19. Guns of Tequila Nightclub

I give Jade a sweet-bitch wave as I’m led away towards a man with his back facing us. I know this can only be the famous Thomas Davison in fitness, whom I have fated myself into having to like, no matter what. He turns around and I’m immediately disappointed.

Of fucking course.

First impression: Too short. For me at least. Which is anything under six foot…nine.

Second impression: Wearing a pink sweater-vest over a white polo and khaki trousers—a combo that indicates there is now a naked manikin standing in the window of Polo Ralph Lauren.

Third impression: Not the best teeth. Something I never realised I noticed in men until just now. I blame America and their obsession with babies in braces. I never knew teeth could be so straight and white and gleaming, or used as mirrors in the same way we use other people’s sunglasses when they’re talking to us, until I went to New York. And now I apparently have a teeth standard. And I live in England. Perfect.

Fourth impression: Possibly Jewish.

Fifth impression: Do I detect a hint of unwarranted smugness in that off-white grin?

Sixth impression: Definitely Jewish.

I should have seen this coming. Becca so WOULD try to hook me up with a Jewish guy. She has a weird thing for Jewish guys. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of her future soul mates is a Menorah, which she will buy, and then cradle in her arms while singing it the dreidel song. Once, she bought a calendar called Nice Jewish Guys as a white elephant gift, acted like it was a joke, and then cheated in the number drawings so she could be the first person to pick a gift. Then she chose her own. She also has an inflatable dreidel with a smiling face on it, which she brings to every holiday party she’s invited to. Every single year. I know what she’s doing too. She’s using the dreidel with the face to lure out any Jewish guys within radar by giving them a very big conversation opener. And since she’s stuck with Connor, who is definitely not Jewish, I see that she’s willing to use whatever means necessary to have a Jewish guy in her life. Even if it means setting me up with someone who is two inches too short and grinning at me as if to say, ‘no, darling, you’re not dreaming. I am real. Jumped right off the page.’ ...Of the Old Navy catalogue.

Eye roll.

I smile and shake his hand. ‘Thomas in fitness I gather.’

‘That’s me,’ he replies, ‘But I used to be a bobby, you know. Hasn’t always been about fitness.’

‘Oh yeah?’ I say, trying to seem interested, ‘What changed then?’

‘Long story,’ he says, shaking his head, ‘Got dismissed. Wasn’t my fault though. You see my ex-girlfriend…’

Oh God. Really? Ex-girlfriends already?

He hasn’t even offered me a drink yet.

He keeps talking like he’s taking me on a magic carpet ride through the whole-new-world-of-interesting that is his life. I just stare at his face and begin to think that it might be a problem how unattractive I find him.

I realise I’m going to need gallons and gallons of alcohol for this one.

I’m not saying that he’s ugly or anything; he’s just…not my type AT ALL. For one thing, I think we might wear the same dress size. And I know he probably doesn’t wear dresses, but it’s just awkward to know, in the back of your mind, that if your boyfriend wanted to wear a dress one day, he could just borrow one of yours, and it would fit perfectly. Maybe even better.

For fuck’s sake, I thought this guy was in fitness. Where’s the Terminator? Where’s the flexzone-knob-head?

Way to fucking go, Becca. I know she knows he’s isn’t my type too. He’s her type. Well, just the Jewish part. I can’t believe she’s using me to second-hand date a Jew.

He’s still talking. Apparently he’s also a photographer. Undiscovered. With work mainly stemming from a photography elective he took for university credit.

‘...mainly black and white shots...things like urban buildings and graffiti on my way to work...but with a moody tone to convey...the urban mood...’

I have a feeling that I might end up going into full 18-year-old-club-rat mode and mindset by the end of the night.

It’s that situation where you’re just a little tipsy and some slimy guy at the bar slithers over to you, ready to harass you with some sort of cheesy pickup line. Typically, this guy will either be a sweaty, middle-aged accountant wearing too much aftershave and the only suit he owns (his accountant outfit), or an over-tanned, thirty-year-old, club promoter, wearing a v-neck down to his bellybutton and a rosary as a necklace. So, after he dishes out his oh-so-creative one liner of ‘you must be a model…how did you get to be so beautiful?’ it’s pretty tempting to just groan and say, ‘I must have been given your share,’ but you hold back.

You hold back because you’re waiting for the second, more important question: ‘can I buy you a drink?’ which will almost certainly follow, since you’re dolled up like a fluffy little tramp but, let’s be honest, looking good as fuck. And of course, you want the free drink.

The problem is…do you want it badly enough to accept it from John Goodman or The Situation? Soon enough you’ve decided: yes, you’re willing to trade an hour of your night with John to get drunk for free. So you take a few Buttery Nipple tequila shots with John, down a few vodka sodas, and head out to the dance floor. John’s grinding. You’re fluttering around in your lacy dress (ahem...shirt), and all of a sudden, the liquor hits you. Everything’s amazing. Look at all of the flashing lights! There’s yellow diamonds in the sky! You turn around and…hold on, John isn’t John anymore. He’s Johnny.

Depp.

He’s Johnny Depp now. And you’re dancing—sexy as Beyonce. And the yellow diamonds are falling all around. And everything is so fucking wonderful.

Then you wake up.

It’s the next day and you feel like you died by decapitation and then someone glued your head back on and said, ‘no…you deal with it, you slorey fuck.’ If you’re lucky, you’re in your own bed. If you’re REALLY lucky, you’re alone in your own bed. If you’re not alone, then be damn sure that the person with you is not Johnny. It’s John.

And suddenly decapitation doesn’t seem so bad.

Okay, now I’m being dramatic. I would never do that.

Well, probably never.

He’s not even that bad.

‘...urban music to the slide shows...by typing “indie music” into Google...to capture the urban setting and mood...’

But he’s really not that great either.

I blame David for this. If David hadn’t put me on the spot, I wouldn’t have had to blurt out the first sodding name that popped into my sodding head. I suppose, I also blame Becca for this, for putting that sodding name into my sodding head to begin with.

I also blame fitness—for all the times it’s made me feel guilty for ordering the brunch burger, and for the eleven minutes I can’t stay on the treadmill for. And now, for Thomas Davison.

Stupid fitness.

‘Shall I get the first round and you get the second?’ he asks, when he finally takes a breather from his humble-bragging.

‘Wouldn’t that work out the same as us both just opening our own tabs right now?’ I reply. Truthfully, this would work out better for me, because as long as I’m paying for my own drinks, I don’t have to worry about limiting myself on what and how many I order.

‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right,’ he says with a shrug.

I manoeuvre him over to the bar, careful to avoid a collision with my parents, and we sit down. After I order a gin and tonic out loud, and then secretly motion to the bartender to make it a double, I turn to Thomas Davison with a big, phony smile.

‘So what got you into fitness?’ I ask, attempting to look earnest in my interest.

‘Well, like I mentioned before, I used to be a bobby. Then, there was a mix-up and I had to be let go.’

‘A mix-up?’ I ask.

But I shouldn’t have. What follows is the longest sob story in the history of the universe and I learn all about Thomas Davison’s ex-girlfriend, Megan, who ruined his entire life by influencing him to drink one beer with total strangers that they met on the beach, beers which were conveniently laced and therefore, caused him to crash his car when they were driving back. Honestly, it sounds to me like Thomas had one too many beers of his own free will, not because he was seduced into it by the evil temptress, Megan. Then I’m told the fascinating tale of how Megan dumped him soon afterwards and went on to become a star in a steamy western drama called Guns of Applewood.

I figure star is a bit of a stretch. Another humble-brag on his part, probably. She can’t be that famous since I’ve never heard of her. Or her program for that matter.

And on that note, what were the television studios doing casting British actors in a western themed television program? Like when they cast American actors in films set in seventeenth century England, or Camelot, and then the actors don’t even bother concealing their American accents. Do they really think we don’t notice? Are they just lazy? Are there not enough British people in the world to play British people and American people to play American people? I'm not trying to limit an actors range of roles here...but if you're playing a lead role in a film about the Alamo and you don't even try to hide the fact that you're speaking with an accent straight out of Sussex...I could kill you.

Hopefully, Megan attempted an American accent. Unless of course the Wild West in Guns of Applewood is Bristol, or some applewood cheese factory in Gloucestershire. 

I wish I were in an applewood cheese factory in Gloucestershire.

With John Wayne. Or pretty much anyone other than Thomas Davison.

And a hell of a lot of cheese.

©Natalie Cawthorne