Meshawn’s Mouth

Meshawn’s Mouth

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Now let me say at the outset – I'm an idiot. However, one of the truly beautiful things about me is ... I know it. A lot of men have no idea that they're idiots. Just ask any woman. Not me, though. I am well aware of just how really stupid I can sometimes be. It's an advantage. Know your limitations, that's my motto. And one particular incident in my life where my lack of synaptic agility was quite dramatically demonstrated has to do with woman named Meshawn – yeah, I don’t' know, that was her name. Probably still is.
I will recount for you that incident, but before I do, let me defend myself just a bit. When I say I'm and idiot, I'm speaking in relative terms. I don't mean I have trouble putting a sentence together, or can't defend an argument with a logical point. I just mean that when it comes to women, I tend toward blurred vision, even blindness at times with certain aspects of the 'Game of love.'
That's not to say that I'm intimidated, or uncomfortable around the sweet little lovelies. I'm not. Rather, I think I'm too comfortable around them. A woman once told me ... well, several women have told me, but who's counting. Anyway, I have been accused of being a bit of a chauvinist. That is of course, ridiculous. I am in no way chauvinistic, as these ladies are wont to label me. I'm just not bent that way. I really don't know where they get that. But what do you expect? After all, they're women (need I say more?).
No, this ocular obliquity I seem to have is more along the lines of lacking the ability to read signs and signals from women who might be romantically interested in me. I mean, come on, I'm 5'7", bald, weigh about 240, and I work at a car wash, so naturally, I get a lot of hits.
Just kidding.
But seriously, I'm so comfortable around a beautiful woman that I'm always just my happy-go-lucky self, joking, blathering, arguing politics, religion, art, and I don't pick up on subtle looks, or the obscure little comments women use to get a guy in their pretty claws. It seems I'm one of those that has to be hit with a brick and dragged back to the cave by a chick to realize she likes me.
Like I said – an idiot.
Case in point. My good friend and roommate Scott, his girlfriend, and I, all went to a party one time where none of us really knew anyone. I don't know how we got invited, a friend of a friend, or something like that. Well, when we got there, he ran into someone he and his girlfriend knew from way back. She just happened to be a damned sexy, pretty little thing, built so fantastically that it made my teeth hurt. He introduced me to her, and ... oh, that smile, those eyes! Her lips made my mouth water.
So there we all were, at the party, getting along great, having a good time. Well, after a short while, we all agreed that the party just wasn't doing it for us. So, we decided to head back to the house, make some dinner, watch a movie, and make a night of it.
Just a quick reminder – I'm stupid.
The evening went great. She was fun, I was fun, the whole night was fun. But it was getting late and we all had to work the next day, so Scott says,
"Hey, Joey, can you take Meshawn home? She came to the party with a friend, so she needs a ride."
"I'd be happy to," I said, as I gazed into those lovely eyes of hers (I would tell you what color they were, but as you know, I'm color blind).
We said goodnight to Scott and his girlfriend (sorry, don't remember her name), and were off.
The drive to her place was pleasant, the conversation lively, and her legs almost cost us our lives. But with great effort, I was able to concentrate on the road ahead, and we made it to her apartment.
As I was walking her the twenty or so yards to her front door, I was telling her something about how those sparkling diamonds hanging in the frigid night sky seemed to me so much like visual music serenading the world with songs of romantic images, at times, a symphony of brightness sprinkled all over the cloudless atmosphere, and at other times, tiny individual notes plucked out on the strings of heaven. When we were almost to her door, I turned to her to say something, no doubt very clever, and when I did, she wasn't there. I stopped, turned around, and looked behind me. There she was, standing about eight or ten steps back and looking at me with this big smile on her face.
This is where you'll be forced to agree with my self-assessment above.
So, there she is, standing several feet from me and just grinning and making me wonder why she's standing several feet from me and just grinning. But being the cool, easygoing guy that I am, I just smiled back and waited for Rod Serling to step out and say, "Portrait of a man in confusion ..." She didn't move, she didn't do anything, she didn't say anything. She just stood there, smiling at me, rubbing those amazing legs together, apparently trying to keep warm. So since I didn't have a baseball and a couple of gloves, I walked back over to where she was and stood next to her.
Now, all this time, I have no idea what's going on. Here's this lovely woman, standing in front of her apartment, shivering, and looking at me with a huge grin on her face and this strange look in her eye. So naturally, being writer, the romantic side of me surfaced and I thought, What if she suddenly turned into a giant insect and lunged for me, locking my head in her pincer-like mandibles. No, I didn't think that. To be honest, I didn't know what to think. I was just trying to figure out why she isn't going into her apartment, why the hell she's standing there, looking at me like that and smiling like an institution resident. Then she spoke.
"It's cold out here," she said.
All I could think was, No kidding Sherlock, so why aren't you going inside? But I didn't say that. Instead, I just dug my hands deep into my pockets, and said,
"Yeah, it uh ... is kind of cold," and looked back up at her. Yep, still smiling. Now I'm starting to get scared. I'm eyeing that thick coat of hers, checking where her hands are, looking for the glint of a butcher knife or something. So, there we stood, silent, shivering in the moonlight, smiling, and I'm thinking, Okay, if she makes a move, I step to the left and tag her with a short right hook. This lasted for, oh ... I'd say a full ten or fifteen seconds.
"Well, goodnight," she said finally. "I guess I'll see you later, I had real good time."
"Yes," I said, "so did I." I didn't know what else to say, that whole standing and smiling thing threw me off.
"You don't have to walk me to the door," she added, this time with kind of a muted version of the former smile.
"Okay, well, I'll see you later. Goodnight."
And with that, I watched her walk away from me, into her apartment ... and out of my life forever.
When I got back to the house Scott asked me what I thought of Meshawn.
"Man oh man, she is beautiful!" I told him. "When we first met, I felt the urge to tackle her right there at the party."
"She's single, you know."
"Maybe I can change that," I said, raising my eyebrows. "One thing, though. She did something kind of weird."
"What was that?" asked Scott, narrowing his eyes.
"As I was walking her to her door, she stopped about ten feet before we got to it and just stood there, smiling at me."
"Hmmm," said Scott, thinking. "That's all she did, just stand there? She didn't say anything?"
"Yeah. Well, she said how cold it was, then smiled at me again. I didn't know what to do."
"How odd ... so what did you do?" he asked me.
"I just said, Yeah, it is, and stood with her."
"Geez, I don't know. I've never known her to be strange like that. Maybe she was ..." then his voice trailed off and I saw understanding come over his face. "Joey, what'sa matta' wit'chew," he pealed, playing up the New York Italian accent and pumping his hand, palm up with his fingers all closed together at the tips.
"What?" I asked, looking the part.
"She wanted a kiss, you dope!" he said, shaking his head.
"She wha ..." I half replied, but didn't finish as the realization suddenly dawned on me as well. "Oh, my gosh." Now I was pissed. "Son-of-a-#$&%*@#!," I yelled. "I don't %#$@&! believe it!!!"
"What an idiot," laughed Scott.
"I didn't know, how could I ..."
"The poor girl was practically begging you."
"Why the hell didn't she ... " I stammered. "I mean, she should've ... all she had to do was ... if she ... I didn't ... well, bloody hell, she just damned stood there, what the hell was I suppose to think?"
"Oh yeah, she's the one that dropped the ball," mocked Scott in his best Tony Soprano. "What, ya' want she shoulda' raped yuz, ovuh heah?"
"Do me a favor," I said. "Blow my friggin brains out, will ya'?"
Scott laughed, I sulked, and Meshawn's lovely lips never blessed me with their sweet, sweet warmth.
I wanted a little consolation, so I told a chick friend of mine about it, but instead of extending me that comforting feminine understanding and maternal sympathy, her reaction was similar to Scott's.
"Well," I said to my friend, Amy, "I guess I'm one guy on her forget list."
"Oh, no," was her ebullient answer, "she'll never forget you!" and burst out with laughter.
I tried to be a good sport about it, but Amy was irritating the hell out of me, getting far too big of a kick out of all this.
"Real funny," I said, "I'm glad you're enjoying it so much." She had tears running down her cheeks. "You know, I didn't tell you to entertain you, I told you as a friend, to get your opinion."
More laughter.
I just watched my sensitive Florence Nightingale friend doubling over, unable to control herself. Finally, trying to salvage some of my dignity, I looked down at my shoes and said, "I made sure she got into her apartment, okay," and that made her almost pop a blood vessel.
"Well," I said, "that was a long time ago, I'm sure she's forgotten all about it by now."
"Are you kidding me?" cried Amy, settling down and massaging her cheeks. "I bet she still tells that story to this very day – 'Hey, wait a minute girls, I got one, you won't believe this one guy that gave me a ride home one night, you're gonna' love this ...'"
I started to tell her, You really know how to hurt a guy, but I was afraid she'd have coronary.
So, there you are. An example of how I'm among the few, the proud, the stupid. And I have to say, one of the bigger regrets in my life is not knowing the warm succulent taste of Meshawn's beautiful mouth. My own mouth is watering just remembering it.
But hey, if I'd been more aware on that sad and regretful night I wouldn't have this column available to me to put on my website – silver lining, I suppose. As they say in Southern Croatia, Oh wellsavitch.

Keck