My Immortal Enemy

Silence.

I hate silence. It scares the shit out of me.

I sit there. The Australian girl who’s 25, and was surprised and disappointed when the bouncer asked when I was born, and I had to say 1986, is sitting on my left. On my right is the five foot tall New Hampshirite who talked to me about the guy she was dating right before she left on this trip the whole way to the bar.

Each of our beers is nearly full. Alcohol is supposed to be a social lubricant, but it doesn’t work if you all just nurse one beer the whole night. The Aussie said something. I can’t hear over the blaring reggae music. I just nod and smile. Maybe a Rastafarian bar was not the best choice for an Australian, and two hicks from the Northeast.

Five footer wipes a drop of dew off her glass. Twenty-five and aging uncrosses her legs and crosses them again. I dart my eyes back and forth, trying to find something to say.

“The music’s loud.”

Where does that lead? Maybe somebody agrees, then we’re right back where we started.

“Man, who likes silence?”

Yeah, make fun of the situation, that’ll go real well. You definitely know these people that you met two hours ago well enough to start making fun of their social ineptitude.

“Which one of you would like to sleep with me tonight?”

That’s what I’m gonna go with. Luckily neither of them hear. The blaring beats of the reggaetón saved me.

BATHROOM!

I can go to the one place where silence is not only acceptable, but preferred: The row of urinals in the men’s restroom. I do some pointing to places and leave for the washcloset. A safe haven of comfortable quiet awaits me as I walk into the… why is there a woman in the… oh. I back out gently and turn towards the other bathroom. The one where the bathroom mascot on the door has no skirt.

Bathrooms have mirrors. I look alright. I’m glad I showered earlier. I like this new facial hair. It makes me look older. I have some old man lines around my nose. They’ll look cool when I’m older. I’ll look like one of those crazy old guys on the rocking chair who yells at the passerbys. Except I won’t be on the rocking chair, I’ll just be in the street yelling at people I’m walking with.

I have to go back to the table. Back to the hell that is silence with two women you want to sleep with. (Want is a strong word in this context.) I sit down. Nobody says anything. Dew wiping and leg crossing ensues. AWESOME!!

We all take a small sip of our beer. It passes through the mouth. It sits in the belly. That was fun; to think the way that dude in Silence of the Lambs talks.

How do you start a conversation with two people you don’t know well enough to talk about anything interesting, but know well enough to not to need to go over the formal small talk? SILENCE.

Should I acknowledge the fact that I went to the wrong bathroom? Maybe that’s a good conversation piece. They don’t seem that interested. In anything.

Oldie-but-goodie gets up and moves toward the dance floor. Do we follow? Short-but-shaggable follows. I do to. Finally we’re dancing. Nobody has to talk during dancing. Silence is okay.

Dancing is okay. I realize that Down Under is down with dancing, and even if it was Shawty’s birthday, I don’t think she’d be comfortable in da club. Nobody seems ready to make the move to dance with each other. I would have been comfortable with any two of us pairing up. Maybe most comfortable if the other two had started getting down together. At least I’d have some material to end the night.

We leave the bar without a word. Big surprise. We walk the ten blocks back home in less than ten words. Goodbyes break the silence.

Silence made that night a failure. But silence isn’t the only way a night can fail.

The next night I went out to this half bar/ half art museum. In one room they're showing this training video of how to use different Samurai Swords. It consists mainly of guys chopping hanging pig and chicken corpses in half. To my left is a scrawny hipster Australian shocked and awed by the videoed activities. I'm not letting silence ruin this night.

“You have these DVDs at home?”

“No.”

Maybe my creative writing teacher was right when she said sarcasm doesn’t work 98% of the time. Maybe humans just shouldn't have the ability to communicate.