how very lucky to be a girl

I don’t know where to begin the tale of headless Mike. He suggested we meet at McManus, which is one of my neighborhood bars. I was a little nervous that people I knew might be there. Then, I remembered that it was the final game of the World Series and that it would be unlikely that anyone I knew would be at McManus for that. Then again, McManus would be a place where folks would gather to watch the game. I distinctly remembered the part of my profile that said “I don’t care about sports”. I guess headless Mike skimmed over that part.

When I arrived, the place was packed and there wasn’t a guitar to be found in the room. I squirmed my way through the crowded bar-front to the back, looking for a single man who appeared to be waiting for someone. But everyone had eyes on the game. I turned around and headed to the front. I followed that route twice before headless Mike recognized me. It would have been hard to notice him (aside from the fact that I didn’t know what he looked like) because he was surrounded by people and was talking to everyone around him. He certainly did not have the look of someone that was waiting for anyone. Also he had certainly not reserved a stool next to him for anyone (that anyone being me). Took me a minute to secure my spot standing at the bar next to him. He asked me how my day was. Great! Even better now that I can stand next to you (seated) in a crowded bar watching baseball. In baseball terms, that would have been three strikes.

The face on top of the arms and hands I was familiar with was decidedly older than I’d expected. This was not going to be a long date. That was for sure. I was going to sip one drink slowly and then leave.

I reached into my wallet for a $20. I wasn’t going to allow Mike to pay for me, and that was good, since he didn’t offer. This was clearly a Johnny Walker rocks moment. The bartender came over to take my order. And, terrific! It’s my friend Lawrence. Ugh. I paid for my one cocktail, and so began the conversation that makes me long desperately for a tape recorder.

Headless Mike is a self-described Brooklyn Guinea and has the accent to back it up. Tonight he was dressed up, he said, as evidenced by the fact that he was wearing a polo shirt. Mike was not 48, like his profile said, but rather 51. He also was not a lawyer, like his profile said. That’s a lot of lies for a retired cop, I think. Assuming they weren’t also lies, he had a lot of interesting stories about being a cop in Chelsea in the 80′s. He recounted a great many of them leading up to his last gig before retirement, which was sadly that of a first responder at 9/11. He told me he’d been buried under a car, pulling himself to safety and then running with a broken leg to save the lives of others. That made me forgive him the earlier lies, but wasn’t going to make this date any longer. He talked on about baseball and how he plays softball year-round, how he won a guitar from a wise-guy once, and how he swindled an autograph from Lou Reed (by making him sign a security report that he didn’t actually have to sign after Mike had responded to the false call of an alarm system at Lou’s apartment).

Of course all the while, the conversation drifted back to baseball and how he had an extra mitt and would take me to play catch. I guess it didn’t matter that I told him no fewer than four times that I had 0.0 percent interest in this activity. Mike spent a lot of time not at all subtly checking me out from head-to-toe. He clearly liked what he saw, and was anything but smooth in conveying that. “You’re gorgeous”, he said, “so much prettier than your picture. Not that your picture isn’t really pretty.” Here Mike, have a bite of your mint-flavored-shoe. But thank you, all the same.

Then we got to talking about music, my favorite part of the evening. Mike is a self taught guitar player who now plays sets at bars in Sheepshead Bay for tips. He recounted a set list for me. I tried soooooo hard to remember it for you, because it was just amazing. But all I can remember was that he played air guitar whilst recounting this set list and that it included Pink Floyd, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, David Bowie, George Harrison and Led Zepellin (namely “Tangerine”, and no fewer than 3 reprises of it in said set-list). He played a “really good version” of every song he described, and demonstrated each one with air guitar and vocals. Words cannot do this scene justice. This 6’4″ salt-and-pepper polo-shirt-wearing Brooklyn boy is serenading me with Willy Nelson songs in the middle of an insanely crowded and riotous Yankees bar. Yankees just scored again, bringing the score to 5-1 and he’s performing on his imaginary guitar for me.

I was exhausted and had already tried to excuse myself twice, losing out to Lawrence filling my drink in spite of my protests. Could he not see that I was neither interested in baseball, nor my charade-concert?  Of course he could.  He thought it was funny.  I finished the last drink and begged Lawrence to stop. Score was now 7-1, and I just wanted to go home to bed. Mike said he had a wonderful time and that we should get together again. I told him that I think he’s a nice man and enjoyed talking to him but that I didn’t think we were right for one another. I guess like my sports note, he skimmed over that, because he put me in a cab and said he’d call me.