The Unrequited Diaries

I looked into his fierce blue eyes and knew instantly that I could trust him. I knew we would be friends. The buildup to meeting him was a whirlwind of stories from Jezebelle about this handsome little bartender with a huge cock who dazzled her with his charm, and after going home with her, he never wanted to leave. But Jez wasn’t the kind of woman to let some street rat into her home, no matter how big his smile or his cock is, so after he started behaving erratically, dropping out of her life for a few weeks, and then calling her in a panic in the middle of the night, Jez cut him off. Almost a year later, he popped up in her inbox writing from a halfway house, saying he had been in prison and only thought of her the entire time. Could she possibly forgive him? I rode the bus with her to see him at the halfway house for months and she would come back with his sweet talk all over her lips like the kisses he wasn’t allowed to give.

Before I actually met Oscar, I set him up with a job at a shit ass telemarketing gig I was working in the hours between partying and recovering, selling “free alarm system” scams to elderly people. We first met when he got his day pass to interview and Jez brought him to our apartment to ride the bus with me to work. I knew he would get the job because they don’t background check and he’s got a knack for bullshitting. We would sit in neighboring cubicles and joke about the backwoods cretins we had to call and the yacked out bosses who would come out of their “morning meetings” with powder residue on their nostrils.

It was on our smoke breaks that he told me about when he was in New York, even before he told Jez about it. There was some chick he was hung up on, from the little bits he would tell me, and he would work on writing a letter to her on days when it was slow.

A few weeks later, he got an overnight pass from the halfway house to celebrate Jez’s birthday in early October so he could drink for the first time in months. His entire body shook with excitement when he arrived at my apartment that Saturday. We had a full day planned, starting at Trinity Hall Irish Pub for lunch and shots of Jameson—prime location not only for its proximity to the DART train, but also because Jezebelle was a bit obsessed with Irish Catholic men at the moment, our ex-con notwithstanding. Oscar’s obsession with all things Irish showed in his wardrobe choice: flannel overshirt, gold cross necklace and his worn old Boston Red Sox hat.

Oscar and I felt Jezebelle’s energy shift once we got to Trinity Hall. Stepping off the train, she walked ahead of us to meet her mom and sister who were already there waiting, while Oscar told me stories of St. Patrick’s Day parties at different Irish pubs across Dallas. When we walked into the restaurant and settled into our table, he was more concerned with finding the bar than saying hello to Jez’s family. His short stature was exaggerated by the height of the thick oak horseshoe-shaped bar. The attractive, young female bartender was on the other side of the horseshoe and didn’t see him step up at first.

“Do you need to stand on that bar stool so she can see you?” I asked, nudging him playfully.

“Hah,” he rolled his eyes, “you’re funny. Nah, I got one better.” He raised his hand and said, “Hey gorgeous,” loudly to get her attention. It worked; she turned around at the same time Jez’s head snapped toward him, and I could feel her gaze burning from the table.

“Shot of Jameson,” he declared obliviously, then remembered that he was supposed to be celebrating someone else. “Shots, three shots. And Guinnesses. You gotta have at least one Guinness.”

He gave one to me and one to Jez, who coldly said, “Thanks.”

“Cheers! Happy birthday Jez!” I said as we raised our glasses, clinking them together before drinking our shots. I sipped my Guinness as a chaser; Oscar gulped down a quarter in one drink. He and I took a seat at the opposite end of the long table from where Jez and her family sat, in their own conversations as much as he and I were in ours. We ordered a shared appetizer because we were too broke to eat real food, and stepped out onto the balcony to smoke, away from the repellent vibes of Jez and her family.

Uncle Banksy and Mad Johnny, the Godfathers of the Dallas beat poets, met us and a few other friends there to pregame for a poetry and art walk in Bishop Arts, the up-and-coming artsy South Dallas neighborhood where Jezebelle and I lived. Uncle Banksy had heard of Oscar and wanted to size him up for Jez’s sake, being the closest thing she had in Dallas as a father figure. Banksy was an older white man who was blessed with a magnetic personality rather than looks, but was well loved and respected by everyone who knew him. After quick pleasantries, Banksy jumped into the interrogation, in his own friendly way.

“What are your plans once you’re released?” asked Banksy, looking down at Oscar from under the brim of his Cuban straw fedora.

“I’m liking the sales place I’m working now. Definitely trying to avoid the bar scene, which is pretty much all I’ve ever done. Ya know, it’s too easy to get out of control when people tip you in 8balls.”

Uncle Banksy laughed his full, deep a-ha-ha. “I’ve been one of those bar patrons!” They clicked instantly and even our trusted patriarch was in love with Oscar by the time we finished our smokes and the food was served.

The energy in the air got even more tense as the drinks kept flowing, and with the addition of our poetry friends, Oscar had a larger audience to entertain with his stories. To his delight, Uncle Banksy and Mad Johnny shared Oscar’s Irish heritage so they bonded over Celtic trivia and stories of Banksy’s visit to the homeland.

We caught a ride back to Bishop Arts with Jez’s mom, and the tension in the air remained thick to everyone but Oscar, apparently unaware that his sarcastic quips and overexuberance from the alcohol were unwelcome. We sat in the backseat, Oscar in between us, with Jez speaking only to her mother through the space between the window and the driver’s seat. I was quite tipsy and wrapped up in his charm, but still not unaware of the thickness of the air.

To Be Continued...