‘Cos I’m fading fast and it’s nearly dawn.

If you’ve read Scott Pilgrim, you could call him Joseph, because he looked just like that character. For a time, Melissa and I called him:
Beardy, Beardy McStaresALot, Beardy McScaresALot, Stare-y McScaresALot, Scaredy McStaresALot.
A pattern formed. Girl walks into bar, girl gives a brief and futile glance to see who’s there before figuring that anyone worth their salt will come to her (and anyone looking to avoid her can stay away), girl slowly feels eyes upon her, girl turns and sees boy with beard looking quickly away. Girl gets mightily annoyed.
I knew a girl who turned out to be a terrible matchmaker (more on that in a future post). She let me in on Stare-y’s information—basically what you’d expect from your average hipster homeless beard, but with a kid. And barely old enough to be in the bar.
As I do, I lost patience with his shy staring act and introduced myself. We chatted and he looked nervous. He shaved his beard and looked more nervous. He walked me and a drunk Melissa home one night and then we talked for a good while on my porch, interrupted every so often by me yelling at Melissa to not fall asleep on her back on my couch.
While any sane adult recognizes this as the action of a good friend, I think it only made Beardy more gunshy. But then, I had observed by this point that my definition of “good friend” didn’t exactly match any other That Town natives, save Melissa. On a nightly basis, drunk girls were left to stumble home, drunk boys somehow drove themselves to emergency rooms, and the word “friend” was only spoken between the sexes when a boy wanted to feel less guilty about a dumping.
I suggested we hang out, vague plans were made, I got stood up. If I had been surprised by this, I would also have been surprised that the sky was blue. Also, this meant I could watch Tara WhatsHerFace parade around in Kayne’s gown, as that pageant was on. I sent an email suggesting we not plan to hang out anymore. I wanted to add, Stop staring at me unless you can back it up ya pansy. I restrained myself.
A bit later, I find myself back at that bar with a friend of Melissa’s and some friends of the friend.* I’m sitting there minding my own business, sipping my cheap gin and tonic, waiting until everyone else deems themselves drunk enough to dance. A stranger walks up to me to inform me that, when I walked in the room, his friend (Stare-y, of course) exclaimed, blanched, and perked up, simultaneously. I believe I looked at the friend and wondered aloud why Scaredy couldn’t come tell me any of this myself.

*Incidentally, these are the people who, when M’s friend was in the restroom, decided they were going to leave. After barely speaking to me the whole night, they ask if I can tell M’s friend that they left, where they are going, and that M’s friend is welcome to join them there. Now, maybe I’m a bit too Emily Post at times, but I don’t know—this seems unspeakably rude to me. But then, expecting civility and friendship was probably what kept me mostly alone in a place where friendship meant known-since-jr-high or eh-I-don’t-need-to-call-her-I’ll-see-her-at-the-bar. Damn, I sound bitter. Mostly though, I’m just chomping at the bit to get these two years behind me and feel like pre-that town Jessy again.