From the Celibacy Posterchild Archives
October 4, 2000

WOMEN I HAVE TRIED TO PICKUP

She was not attractive in the conventional sense. She looked like an older, rougher version of Ralph from “Green Acres.” There is an expression used about some women that look a little rough around the edges. They say she’s been “ridden hard and put up wet.” Well, that expression did not go far enough to capture this woman. She had been “ridden hard like a Pony Express pony racing across the Mojave desert chased by Cochise and the entire Apache nation with Dom DeLuise in the saddle wet.”

And yet, I tried to pick her up.

It happened while I was in grad school at Oklahoma University. I was on one of those all night benders that college students go on. The kind that they never show in those promos during halftime of college football games. You know those, with that voice-over guy that is way too excited—“Oklahoma University is O.K.!” And they always show this ethnically mixed group of clean cut college kids looking at test tubes, or playing field hockey or laughing their heads off in the quad.

But, that was not the case tonight. Tonight was a very “un-quad” night.

My friends had all packed it in and I was out on my own. I should have headed home, because I had a major test in Dialects and Accents class in six hours and my Irish accent sounded like a Lucky Charms reject. But, I was liquored up and ready to cruise the town in my red 1981 Mercury Zephyr. That, my friends, was one cherry ride. It was the last year they made the Zephyr and though I loved that car, it was not exactly a chick magnet. It was more of a family car. A car that the gay guy at the gas company would drive to try and pick up members of the OU marching band. Still, me and the Zephyr went on the prowl. Unfortunately, Norman, Oklahoma is not exactly Vegas and it took about five minutes to cruise the town and find out that there would be no Boomer Sooner for me that night.

And so, as it has been all my life, if I wasn’t going to get lucky, I might as well eat. And it seemed logical to top off my drunk with some biscuits and gravy. I pulled into the all-night diner and had just received my order when I noticed her in the corner, Ralph from “Green Acres.” She was smoking like a condemned woman that knew the governor wasn’t going to call. Lighting a fresh cigarette before the current one had even reached the halfway point. She was staring out the window and would occasionally mutter swear words under her breath. She was dressed migrant worker, Lesbian-chic—heavy on the denim. That part of the drunken guy’s brain that says “any port in a storm,” was in overdrive in my head. “Hey....just maybe if.....I could...why not?” I mean even a blind pig digs up a root now and then.

Embolden by Bacardi 151, I waved to her and exchanged pleasantries. She looked me over and muttered more swear words. I motioned her over. With a grunt, she grabbed her coffee and ashtray, and headed my way. Hell, I had hardly started digging and it looked like I had found a root.

I offered her some biscuits and gravy, but she preferred a short stack of pancakes, which I quickly order from a waiter that looked like Tim Burton. He gave me a look that said, “Don’t do it man, walk away. Walk away now!” But, being full of the national product of Puerto Rico, I ignored him. A rule to everyone, when someone gives you the “walk away” look...Do it! Matter of fact, run away. But, it was too late. I was already on the bill for one short stack and I was looking for one short sack.

We did not get off to a blazing start. Conversation was slowly dribbling out like spittle from a stroke victim. And despite my best efforts, it was becoming obvious that I should have tried the Shoney’s Breakfast Bar for chicks. Then the jukebox starting playing Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire.” All of a sudden, Ralph started to come alive. Her eyes flickered like a neon light that had just been plugged in. She stared at me and said with her whisky and cigarette and more cigarette voice, “I partied with Johnny Cash fifteen years ago.”

“No way!” I cried, truly impressed. Keep in mind, that I was a young guy from Arkansas and the biggest celebrity I had every met was a guy that had eaten a bicycle and was on “That’s Incredible,” with John Davidson. So to me, meeting someone that partied with Johnny Cash, was almost like me partying with the man in black myself. “Oh, I love him,” I said. Which is true even today. Whenever I hear “Folsom Prison Blues,” I stop whatever I am doing and think that there, for the grace of god, could be me. Except, I have never been to Reno, much less shot a man in Reno...just to watch him die.

So, I eagerly lean forward waiting to hear a tale of Nashville decadence, when Ralph angrily spits out “And let me tell you, Johnny Cash is a sorry son-of-a-bitch!’ She did this with such venom that actual bits of chewed pancake combined with stray tobacco sprayed my face. I set there stunned, smelling like Log Cabin and Marlboros. Ralph then went on to relay this tale of Johnny Cash, hopped up on Benzedrine and Jack Daniels, kicking her out of a pool party because she wouldn’t give in to his advances. “He was a married man dammit, and I respected the marriage vows.”

Friends, there was something about her leathery face turning red and her voice raising that moved me in a trouser way. This raw display of emotion convinced me, I would go where Johnny Cash had been denied.

As she finished her cakes, I noticed she was out of cigarettes. I suggested we go across the street to the Sunshine Store, resupply, and then head to my house.

“Nice car,” she said when she saw the Zephyr.

Now, I did not live exactly in a house, but grad student housing, which consisted of old Army barracks converted to mini-apartments. And at Oklahoma they were, to put it mildly, a dump. The only folks that lived there were drama majors and a bunch of Saudi exchange students. Sadly, the subtleties of America cooking has escaped the Saudis and the air was always thick with the smell of burnt grease, like they were trying to set the Guinness Book record for most fried goat or something. Not expecting to get lucky that night, my place was a mess. Dishes of old Ramen noodles and discarded cups o’soup littered the apartment. My empty beer can pyramid was well underway.

“Nice place,” Ralph said, lighting a cigarette. “Got anything to drink?”

Sadly, I did not.

Very sadly, because the rum boogie buzz that had brought me to this moment was fading fast and, in the light of morning, I was beginning to think Johnny Cash might have been right to pass. Trying to recapture the mood, I put on Elvis Costello’s, “Imperial Bedroom.” Her reaction to my choice of music was so violent, that you would have thought I had put on the cries of hogs being killed in a slaughter house with electric prods. “What the hell is that?” she cried. I could tell that I had made a tactical error. She was looking at me like I was the middle guy in a threesome from all-boy porno movie. I had to make my move then, before the rum buzz completely left. It was now or never.

“So,” I said. And here, I must admit, my memory fades a bit, but I said something to the effect of “Do you want to get freaky?”

Ralph held up her leathery hand and, in a voice more in the line of Mr. Haney, slowly said, “I think I know what you want, and let me tell you, you ain’t going to get it.”

She got up and left.

There were several ways, I could have taken this. I could have gone the incredulous route. Am I such a loser that I couldn’t even nail THIS board? I could have gotten angry for being played for cigarettes and a short stack. But, actually, I was pretty happy, for now me and the great Johnny Cash had something in common. We had been shut down by the same woman.

Benzedrine and Jack, anyone?

From the Celibacy Posterchild ArchivesOctober 4, 2000

From the Celibacy Posterchild ArchivesOctober 4, 2000

WOMEN I HAVE TRIED TO PICKUP

From the Celibacy Posterchild Archives
October 4, 2000

From the Celibacy Posterchild Archives
October 4, 2000