4. if I was midge ure, chapter one continued from social distortion

There she was, seated on the patio. Kara had brought two co-workers with her from the liquor store. I had intended to rescue Max from (the skinny albino) white t-shirt guy if not for fate’s obtrusion. Subsequently, I hate it when people bandy the word fate about. They mean chance or whim in lieu of fate. We construct our own fortunes and call them fate and that’s what I mean by it.

“Hi Kara, hey everyone mind if I join you.”

My familiarity with Kara’s co-workers wasn’t liquor store preclusive. Both visited Stereofish on occasion. The nice one was named Amanda. She was reservedly soft spoken, pretty and at the age of twenty-three had a mouth charged with braces. Amanda's braces, partnered by a slight lisp made her quite adorable actually. The other in contrast was neurotic, inurbane and liverish-its name was Brenda. However, owing to a tattoo of Winnie the Poo, Max preferred the appellation Poo-bear.

“I’m going to the bar to get a drink, anybody need anything.”

Kara gestured to me.

“I’m fine thanks, I get them for free remember, which reminds me, I’m buying.”

“No thanks, I’ve got it.”

“I’ll come with you.” Amanda whispered.

Amanda and Kara disappeared into a crowd, leaving me solely in the care of Poo-bear.

“Get me a pint of Strongbow.”

Her bellowing voice couldn’t have been more unpleasing.

Poo became intensely unstrung, her peculiar conduct enhanced by continuous flustering and twisting. We barely exchanged words before Kara and Amanda had returned. Regretfully, as soon as Kara sat down, she leapt up out of her seat again and excused herself to the washroom.

“I’ll join you.”

So both Amanda and Kara disappeared once again.

Poo was squirming in her seat, her contorted face reminded me of that scene in Total Recall where Arnold gets ejected onto the surface of Mars without a respirator.

“Oh man, you bitches are dead.”

Her breath was weighty and shortened. She flip-flopped her hair from side to side, held her face in her hands, rinsed and repeated.

“So, do you take any time off?”

Before I answered and before she could impose any further questions I quickly excused myself.

“Sorry, could you pardon me for one minute I have to check on something. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Fuck, I couldn’t believe this. Poo Bear liked me. Believe me, my certitude (in interpretation) derived from recognizing that nervous performance all too many times before. I’ve enacted it myself in reversed roles. Fucking figures, this was typically ironic. I liked Kara and she came here to set me up with fucking Poo Bear. The only campaign left to engage in now, was to immediately reveal my feelings to Kara. This required distinct valiancy and maturity. Instead I opted to hide in the office and not for a while mind you. I resolved to lock myself in for the duration of the evening repeatedly listening to if I was by Midge Ure. A song transformed into a guilty pleasure by endless ridicule from staff. In my defense, the song did hit number one on September 14, 1985 in U.K. pop charts. Granted that was over fifteen years ago. Regardless, the guy co-wrote do they know its Christmas with Sir Bob Geldof. Thank God no one saw me in the office that night, I had overcome my misery by pumping my arms at keyboard bridges and lip synching over and over- if I was her lover, her eyes and kisses I would cover- come here my baby, oh they can’t touch you now, I’ll keep you safe and warm, I’ll never leave you at all.

A loud rap on the door punctured the concerto. I scrambled to shut off the music.

“Who is it? What do you want?”

“Brother, open the door. Some chick Kara’s out here and she wants to talk to you man.” D.J. Mark’s melodic enunciations were unmistakable. I’d characterize Mark as the most soulful white man in history. He spoke with soul. His intonations never sounded labored or derisive. Organ Donor by D.J. Shadow stuttered in the background. I’d endured my cowardice long enough .On the way through the kitchen from my office I reached for the adjoining door to the bar. At that juncture my friend Danny burst through the door. I had briefed him on my disappointment on the way to office exile.

“You are not going out there dude, Poo-Bear is bawling her eye’s out and asking for you”

“Well, what the fuck is with that? She doesn’t know that I don’t like her. She’s fucking thirty years old, what does she have to cry about? This is ridiculous. I’m so ridiculous for being a coward. I’m going to talk to Kara.”

Stretching again for the door, I collided with Patrick the other bartender on shift that evening.

“Where you headed buddy?”

“I’m going to the bar to straighten out this mess, it’s out of hand”

“I can’t let you do it bud. That chick is acting like a lunatic. Man, I don’t know what you said to her but she’s making a huge scene out there. She’s crying and wants to apologize about something. She told me to tell you that she’s sorry.”

“What the fuck does she have to be sorry for? She can’t possibly know that I’m hiding from her. It’s a busy night, for all she knows I got caught up stocking beer.”

“It’s up to you bud, if you want a bad scene on your hands go ahead, get out there.”

That’s how the evening closed out. I’d left Kara stranded at the bar, the opportunity to enjoy her company vandalized by my infantilism. I thought about Kara on the long drive home.