It’s freeing in a way. When you know someone just won’t listen, no matter what, it stops mattering how you come across to them. Or, it can stop mattering, especially when you come up against a Jeeter-level of closed thinking, and you see your way into the eye of the storm of your own seething hatred for someone totally unwilling or unable to hear you.
I can say anything. These guys aren’t gonna get it. So, fuck it then. Who cares?
“Let me try one more time,” I begin very slowly, “then I’ll get going. Ok, you see other dudes getting laid from an early age, and you find you can’t do what they do in terms of pulling pussy for yourself. You try all sorts of things, feel frustrated as fuck, and sit up alone in your bed every night wondering why it’s all so unfair . . . how you’ve got a dick just like those other dudes, but no one seems to be buying what you’re selling, ever. So, you don’t see girls as people. Not anymore. You get that, right? You see them as the reason for your suffering. The reason you’ll never be ok. You see them as the tools the world uses to keep you down and unhappy. And then you band together with other like-minded fuckers hard-done by not getting laid. You guys have your meetings where you complain about how bad it all is, and how unfair. Unjust. Shit, it sounds like you’re even planning some sort of damn revolution to change the whole system or whatever so girls won’t get to choose those other dudes anymore, but have to be given to you like prizes. Is that… I mean, have I got it right so far?”
Jeeter’s eyes can only narrow to a point, and I think they already hit their limit. He glances sideways like some kind of scheming huckster spy at the other two.
Candy nods.
Brando gulps.
“You’ve scratched the surface of our plight, yes,” Jeeter answers at last. “Of course, your understanding is feeble, and incomplete. I would not expect you to grasp our philosophies and plans of action any better, though. One day, you won’t have a choice but to see what we’re really all about. But, sure, let’s say you’ve gleaned the basics. So?”
“We’re interested to hear what you have to say?” Candy utters a little too slowly. “As an outsider and someone from . . . another generation . . . what’s your impression?”
I sigh. “I think lots of guys have been not getting laid for as long as there’s been people,” I say, hearing the phrase another generation ring in my mind like an alarm bell. “But just for a minute, maybe try putting yourself in a . . . a fem’s or thot’s shoes.” I hope I’m using the words right. I go on, “Imagine you’re a person with tits and a vagina who’s looking for all sorts of things in life, just like everyone. She wants friends. She wants to figure out what she’s into, and what she wants to do . . . who she wants to be. Yeah, on the way, she’s looking for romance. She’s interested in sex, horny, as much as anyone.” I pause. “Ok, now say she comes across two different guys who look about the same. One doesn’t seem comfortable at all being around her, or talking to her . . . getting to know where she’s at on her journey to figuring shit out, y’know? In fact, if she were to press past the awkwardness and get to know that guy on a deeper level, what he’s really all about, she might find some pretty dark shit lurking. I mean, maybe he could work to hide the fact that he believes she and her body should be given to him like a fucking treat. But how long could he keep all that from her if they were to get together? Now, the other guy might be equally awkward, but she can tell almost right away it’s just the effect she has on him. He goes all goofy whenever she’s there. And yes, he also sees her as a prize. But he wants to know her. He wants to help her figure things out and live the life she wants. You get it? He sees her as fucking magical, dude…” Yeah, I’m thinking of Jolene, specifically . . . obviously (fuck!). I continue, “...and even if, in the end, she chooses not to be with that second guy, he’s happy for her. He wants her to have whatever she wants. Now, you don’t think a girl can sense the difference between those two guys right away? You think she’s gonna let someone that doesn’t even see her as a person be part of her cool, amazing world, you fucking moron?” Maybe I could’ve said it all better, but I feel like my own words are pulling me back out the other side of the calm eye of my anger storm, and I’m getting pretty damn livid again.
I stand, ready to leave.
Candy stands too, his bright Jem shirt not free at all to flap in the passing breeze. I think he’s about to say something.
Jeeter must sense Candy’s coming words too, since he juts in at me first with, “Hypocrite! Oh, you see women as special creatures. Beautiful snowflakes. Works of art. Bullshit! Then why are you fixing to fuck a whore? You obviously don’t see your wife as a prize! Listen to yourself!” He’s quivering worse than Candy’s shirt is stretched out and pulled still.
“I love my wife,” I say, and realize anew how true it is even though I don’t have a prayer of making Jeeter understand.
“X,” says Candy, blinking real fast as if he’s being jolted by bolts of current, “I feel like…” he stops.
“Gluuuuuuuuuurp,” Brando chimes, still seated, then for some reason adds, “Deeeeeeestiny.”
Candy’s face is cast down. He looks like he’s carrying all kinds of worlds on those uneven, blocky shoulders.
“This man preaches romance while planning to give his manhood to filthy whores!” Jeeter’s like a collection of random similar recorded sayings now stuck playing on shuffle.
“X,” Candy repeats, bringing his eyes back to mine, “what you said speaks to something in my conscience. It’s like words from a book I gave up reading and believing in long ago. It feels totally impossible now, like I’d rather die than try again, and…”
“DON’T!!!” Jeeter screeches.
Now Starbucks workers are at the glass, staring out, probably one step away from calling the cops.
My eyes lazily trace the curvy upper outlines of a female worker’s pants.
“X,” says Candy a third time, “I don’t get it, but I want to hear more of what you have to say. Maybe I . . . maybe I do want Jolene to be happy even if she’s . . . even if she’s not with me.” His spotty tone makes the words sound about as unnatural as if he’s reading a line in a foreign language and has no idea what it means.
“NO!!!” Jeeter squeals like a trap hammer has just slammed down across his back.
“Sirs,” says the same Starbucks worker I ogled, her face peering around the door, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”
I gaze back at Candy. I know I have to make a quick decision, but it’s not easy. The dude looks like a lump of golden clay squeezed into that shimmery purple shirt. Way too excitable. Embarrassing to be seen with, for sure. But…
“C’mon,” I moan, hating myself for what I’m doing. “Let’s go.”
