I Love You, Me Neither
He likes her.
But she, she likes men with a probability of jail time and the possibility of no parole. She is in search of such inamoratos not with the intention of her mind or the guidance of her heart, but through the raging power of an id untouched by the ego, super or otherwise.
Such a primordial crusade tends to devastate the overtures of a slight male raised on Hardy Boys and currently steeped in Syfy’s Alice. So he stands tinily before her, inapparent as a concert shirt at the bottom of a drawer, insignificant even though he is in possession of and in fact is right now wearing the best pair of kicks anyone in a 10-mile radius has ever owned. Clothes make the man, tis said, but only from the ankles up, twould seem. (Of course, Mark Twain made this contribution to sartorial ethos as part of a joke, so you remember that the next time some slimy three-button-open fakebake tries to show you up, capisce?)
He likes her, but she likes hot sauce on everything, including pastas with cream sauces and, in a dare gone awry, Dr. Pepper. You can imagine his bind, devoting considerable mental and emotional energy into possible overtures to her, but never the less being quite without a decent response to the topic of Cholula and soda. These quirks suggest a pellucid charm, but such positive perspectives are only afforded to the attractive or the successful. Others that are similarly unique are believed to be weird at best.
He craves in equal parts her hips and her attention, but thus far has mustered only a hello and a decrepit comment on the day. The day! Even the malign conversation topic of the weather has enough paths to create a connection of meaning. The day is a passive metaphor for existence, and bland at that. Hips are untouched. Attention remains an inert gas.
This failure to communicate is an abuse of good timing. In him we have a mensch of great talents and capacities, including sleight of hand, limericks, baking, and perfect renditions of Serge Gainsbourg songs despite knowing no French. He is above all a listener, a true auralphile with a sincerity of task not used for self-serving ends, making him one of the great potential finds of all time. However, even with this key piece of peripheral equipment, he is still running on a standard operating system, and so is naturally drawn to that who does not share such a drawing. Human nature and associated foibles are simply a programming error, it should seem to logical people.
She could use a listener, but she’s too distracted to know this. Distraction is a much easier than introspection, even with the horrible return on investment. She, as aforesaid, craves basic satisfactions, but not really from the troglodytic sort that she incidentally appeals to as much as those that are different from her parents. Again, her stunted sensibility for taking in the world outside of her skin should be a condition of extreme allure, yet in combination with her misinformed conscience, it makes a stew that is awful for sharing. He knows that being of sound mind, but who is driven in quiet moments by his mind?
This for her is tragic, or at least downtrodden, as it distances her from the substance and thrill she most wants. She loves magic, witty poems of a dirty slant, desserts, and new music, and yet she is 15 billion miles from the good-looking guy sitting immediately to her left that encapsulates the exact parts she could use: a less-brutal love.
She likes him too. Just not now.
About jasonleary
Wow. This is really beautiful. Thank you, Jason.
Thank you kindly for your words, Emily.
Wicked good writing Jason. Nice guys never get the girl.
What are "nice guys"?
Teach me your ways Mr. Poopoopachu, I'm ready to learn.
The Poopoopachu Cocktail (aka Riot Punch):
3 gal. Cola
1 gal. Bourbon
1 oz. Open & Honest
A twist Reckless Abandon
In a well-rinsed, empty 5-gallon pickle bucket with ice add all ingredients. Swing violently above your head for 27 seconds and strain thru a Brian Urlacher jersey into a red Solo cup. Garnish with a smile.
oh sweet jesus.
Thanks a ton, Mark–I love such feedback from such great writers. I suppose lack of success with girls has an opposing correlation to success with writing ability in general, Mr. Poopy notwithstanding.
By the by, it's MR. POOPOOPACHU. I don't call you Eerie Leary or Leery Leary or Kashmiri Leary or Beery Leary – well, sometimes that last one sure, but yeah, it's MR. POOPOOPACHU.
I heart this guy, seriously.
wait, so are you saying that you're not a nice guy???
This is a really great piece. While reading it I couldn't help but see it as a song…I was actually envisioning a music video. Extremely stimulating.
i'm thinking more like spoken-word. there's such a nice rhythm to this on its own; let's not fuck it up with music.
Okay – I'm feeling the need to say "As the nice, fun, girl" who is every guys "friend"… where is my nice guy? hmmm?? Is he hidding?
sidenote: awesome… I had to take some time after reading to sigh just a little bit for the girl who doesn't realize what she is loosing…
I love the sentence "He likes her, but she likes hot sauce on everything, including pastas with cream sauces and, in a dare gone awry, Dr. Pepper." This piece is both funny and touching…great stuff.
definitely the best line, except the last one…which i love.
Beery Leary, I love this story so much, from the way it's written to the way it's told, that I completely forgive you for NOT FOLLOWING the "rules". 😉
I love the juxtaposition of what ought to be and what is, a juxtaposition that characterizes most of my experiences in the area of relationships. Lovely.
Good work, Jason. I will not in my lifetime be able to produce anything quite like it. This, this is the kind of writing that separates readers. Those who see themselves as intelligent want to show it to all of their friends, while those whose lips move while they pretend to read just quit about halfway through.
I'll be showing it to my friends, by the way…
Scott H
Nice guys don't get the girls because they're looking for the wrong ones.
Jason, this is a great piece. I know of nothing more complicated than relationships…or the hope of them.