Archive | November, 2011

The White Russian

29 Nov

Sometime last spring in the wake of a tough breakup, I reluctantly went to a party in Astoria. This took a lot of wine and convincing a) because it was in Astoria, b) because it was a whole mess of theatre people from college and I hate having the “What are you doing now? Are you auditioning?” talk more than anything in life. No, I’m selling designer handbags for a living and writing about my dysfunctional love life and/or spray painting things I buy from the dollar store in my spare time.
Once at the party, I somehow gravitated towards a youthful individual in a graphic tee paired with a white short and shoe combo. This is odd because I don’t generally appreciate a graphic tee, and I definitely try to steer clear of anyone who wears white pants. I am also rarely attracted to younger guys. We hid from the masses in the kitchen and drank someone else’s champagne that we discovered in the freezer (sorry!). After the bottle was polished off, I gave in to the inevitability that I was going to make out with this White Russian. But first I checked his ID. He told me he was 18 and I needed proof because I don’t have a lot of experience with teenagers. He also shared that he recently had some run-ins with the law, to which I responded with a brief attempt at an “I am older and wiser than you – don’t be stupid” speech. I then took him to the living room, because I didn’t want any lingering thespians to witness the strange collaboration that was about to transpire. Too many people came in and caught on to what was happening, so in my highly-functioning state, I deduced that we had no choice but to take it to the bathroom. The details are blurry and not something I would want my elders to read on the world wide web. I will say that the shower curtain was somehow torn down, rods and all (sorry!).
He contacted me on Facebook the following week in attempt to redeem himself for his shoddy dexterity at the party. I felt bad for him (and myself), so I invited him to a bar he wasn’t old enough to get into while I was out with some friends in the Village. What he was wearing when he arrived both blew my mind and burned my retinas: white hat, white polo, white cargo shorts, white socks, white shoes. We took a long and silent train ride back to my apartment in Brooklyn, where he managed to decimate a couch.
I found out several weeks later that he had spent a week in Rikers and now has a record almost as long as the number of years he has been alive. I was momentarily scarred by my experience with this achromatic teenage bandit, so my next encounter involved a man nearly three times older. Unfortunately, he also had a penchant for white pants…