The Bronze

I ended up going to the War Room, a local dive near by. It was an unpredictably warm night in February, and sitting at home was driving me crazy. I needed to get out and re-evaluate my life, so I decided to go and get a few drinks. I couldn't sit at home and do nothing. I could have just sat there and had a few vodkas with olives, no ice, just chilled. The melting ice takes away from the warm sensation of the straight alcohol. But it was just too damn hot. I needed to get out.

I went and withdrew my last twenty from the automatic teller machine at the bank, and then strolled over to the War Room. It wasn’t too full, but it was a bit hectic. I looked for a stool and ordered a double vodka, chilled, with a couple of olives. Everyone was either entranced by their own conversations or by the sports going on on TV. The Olympics were on, so a lot of the people were actually entranced by the women’s figure skating, which I found to be a bore, the skating. It was more amusing watching drunkards cheer on some barely legal girl skating away to Brahms or Tchaikovsky. I didn’t mind watching these pre-pubescent looking girls skate around in their tight, almost provocative looking outfits. It was almost kind of sick, being the age that I was and being turned on by these virginal figures. Yet it would be a treat to be able to penetrate untouched glory. I mean, who in their right mind, being male and between the ages of thirteen and forty-eight, which is how old the guy next to me was, I found out in a conversation that I made very brief, wouldn’t be attracted to these nubile figures.

"God, wouldn’t you like to get a piece of that?" the guy next to me said as gin emanated from his breath. He was dressed in slacks and a white long sleeve button up with a couple of buttons missing. He had a thick mustache and thick dark hair.

"She’s like sixteen," I said.

"I know. Look at those perky little tits."

"Yeah. Sure," I then turned away and sipped my drink.

Men are a sick species. We enjoy watching pre-legal girls in their little school activities outfits. Yes, we’re sick, and I’m not too proud of it. It’s inevitable; youth grabs us by our libidos and tries to drag us down, but some of us are able to fend off those urges. It’s in our genes, or out of our jeans, most likely out.

The only explanation I can come up with is that once we’ve hit thirty we view the majority of women in the same age range as having had their fair share of living it up, being free to fuck as much as men are allowed to. Gravity and wear and tear have begun to take their effect. Not all women fit this description, only the non-disciplined ones. Those are the ones we men enjoy for a night or a few hours or a few minutes. That’s how we think. We’re pigs, no matter how you look at it. We just have this sick fantasy of reliving our adolescence only with the advantage of using our present knowledge, which isn't really saying much. We try to hide our fears of aging through young girls just finding out about their sexuality and still not having any concept of what life is really all about. None of us can escape such a disposition, not even Cardinals, priests, or holy men can rid themselves of lustful desires. I soon found that out when Jimmy Norton, who I went to St. Ignatius with, confessed that Brother Ian had taken the liberty of placing his hand on Jimmy’s pecker.

So here I was, trying to figure out my reason for existing and getting in touch with my flustered sex life with a drink in front of me and bar women to the right of me, to the left of me, behind me and within peripheral sight. Which one should I pick for the lucky moment with yours truly, I wondered? Which one would be kind enough to share a night of cheap love after a numbing and blinding consumption of booze. It seems that was the one thing that was inspiring me as well as preventing any chance of screwing women. The booze. But it was the obsession of screwing women that was now preventing me from doing anything else.

I had stolen a glance from a blue eyed regular who was cackling away with her female counterparts. She resembled a young actress I was fond of, not because of her talents, but because she was a sight to admire. Kirstin was the young actress’ name, and that’s what I had named this blue eyed beauty that I had seen at the War Room on previous visits. Kirstin glanced away in avoidance so my eyes shifted over to the heavy-breasted friend to the right of her. She remained locked with my glare long enough to exchange a smile and flick her hair. She also had blue eyes along with dirty blond hair. We kept the amusing game of glances ongoing like two shy school children too nervous to approach the other. Then, an attractive, dark skinned, Thai girl that plopped down on the stool next to me suddenly distracted me. She was thin and tawny. Her body was young and firm and her face soft, smooth, a beautiful sight. She couldn’t have been anymore than twenty-four. My choices were now getting better, not that I would succeed in getting either. The tawny young woman was cheering on the number one American female figure skater. She kneeled on her stool, leaning on the bar as her ass stuck out. Her ass was the perfect shape and size that I had always admired.

"Come on Michelle!" she screamed at the muted television over the noise filled atmosphere. I believe The Romantics were playing on the jukebox.

"She's going to lose, you know," I said to the young girl.

"She's expected to win. She's the number one skater in the world."

"I know, but the build up has been so much that she's now destined to fail," I told her. "She has to. Doesn't mean she won't get a medal, just not the gold."

"Don't say that!" she protested. "Although, I can see it happening, but it won't. Come on Michelle!"

"I'll put money on it."

A robust and meaty, yet curvaceous, young brunette walked up and stood next to the Thai girl. I didn't know what ethnicity she might have been, if anything she was just plain old white American.

"Yeah, come on Michelle!" the plump brunette accompanied her dark skinned friend.

"This guy here says she's not going to win the medal," the tawny girl said. "What's your name?"

"Daniel," I told her. "And you are?"

"Tracy and this is Stephanie," she introduced her voluptuous friend.

"Daniel here says that Michelle won't win the gold."

"I'll put money on it," I repeated.

"She has to win," Stephanie said.

We all stayed glued to the action taking place. The bartender was even sucked in to the drama that was about to unveil. I glanced across to Kirstin's blue eyed friend. She too was snared by the competition, but she looked away towards my direction and we made visual contact once again. A smile. And she glanced back to the television. Before I followed her same action the whole bar exploded with disappointment. I looked up to see what the reason for the commotion was.

"She fell! NO!" screamed Tracy.

I was able to catch the petite skater quickly bounce back on her skates to finish her program, that's what the term was, at least that's what they called it during the commentary. 'Michelle had a disappointing program last night,' is what I imagined the headlines would be the next day.

"I told you," I said to the two broken hearted girls next to me.

"You cursed her," said Tracy.

"It was inevitable, I told you. Too much pressure from the whole world. That can drive you to an extreme pressure point."

"I can't believe she fell." Stephanie was upset.

I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of this whole situation that apparently affected stranger's lives. We continued to watch. Young Michelle went on, skating close to perfection once again until she decided to push it and try to make up for her recent mistake.

"Oh no!" another scream from somewhere.

Michelle pushed herself too far again, as she wasn't able to stick her landing, almost falling once again. It was over. If anything, Michelle would only stand on the lowest podium set out for receiving medals. Poor girl. All that lifetime of training, all those impressive awards and accolades for the numerous contests won, all that attention and predictions of being worth gold. The only way things can happen and be exciting is if failure takes over. It's like going to a car race, we only watch because we want to see someone fail as much as we cheer on. In the back of our minds, secretly, we want to see someone crash and burn. That’s the excitement. That’s what we live for most of the time.

The program ended and so did my attention toward the whole event. I went back to try and catch the attention of Blue Eyes across from me. She now had been accompanied by a male friend who was making himself beyond comfortable with her. I was jealous, but I didn't know why. I had no feelings for this strange girl. I guess I was bothered by this guy moving on territory that I had not yet claimed but wanted to keep that option open in case I wasn't able claim any other prize for the night. My unclaimed fantasy kept glancing back at me while enjoying the closeness of her friend. I shifted my attention to Tracy.

"So, are you sad now?" I asked Tracy.

"Yes, and mad at you because you cursed her," she said.

"Tell you what, let me get you a drink to make up for it."

"Cape Cod," she said.

"Cape Cod it is." I waived down the bleach-blonde bartender who looked like an ex-porn star with glittered lipstick, heavy rouge eye shadow and blush, and breasts that made their presence known through her low cut and tightly fitted T-shirt with print across the front that read ‘YES, THEY ARE REAL’.

"Can I get a refill and also a Cap Cod for the lady?"

"Are you here alone?" Tracy asked.

"Yeah, I just came down to get me a drink or two."

"You must live near by then."

"Yeah, just around the corner," I said. "What about you?"

"I used to live in the neighborhood but then I found a cheaper place over in Glendale."

"Glendale could be nice, I guess," I told her. Our drinks came, I paid for them and then we toasted.

"To Michelle, she deserves it," Tracy said and drank.

"So, do you live alone, roommate, boyfriend?" I began to inquire.

"No, I live alone. No more living with boyfriends, that's why I'm in Glendale now."

"Didn't work out?"

"No, he was... he was an asshole," she said.

"Yeah, it's nice being able to live without a daily headache to come home to."

"Exactly!" she said and toasted again.

I glanced across again to my unclaimed fancy. She is still talking with that asshole, I thought to myself. She peered over in my direction and I gestured to her to meet me outside. She went back to her friend's attention. I went back to mine.

"So do you always come here alone?" Tracy asked.

"No, I was just at home and it was too hot to be inside."

"You live alone also, you said?"

"Yeah, the only way to live," I said. "I think if I ever do marry I'm going to request that we live in separate places."

"That's a bit extreme, isn't it?"

"Not at all," I said as I noticed the blue eyed buxom walk out with a cigarette in hand. "Will you excuse me Tracy?"

"Sure," she said as she directed her attention to Stephanie.

I headed out the door and noticed the undefined figure, her back to me. "Hi," I said. She turned around and a smile broke out, wide, her somewhat stained teeth from the history of nicotine and tar now showing under the bright neon sign as well as her age. She wasn't any older than myself, but definitely not the young woman she once was or appeared to be in the dimly lit bar.

"Hello," she said. "Have you got a light?"

I pulled out my lighter and lit her smoke then pulled one of my own out and joined her. "I’m Daniel."

"Allison, it's nice to meet you," she said as she held out her hand while taking a hit off her unfiltered Camel.

"So, is that your man in there?"

"Tommy? He's just a friend."

"A good friend, or just a friend?" I asked.

"Well, he's not my boyfriend."

"Did you come alone?"

"I didn't come here with him. He's a friend."

"Where are you going home to later on?"

"I live over off Selma Dr. And yourself?" she asked.

"I live just down the street a ways. Not too far. I walked."

"And where are you from?"

"I'm a native."

"Oh no. An L.A. boy. I don't know about you L.A. boys," she said with a struggling smokers laugh, the roughness in her throat thick and heavy as it loosened the phlegm.

"What about L.A. boys?"

"I dated a guy from L.A.," she said.

"And?"

"It wasn't the greatest time."

"Not all us L.A. boys are bad time."

"Yeah, I'm sure, but still... I don't know."

"Well where are you from?" I asked.

"Michigan."

"Michigan?" I chuckled. "I don't know about you Michigan girls."

"I take it you dated someone from Michigan?"

"Well, I wouldn't say dated."

"Oh, I see. Just...?"

"Just, not dated. We can leave it at that. Listen, I'm going to go ahead and head back in and get me another drink. If you would like to continue this interesting exchange of information over a drink, or if you would like me to escort you home, you know where I'll be sitting."

"Yeah, sure."

I stomped out my cigarette, headed back in and found my stool occupied by a skinny kid with glasses. He had taken over my stool and Tracy’s attention.

"Excuse me, but I was sitting there. That there is my drink," I told the kid. He excused himself and stood between Tracy and I. Tracy turned to Stephanie. Stephanie then got up and switched seats with her. The skinny kid then sat in the empty stool on the other side of Tracy. I was now stuck next to Stephanie. She smiled and I returned it. I then glanced across to find Allison. She was lost in her friend Tommy's attention. I kept a steady eye on her to see if she would glance over toward my direction, but not even a thought was shot at me. I gestured to the big-breasted bartender and she began to fix me another vodka. I looked up at the television and noticed the medal ceremony. Michelle stood solemnly on the lowest podium as the large bronze medal hung around her neck and covered her petite and flat chest. She feigned a smile as the gold medallist from Russia stood stoically with her hand on the gold while listening to her homeland's anthem. Not a smile, nor a tear from the somewhat tall and gangly Russian skater. I took one final glance toward Allison, but she was gone, along with her Tommy. Kirstin, the actress look-a-like, was gone as well. I took a look toward Tracy, her back to me and her attention on the four-eyed kid. She flicked her hair and slightly threw her head back as she would touch his arm with every burst of laughter.

My drink came with a kind 'there you go darling' from the bleach blonde. I slapped down my last five-dollar bill. I took a slug of my drink and then looked over at Stephanie next to me. She was slowly and quietly stirring her straw in her half empty drink as she stared at it. She finally turned to me with a blank stare. I gave her a smile. She returned it and then began to twist her long locks around her forefinger as they yelled out last call.