A Christmas Story

A Partridge is a bird in the pheasant family and according to North American vernacular, people who lack intelligence are often dubbed “bird-brains”. In this story, I’m the Partridge.

Once in high school, I dated a girl because I wanted to get closer to her best friend. Eventually I started dating the best friend until she found out that I was interested in her cousin. At the time, I somehow was able to live with myself.

Now I’m working on growing up. At 28, some expect that I should already be all-grown-up but I’m not… and when I get the shit-end-of-the-stick (which I’m fairly confident is a phrase relating to a Diddle Stick - an apparatus used in a sterile environment to induce defecation), I look back and regret many times that I acted selfishly.

As we speak, I’m formulating a speech that will end with “... it’s that I’m not looking for anything at the time.” This is a lie.

We’re all looking for something. The aged-excuse that “I’m not looking for anything serious” used to be specific to men as we carelessly ran through women that were not ideal. Now women have adopted this excuse to feed the exact same impulse. I’ve used it many times before but last night, someone used it on me after I drove her home from a Christmas Party.

Every Christmas season, a friend of mine throws a party at a dive Mexican restaurant on Route 35 in Ocean Township, NJ. The Don Chucho’s Christmas Party - it’s named partly after the birth of Jesus Christ - the debatable lord and savior of life itself - yet the crowd screams Sodom & Gomorrah. The majority of us here are damaged sluts looking to forget our troubles through the acts of copulation and intoxication. We’re tainted, insecure and failing - some more than others. Because the restaurant is desperate for business, they purposefully neglect protocol for checking identification. Last night, I saw a 15 year old drinking a Margarita. As she stood in the corner - speaking to men who were able to cum when she was in diapers - my mind is focused elsewhere. On the dance floor was the one.

Definition of the one: Once in a while, I feel actual interest in a female. Because of its rarity, I’m not used to it. Meeting someone I actually find attractive and interesting is so rare, it’s basically like meeting a girl for the first time. In response to coming in contact with the one, I will (like a little boy with a secret crush) create expectations in spite of reality; an entire life that will occur once everything goes my way.

I found myself temporarily distracted by the bartender. I was ordering a diet coke and as she smiled, the gap between her two front teeth (wide enough to fit a baby’s fist between) reminded me of a gang bang my friends and I attempted in college. She reminded me of it because she was one of the two women involved. I then proceed to look around, realizing some of the other odd sexual connections that this Christmas party highlights:

1. There was a girl following me around who I’ve known since she’s been a little kid; she asked if I’d like to have a shower with her after the party at her parent’s house. I asked what her parents would think and she responded that “They’d rather I’d do it at home then somewhere else.”

2. Over there in the corner - near a DJ that two of my female family members have hooked up with - was a girl who an acquaintance of mine from high school met one night through me; within the same night, the two had unprotected sex in a greenhouse.

3. That girl dancing: my best friend fucked her in my bed. Five minutes in, he fell asleep on top of her, incapable of holding an erection after ingesting copious amounts of Knob Creek & Miller Light.

4. There was the host of the party, who has had some form of intercourse with approximately 37% of women there. His girlfriend followed him around, unaware that his massive penis (he tends to play show-and-tell; I would too if my penis belonged on an elephant) has penetrated a sizable portion of his guests.

And then there’s the one.

She’s dancing carelessly as I sneak a peek when her back is turned. Smart, creative, and stunningly beautiful. Her style of conversation is a perfect balance between self-deprecating commentary and a pseudo hip-hop flavor (which is surprisingly tolerable). The faces she makes when she gets excited could make even the manliest-man start using words like “awe” and “adorable” in his daily vocabulary. She is the one, but here lies the dilemma of the one: expectation and reality often times forget to meet up.

Fast forward to the parking lot. I was the designated driver; have been since I stopped drinking over a year ago. At some point, I decided to wait in the chariot that would eventually take the one - along with a few other friends - home while secretly writing about the life we’d have when everything goes my way. And here lies the dilemma of the one: enter the accomplice.

The accomplice is a great guy who I’ve known since childhood. On this particular night, he appeared to have been suffering from a mild case of Alcohol-Induced Downs Syndrome. And here he comes, stumbling out of Don Chucho’s, arm-in-arm with the one. Into my chariot they entered - the back seat to be precise, which then signified a livery service in place of a favor.

“Driver, take us home,” she said - without having to say anything - as she tended to her temporarily brain dead accomplice.

A bull sees red and charges with rage and confusion; I thought that bull was tamed years ago. Internal dialogue at the moment: If I can make it through this, she’ll see that I’m invulnerable.

“(The one), you can sleep over with (the accomplice) because (another passenger) has a futon you can both sleep in,” so said another female passenger who was referring to her boyfriend’s house and furniture.

And so the bull charged - but at myself and not the situation. My insides were ripping to pieces; the person I built over the past few months began to disintegrate. I could feel my heart in my anus; what could have been butterflies were hornets swarming in my stomach. What I wanted to do: pull over and refuse service. But I held on, hoping this would turn out to be an illusion.

The cab reached its intended destination. Out pops the one followed by two, three and four. As she looks at me, drunk with pleasure - all liquored up from a night spent amongst fellow sinners - she stammers, “Well goodnight, Ry!” Off she frolics, arm-in-arm with the accomplice, to a futon her and I will never share.

And here lies the dilemma of the one: you’ll find yourself on the long, lonely ride home.

As I pulled my cab into the driveway, Facebook came to mind. Since I turned off text messaging over a year ago, FB is often times the only way to communicate (seeing that people forgot they can talk). 3:00 am on a Sunday morning - I was about to write the one a Facebook message in an effort of self expression, hoping the cathartic nature of such an act would send the bull back to the barn.

What could be said without sounding like a mad man? How can I phrase my feelings without exposing too much of my own irrationality? What came out could be summed up by the following:

“You hurt my feelings and now I’m bitter. Why me?”

And after enough time passed, her response could be summed up like this:

“I’m sorry, but I wasn’t looking for anything serious; grow a set of balls.”

And after enough time passed, my response to her response went a little something like this:

“Yeah? But you’re wrong and I’m right! Nah Na Nah Na Boo Boo!”

But I’m the one who has to deal with the Boo Boo. And here’s lies the dilemma with the one: I created her; she doesn’t exist.

As I’m writing this, I think back to the girl who offered me a shower. Sure, I could cry tears throw my penis, but it never seems to fill the hole. Instead, I sit here as I’m writing this, thinking about the girl who offered me that shower, formulating a speech that ends with “... it’s that I’m not looking for anything.” This is a lie.