Yet, now, after five years, good writing and good ideas had made not only a name for himself but also a decent living. He liked social pieces, with a twist to give them some zing, some uniqueness. Apparently the papers liked them too; Paul hadn’t had anything rejected in several years. In fact, now they were actually paying him before his articles were finished, which was rare in freelance. It was an equally rare complacency: Paul Kirby had beaten the odds and was making it.
The Singles Scene: An Existential View. Paul liked the title. There’d been plenty of pieces on the area singles scene, but they were all fluff. The Sun had answered his query by commissioning it as a four-week series. Paul would investigate all of the local singles bars, describe each one, and then make a sociological comment. He didn’t just want to see the face, he wanted to look behind the face of this notorious chess match between the sexes.
So far he was not impressed.
Maybe he was too philosophical. Was he trying to philosophize something that was really barren of philosophy? Or maybe I’m too cynical, he considered. Before his involvement with Vera, he’d dated regularly, but never like this. If you were looking for love, a bar seemed the least likely place to find it. It was like trying to find health food at McDonald’s. Paul wanted to categorize the difference in perceptions—between single men and single women. Here, the men all seemed phony, and the women oblivious. It was a show of veneers of false faces and lust. It depressed him.
Kaggie’s, the place was called. It was starting to fill up. Big place. Two long bars, front and back, snazzy decor. The huge sunken dance floor stretched before a giant projection video screen. Above the pit the obligatory glitterball spun slowly, darting lancets of multicolored light. The air beat with music—some technopop bit by New Order, upbeat yet bleak if you listened to the lyrics. Paul felt buried in light, sound, and the motion of busy bodies.
This dump must’ve cost millions, he reflected. He ordered a Heineken but the keep brought him a Corona out of habit. Paul preferred not to drink beer that had the same name as the end of a penis. Subliminal advertising? he wondered and laughed. This place wasn’t selling beer—it was selling sex.
Lines: he jotted in his notepad. He’d heard some doozies already tonight. “Excuse me,” a glittery-dressed brunette had asked some tall guy with a black whitewall. “What’s a stuck-up, stone-faced asshole like you doing in a place like this?” “Looking to get laid,” the guy’d answered without a flinch. Paul had seen them leaving together after a few dances. Here were a few other winners: “Pardon me, but haven’t we never met before?” And, “Hey, baby, what’s the difference between a blow job and a Big Mac?” “What?” “Go out to dinner with me and you’ll find out.” And the best one of the night—a guy in a blue suit had walked up cold to a girl at the bar: “Hi, my name’s Dan Quayle. Can my father buy you a drink?”
But levity aside, Paul felt glum in disillusionment. These places were packed every night; plus, he’d seen many of the same people in a lot of the bars he scouted already. It seemed a way of life for them. How could anyone expect to find a true relationship in one of these dance catacombs?
Now the dj put on The Cure, a song called “Give Me It,” which about said it all. The crowd danced happily under the shroud of grim lyrics. Paul considered the dichotomy.
Then he considered himself.
I’m free of all this.
He was. It seemed an absolving realization. What made him more complete than anything else was Vera; his love for her was the last piece of his life fit firmly into place. He looked around him in this den of falsehoods, this den of lies, and knew how lucky he was. Paul had something real; these people didn’t.
I’m in love, he thought.
