CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Saturday night at Scott's Tavern. Supposedly the happening time and place for singles—at least according to the two women behind Diana in line at the dry cleaners that morning, the ones whose conversation she could not help but overhear. It had gone something like:
So, do you think Billy will be at Scott's tonight?
(Gasp) I thought you were SO over him!
I am. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't try to look hot in case he shows up.
Point taken . . . What time are we heading over?
Probably around ten—fuck, I hope Pat doesn't show up.
Pat?
Shit! I mean Pete! (giggle)
Do I need to buy you one of those little black books now so you can keep track of all your—
Shut up, it's not like I'm a slut. If it weren't for Scott's Tavern, I'd practically be a virgin. I can't help that there's so many hot single guys there.
Or so many hot guys that want you to THINK they're single.
Well, them either.
Or the ones who only look hot after your fifth beer.
Okay, them either. But what I'm saying is that the men I bring home from Scott's—and it's ONLY been nine in an ENTIRE year—anyway, they don't count. I mean they count, but not as much as if I'd found them at some random variety of other clubs or bars. At least I pick them all up in one place.
You pick THEM up? I thought they picked YOU up.
Fuck you.
No thanks.
Seated at the bar now, Diana played the conversation over again in her mind. Nine sex partners in a year sure seemed like a lot to her. But then again, what did she know? Not a lot, probably. At least not yet. That was why she was here, at Scott's Tavern—to learn. Of course, she was somewhat uncomfortable being here by herself, but she knew that in order to meet men, she had to venture out of her apartment building, even if she had no friends to venture with. This wasn't exactly the kind of place she could bring Mrs. Bartle to. But Diana was armed with a brand-new sense of confidence. Or at least this was what she thought confidence must feel like, but she couldn't be totally positive because she'd never really had any.
Dressed in the carnation-pink blouse and black, pleated, knee-length skirt she'd worn to her mother's house on Easter, with her strawberry-blond hair dancing in loose, silky ringlets to her shoulders, Diana felt pretty for the first time in a long time. The look had been surprisingly effortless to achieve, considering that this was the only nice outfit she had to choose from and that her hair, which was so accustomed to being pulled up into a sloppy, half-assed bun for work, was naturally curly to begin with, a fact she'd forgotten could be an asset. She'd even bought a deliciously sweet, yet subtle bottle of perfume at the drugstore. It was called "Siren" and was designed to emulate the fragrances worn by the great screen sirens of Hollywood yesteryear. Diana had never been close enough to Greta Garbo, Rita Hayworth or Jean Harlow to know what they smelled like, but she imagined it couldn't have been much sexier than this. Diana couldn't even remember the last time she had worn perfume. She remembered the last time she wore cologne, though—New Year's 1988, after Barry had rubbed his scent all over her body in the back of his legendary powder blue pickup truck. And even though they had done the "dirty deed," Diana didn't shower for two days afterward—not because she'd wanted to feel close to him or anything corny like that, but because she'd wanted to feel naughty for as long as she could, and the smell of Barry reminded her of just how naughty she had been. It was 11:03 p.m. She'd been at this singles' haven since a quarter to ten, and had slowly nursed two root beers waiting for some kind of action to start. Perhaps it was time for a real drink. Maybe some alcohol would up the number of guys she'd been confident enough to speak to since she'd arrived. So far, she had spoken to one: the college-age bartender who had served her the sodas, the one who'd looked at her strangely when she'd asked if he needed to see her ID, and even more strangely when she'd joked, "Or maybe I should ask to see yours." Apparently, Sense of Humor was not this guy's middle name. She didn't even need his ID to figure that one out.
"Another root beer?"
"No, I think I'll take a regular beer."
"All right, what'll it be?"
"Surprise me," Diana said. She knew nothing about beer. The last time she'd had any was at her mother's company picnic three years ago, but it had tasted so bad—like chilled urine with foam—that she'd pretended to spill hers, then got lectured the entire way home for acting drunk in front of Mrs. Christopher's colleagues. Fortunately, this beer didn't taste as bad as she remembered it. It wasn't as good as soda or chocolate milk, and it was definitely not something she'd drink if it wasn't rumored to diminish one's inhibitions—for when it came to approaching men, Diana's inhibitions needed all the diminishing they could get—but at least it was ingestible. And sipping it made her feel more at ease. But it wasn't until midway through her second beer that Diana began to understand the altered state of consciousness commonly referred to as "buzzed" by people who had social lives. Like Brooke from the diner, who was always bragging to someone on the phone during her breaks about how "totally buzzed" she was at so-and-so's party. Diana's head felt light. In fact, her entire body felt light, which, through this brilliantly pleasant and unfamiliar haze, made her feel like laughing. She felt happy, giddy even. Could this be why people drank? Another one of these and she'd be able to talk to anyone. Even the cutest guy in the bar. Even the one with the blond hair shooting pool by the ladies' room, who was quite possibly the most attractive man alive.
Leaning back in her seat to let her new best friend, the Buzz, wash over her, Diana began thinking of all the things she needed to buy before she could be a truly sexy woman. Lipstick was key. Since arriving at the bar, she had not seen one woman with nude lips. Diana had never really gotten into makeup, always wondering what the point would be—it couldn't change her; cosmetics would only turn her into a decorated fat person. But that was the old Diana. The new Diana realized that the road to her thin and sexy self should definitely include lipstick, and that even if she were to be stuck in the Heavyweight/Celibate-for-Fifteen-Years (but-not-by-choice) Division for months, she'd be better off with moist, pouty and seductive lips to see her through. And she wouldn't make her move on that blond, pool-playing god by the ladies' room until after she'd attained the proper lips. For as the saying went, A smile is worth a thousand words. Or was it, A picture is worth a thousand smiles?
While Diana's mind tingled with confusion at the challenge of deciphering old adages to make them pertain to lipstick, one thing became unmistakably clear: this feeling—the one she had right now—this was why people drank.