager of this establishment awake at night.

"Do you think anyone cares?" Jen muttered as she looked around at people she’d already judged by the clothes they wore.

"Do you think anyone cares about what?" I noticed my voice was just above a whisper, and yet I couldn’t figure out why it had come out this way.

"Cares about any of this? Are we just all pre-programmed to go through every day with the same pattern?"

She had me confused. These questions were Jen’s way of being philosophical, but since when did she think on a Friday? "Ah fuck it all! Let’s just do what we do best. Get lit. Where’d that bitch of a waitress go?"

"Probably to pee in your martini, hooker." I winked and smiled at her, knowing she’d say something twice as bad to me. A fork dropped, and as I glanced at the ancient woman to our right, I knew her butter sauce she’d been using no longer made the over-priced King Crab taste quite as succulent.

"Probably." Jen looked down into her purse, searching frantically for a Camel Special Light. She hadn’t said anything. Was something wrong? Did all our years of calling each other names and making lewd comments that made respectable people cringe, finally wear off on her? "But, you’ll wish it was pee when you figure out what I told her to do to yours."

I laughed in relief and searched for my cigarettes too. Jen was the first person I knew that ever admitted to liking smoking. And until I met Jen, that even included myself. We both knew it would kill us eventually, but we rationalized that our livers would probably croak way before our lungs ran out on us. It was arrogant and naïve thinking, but truthfully we felt that it fit us. Jen was the only person that I could sit next to in silence and light one lonely cigarette after the next without ever feeling bad about it. I liked the way the warm fog covered my tongue and danced down my throat every time I smoked with Jen. The burning made me feel alive rather than like it was killing me. It was a dirty habit, but it made me feel the same way Jen made me feel. Alive and dirty. Only dirty because I was alive and only alive because I was dirty.

"So, what gives?" Jen mumbled through her cigarette. Her manicured hands pulled out a lighter from her purse—which matched her earrings, belt, makeup and probably underwear—and in one smooth movement she pulled the flame to her cigarette, switched hands, blew smoke through her nose, and dropped the lighter back in her bag. A curl of smoke lingered on her lips as she continued. "Oh don’t look at me like that, Jenna. I know you better than I know me. So c’mon hoebag, spill it."

"I’m moving." That was it. Two words and yet the repercussions and animosity I thought it might have created made me feel like I was giving the State of the Union address. My shoulders felt ten times lighter, but I still hadn’t looked up. I was staring at my cigarette. Watching it slowly burn down until I could see the camels feet give way to the ash. The ash was dirty.

"Yeah OK. How long you think you’ll make it?" I looked up to see Jen with a cockass grin on her face telling me with a smirk that she didn’t think I’d make it. Jen had moved away once and came back after three months. I knew that in her heart she knew I’d go the same way I knew she would go, but I also felt her reluctance to believe it.

"Um… at least three years."

Jen took another hit of her cigarette, flicked the flaky ash into the darken tray of things that will kill us, and looked out the window. I looked outside too. I think we were both hoping for something to walk by and distract us from this moment. The harder I stared the less I saw. It was dark out and all I could really see was our reflection. We were so out of place in this restaurant or out of our element, as Jen would say. Individually we’d fit in just fine, but the relationship Jen and I had we rarely fit in anywhere together. We were crude, judgmental, and complete jerks to people we didn’t know or approve of, but we loved each other. We had a relationship that was based on our superficiality, but it was more real than anything either of us had known. Our relationship was dirty. The light from our booth divided us in the table, but on that night as I stared at our reflection I saw how we completed each other.

"I’ll miss you," Jen snuffed her cigarette into the ashtray and quickly pulled her menu up to hide her glossy eyes. I pulled mine up also, but a glimmer in the window caught my eye. It was my earring. I looked at a reflection of routinely done hair, unblemished makeup, and more audacity than I saw in Jen. In all the expectations and cruelty we’d passed on other people, I never thought about how much we had passed on each other. "but we all have to grow up sometime." Her voice comforted me in that moment and those words would follow me to where ever I decided to end up.

"What did you mean by do you think anyone cares?" I questioned her early statement partly out of curiosity, but mainly hoping to lighten the mood. The waitress returned at that moment and to my surprise, Jen looked just as relieved as I was to see her. Jen rolled her eyes as the poor girl frantically set down our drinks trying not to spill on the ivory sateen tablecloth.

"I’ll have the seafood alfredo, baked potato with sour cream and a side of ranch, a garden salad with a side of ranch, and could you keep the martini’s coming. We’re drinking to this bitch leaving me!"

The waitress hadn’t heard the last little bit, she was too busy searching for a pad of paper in the tool belt that loosely hung from the spot where a normal woman’s hips would be to scribble down Jen’s order. Jen rolled her eyes and I just smiled as I waited for the waitress to catch up. She stopped writing but didn’t look up. I raised my eyebrow at Jen and then realized the waitress had expected me to order in the same manner as Jen, with no warning. I waited. She had to look up eventually. I took this opportunity to scrutinize her more closely.

From afar she embodied the perfect high-scale downtown waitress. But as I placed my judgmental eye on her, I saw more. Her shirt had to have come from a sale rack at an outlet mall, and the pants were well worn and faded. Small stains of what I hope is sauce or alcohol litters the front of her tool belt/apron, but would not be noticed by the untrained eye. Her hair was pulled back into a bun so tight her eyes were slowly molding into slits from the pressure that was placed on them forty hours a week. Her eye makeup is too thick on the right eyelid and her foundation isn’t blended into her hairline. She looks tired for the beginning of her Friday night shift, and her lack of expression gives away that she’d probably look tired even with twenty-four hours of sleep. Finally she looks at me, I smile and for a moment I think I see a sparkle in her eyes. I wonder if people often wait for her, or if people even smile at her?

"I’ll have the lobster stuffed ravioli, with the mashed potatoes, and a Caesar salad." She smiled back at me and asked us if we wanted anything else. We shook our heads no and she left quietly.

"Hope she doesn’t shit in your ranch." I say to Jen and the ancient woman to our left now puts down her fork and pushes her food away.

"Eh, wouldn’t be the first time." Jen laughed and pulled another cigarette from her purse. "I meant that I’m not sure any of this really matters. I always knew you’d eventually go, I guess I just never thought of us as being apart. I’m glad you’re moving because I’ve really been thinking that we need to grow up. I’m proud of you for moving, No city can handle us both for too long!" I thought I saw her hand tremble as she lifted it up to light her cigarette, but I ignored it. This was my girl that liked to say dirty. And if anyone could say it with confidence of knowing it meant something other than the PG rated version, it was my Jen.

"Damn straight! And hey, you can come out and we’ll get lit and do stupid shit just like we would do anywhere else."

She smiled and blew a cloud of smoke in my face as I said this.

"Start saving hoebag, you’re coming to visit. So deal with it you dirty bitch!"

I lit my cigarette and Jen’s cell phone went off. I knew we were done with the serious talking. I watched the waitress rush from table to table and I wondered why I had looked at her so carefully. I wondered if what I was looking for was a way to get away from my cynicism without leaving my Jen. Yet, as Jen cackled into the phone, winking at me constantly, I knew no matter where I moved I would never leave Jen.

We did get drunk that night and we didn’t grow up at all. If anything I’m pretty sure we slid backwards a decade or two because the moonwalk and running man made their appearances. Part of the fun of being with Jen is the immature part. Most of the fun with Jen though has to be taken in stride. As dirty as our friendship was, it always got better with vodka.