“Where are we going?” I ask, shutting the car door.
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| source: http://www.jctkitchen.com/ |
“Gabbi is meeting us there.” Gabbi is our second best friend. Sam used to just keep her around because he found her entertaining. It made him feel good about himself, more authentic, to hang around people that do not look like they just walked out of a J.Crew catalog. Gabbi is a dancer at one of the most popular gentleman’s clubs in Atlanta. She is originally from a small town in Tennessee between Sevierville and Gatlinburg and took a few classes at a Chattanooga community college before she dropped out and moved to Atlanta. Gabbi’s stage name is Tiffany which sounds less like a stripper than her actual name.
When we arrived we immediately headed upstairs and ordered drinks. Sam ordered a “John Daly” which is not on the drink menu. Ordering a “John Daly” is Sam’s running joke with the bartender. JCT is known for their fresh squeezed lemonade. If you add sweet tea to this then it becomes an “Arnold Palmer”. If you add both sweet tea and bourbon then it becomes a “John Daly.”
We had reservations, but Gabbi is running late, per usual, so we had another drink. I was drinking Jack with one ice cube but it still tasted sweet to me so I ordered Johnnie Walker Black. It is like drinking warm smoke and makes me feel both alert and at ease with the world at the same time. Sam was getting noticeably more intoxicated, and as I drank I scanned the restaurant to verify that we were the best looking people there. We were.
When we arrived we immediately headed upstairs and ordered drinks. Sam ordered a “John Daly” which is not on the drink menu. Ordering a “John Daly” is Sam’s running joke with the bartender. JCT is known for their fresh squeezed lemonade. If you add sweet tea to this then it becomes an “Arnold Palmer”. If you add both sweet tea and bourbon then it becomes a “John Daly.”
We had reservations, but Gabbi is running late, per usual, so we had another drink. I was drinking Jack with one ice cube but it still tasted sweet to me so I ordered Johnnie Walker Black. It is like drinking warm smoke and makes me feel both alert and at ease with the world at the same time. Sam was getting noticeably more intoxicated, and as I drank I scanned the restaurant to verify that we were the best looking people there. We were.
Because we were in Midtown and because JCT is a nice restaurant which happens to have the perfect balance between trendy and expensive, it has a higher concentration of homosexual men than typical Atlanta restaurants. Sam has great bone structure, wears extravagantly expensive shoes, and is pretentious in every way possible. He naturally draws attention from every gay man in the building.
Emma is always our waitress because she never gets our orders wrong and Sam thinks she is adorable. Emma takes online classes, enjoys drinking (even more than Sam), and gives me glances that somehow convey the idea that we are both in on some grand joke. She is petite with straight, dark hair and mousy features. Sam is correct, she is painfully cute.
Gabbi arrived and we sat down at one of the tables. Gabbi is mostly legs and completely perfect looking. Without fail, she is always the most attractive female in the room. Sam constantly gives her a hard time for having country bumpkin manners, which does not appear to bother her. She is five feet and ten inches tall, with long, thin extremities. When she wears her five inch heals for work, we are exactly at eye level. She is only one missed-meal away from being “model skinny” and her David Yurman bracelets dangled loosely on her wrists. She was wearing blue jeans by Zara that fit snuggly all the way down her legs and are rolled up at the bottom to show her impossibly thin ankles. A designer belt was fitted over a loose fitting plaid shirt while her Longchamp handbag sat on the floor next to her feet. Though she was dressed appropriately that night, Gabbi has the irritating habit of dressing poorly but still looking great.
Midway through dinner, Gabbi gets up to use the restroom, or perhaps do drugs. She was gone longer than I felt it should take to do either. From my seat I looked around the restaurant and saw her talking with some guy in a white v-neck. He was obviously flirting with Gabbi and she was politely flirting back. She has the ability to flirt in a way that conveys sincerity but is not. Gabbi and I made eye contact and I gave her a look which meant, “Stop being rude and come sit back down.” She gave me an annoyed looked back but understood the message, so she gracefully departed and had a seat back at the table.
Emma is always our waitress because she never gets our orders wrong and Sam thinks she is adorable. Emma takes online classes, enjoys drinking (even more than Sam), and gives me glances that somehow convey the idea that we are both in on some grand joke. She is petite with straight, dark hair and mousy features. Sam is correct, she is painfully cute.
Gabbi arrived and we sat down at one of the tables. Gabbi is mostly legs and completely perfect looking. Without fail, she is always the most attractive female in the room. Sam constantly gives her a hard time for having country bumpkin manners, which does not appear to bother her. She is five feet and ten inches tall, with long, thin extremities. When she wears her five inch heals for work, we are exactly at eye level. She is only one missed-meal away from being “model skinny” and her David Yurman bracelets dangled loosely on her wrists. She was wearing blue jeans by Zara that fit snuggly all the way down her legs and are rolled up at the bottom to show her impossibly thin ankles. A designer belt was fitted over a loose fitting plaid shirt while her Longchamp handbag sat on the floor next to her feet. Though she was dressed appropriately that night, Gabbi has the irritating habit of dressing poorly but still looking great.
Midway through dinner, Gabbi gets up to use the restroom, or perhaps do drugs. She was gone longer than I felt it should take to do either. From my seat I looked around the restaurant and saw her talking with some guy in a white v-neck. He was obviously flirting with Gabbi and she was politely flirting back. She has the ability to flirt in a way that conveys sincerity but is not. Gabbi and I made eye contact and I gave her a look which meant, “Stop being rude and come sit back down.” She gave me an annoyed looked back but understood the message, so she gracefully departed and had a seat back at the table.
The best way to describe Gabbi would be a much sexier and more energetic version of Winnie-the-Pooh. Because of this perpetual tabula rasa personality, the urban intelligista immediately dislike her. They will say this is because she is not smart enough or complex enough to appreciate French New Wave cinema or the new Radiohead album. Really they invented “cultural elitism” to cope with their unfortunate reflections. That jealously is compounded by her carefree attitude that suggests that her life is without complications. Yes, she is simple, maybe to a fault. Maybe she has never heard of Jean-Luc Godard and does not understand Thom Yorke. There is, however, a quality about her that is so at ease that it makes me wonder if she actually has it all figured out. “It” being life.
We were all sitting back down and I was enjoying the bacon wrapped Georgia rainbow trout. Sam had ordered the most expensive thing on the menu but was mostly just drinking and Gabbi was eating the fried chicken. Gabbi loves JCT because she can order fried chicken and not feel like she made some cultural faux pas. Usually, it would reveal something broader about your upbringing, but ordering fried chicken at a place like JCT is considered at worst ironic and at best confident. We were almost finished with the meal when White V-neck showed up at our table and started talking to Gabbi. Sam immediately looked put off. I finished my drink. I gave him one-hundred and twenty seconds, which is enough time to politely say "hello" and continue on your way. When V-neck neglected to leave I introduced myself. “Oh, you must be Gabbi’s gay friend,” V-neck said smugly, clearly trying to get a rise out of me. “I like your shoes,” I said casually. “Uh....Thanks,” he said, “I can't say I'm a big fan of yours.” I could tell he was from the North because he was rude, had a subtle yankee accent, and was dressed like he bought everything off a department store mannequin. Assuming he did, he clearly did not know what shoes should go with the outfit. Emma was standing just off the table with a pitcher of water and looked worried. She bit her lip nervously. “Well, we can’t all be expected to have enough class to drop forty whole dollars on a pair of shoes at TJ Maxx.” V-neck paused, silent. Sam took a drink from his glass and smiled behind it. I was warming up and the hunt was about to begin. “Let me buy you a drink,” I continued, “Let’s see, Emma can you get us three Stellas and let me guess.... a Bud Light for our classy, new friend.” “Sure thing.” said Emma, not hiding her smile. At this point it finally became clear to V-neck that we were having fun at his expense and he said, “No...that’s alright, I need to get back to my table.” “So soon?” Sam questioned. It was now a hunting party. Sam continued to toy with him and try to get him to stay. I was through with the conversation and had gone back to enjoying my meal and was making a list of things I needed to do later that night.
After dinner I drove everyone to Ormsby’s. The two locations are so close it was almost not worth paying for parking twice, but I did anyway. Sam always sits in the front seat and despite the short drive opened another Heineken Light that he had stashed under the seat. Gabbi reached up from the back seat and changed the radio station to some dancey pop music and Sam looked at her disapprovingly. “That was Landslide by Fleetwood Mac,” he says. “Oh, was it?” “Yeah" Silence. "… that’s a great song.” “Well I don’t like it.” “You don’t like it? How do you not like it? How does anybody not like it?” “I guess it is alright.” Sam looks absolutely disgusted and exclaims, “If you don’t like Landslide by Fleetwood Mac then you are dead inside.”
Ormsby’s is a yuppie hangout and is actually one of the most decent bars in Atlanta. They have a wide selection of mostly imported beers, which is nice. Sam will not admit it, but the games are one of his favorite things about Ormsby’s. There are indoor bocce ball courts, pool tables, classic darts, and shuffleboard, which you do not find in bars anymore. Ormsby’s was packed and I was mildly optimistic.
Sam ordered the Guinness dipped pretzels and three beers. I sipped a Hoegaarden and worried about the wheat gluten, while it seemed Sam and Gabbi were in a competition to see who could amass more empty glasses. There were some above average looking girls at the bar that looked intrigued by Sam’s and my attendance and threatened by Gabbi’s. Sam just wanted to get drunk and play bocce ball the whole night, so most of our time was spent playing or drinking while waiting in line to play. When I finally finished my beer, and Sam and Gabbi had finished their fifth, I walked to the bar to order a round for everyone. “One Stella, one Hoegaarden, and one Lindeman’s Framboise,” I said not looking at the bar tender. I was looking across the bar casually and noticed Wallace Rhodes McNeil. He was with his best friend, Stephen, who looked hopelessly bored, as well as two other young men that appeared to be having a much better time. I was no longer the second best looking person at Ormsby’s. Wallace and I made eye contact and he waved. He then completely ignored a group of attractive young ladies that were desperately trying to hold his attention and walked over to me.
“El Ward, how are ya?” “I’m doing well, Wallace. How are you?” “Pretty good, working a lot right now.” We talked some more and I realized that very little had changed with Wallace since I last talked with him. Wallace is one of those rare people like Steve McQueen or Robert Redford that just transcend “cool”. We talked more and after a few minutes his female followers found him saying: “Where’d you go, Wall?” “Look at this Wally?” “Wallace!” etc, etc, etc...
“Who are you here with?” he asked, still ignoring them.
“Sam,” I said pausing, “...and Gabbi.”
“Oh,” he replied, “Are ya’ll staying long?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Ok then.”
“Stella, Hoegaarden, and Framboise?”
“That’s me,” I said putting some paper bills on the counter, “keep the change.”
“I’ll let you get back to your friends,” said Wallace.
“Good seeing you, Wallace.”
“Good seeing you, too, Liam.” I find most people unbearable. Wallace is an exception.
“Wallace is here,” I said.
“Oh,” said Sam, momentarily sobering up.
“I talked to him for a bit.”
“I was wondering what took so long.”
“We can go if you want.”
“I know.”
“Wallace is here?” Gabbi half drunkenly, half optimistically chimed in.
“Yes,” I said and she raised her eyebrows and looked around the room.
Leaving the restaurant we passed Wallace and his friends, but did not say anything. Outside I asked Sam where we should go. Virginia Highlands was the answer, so we went.
We were all sitting back down and I was enjoying the bacon wrapped Georgia rainbow trout. Sam had ordered the most expensive thing on the menu but was mostly just drinking and Gabbi was eating the fried chicken. Gabbi loves JCT because she can order fried chicken and not feel like she made some cultural faux pas. Usually, it would reveal something broader about your upbringing, but ordering fried chicken at a place like JCT is considered at worst ironic and at best confident. We were almost finished with the meal when White V-neck showed up at our table and started talking to Gabbi. Sam immediately looked put off. I finished my drink. I gave him one-hundred and twenty seconds, which is enough time to politely say "hello" and continue on your way. When V-neck neglected to leave I introduced myself. “Oh, you must be Gabbi’s gay friend,” V-neck said smugly, clearly trying to get a rise out of me. “I like your shoes,” I said casually. “Uh....Thanks,” he said, “I can't say I'm a big fan of yours.” I could tell he was from the North because he was rude, had a subtle yankee accent, and was dressed like he bought everything off a department store mannequin. Assuming he did, he clearly did not know what shoes should go with the outfit. Emma was standing just off the table with a pitcher of water and looked worried. She bit her lip nervously. “Well, we can’t all be expected to have enough class to drop forty whole dollars on a pair of shoes at TJ Maxx.” V-neck paused, silent. Sam took a drink from his glass and smiled behind it. I was warming up and the hunt was about to begin. “Let me buy you a drink,” I continued, “Let’s see, Emma can you get us three Stellas and let me guess.... a Bud Light for our classy, new friend.” “Sure thing.” said Emma, not hiding her smile. At this point it finally became clear to V-neck that we were having fun at his expense and he said, “No...that’s alright, I need to get back to my table.” “So soon?” Sam questioned. It was now a hunting party. Sam continued to toy with him and try to get him to stay. I was through with the conversation and had gone back to enjoying my meal and was making a list of things I needed to do later that night.
After dinner I drove everyone to Ormsby’s. The two locations are so close it was almost not worth paying for parking twice, but I did anyway. Sam always sits in the front seat and despite the short drive opened another Heineken Light that he had stashed under the seat. Gabbi reached up from the back seat and changed the radio station to some dancey pop music and Sam looked at her disapprovingly. “That was Landslide by Fleetwood Mac,” he says. “Oh, was it?” “Yeah" Silence. "… that’s a great song.” “Well I don’t like it.” “You don’t like it? How do you not like it? How does anybody not like it?” “I guess it is alright.” Sam looks absolutely disgusted and exclaims, “If you don’t like Landslide by Fleetwood Mac then you are dead inside.”
Ormsby’s is a yuppie hangout and is actually one of the most decent bars in Atlanta. They have a wide selection of mostly imported beers, which is nice. Sam will not admit it, but the games are one of his favorite things about Ormsby’s. There are indoor bocce ball courts, pool tables, classic darts, and shuffleboard, which you do not find in bars anymore. Ormsby’s was packed and I was mildly optimistic.
Sam ordered the Guinness dipped pretzels and three beers. I sipped a Hoegaarden and worried about the wheat gluten, while it seemed Sam and Gabbi were in a competition to see who could amass more empty glasses. There were some above average looking girls at the bar that looked intrigued by Sam’s and my attendance and threatened by Gabbi’s. Sam just wanted to get drunk and play bocce ball the whole night, so most of our time was spent playing or drinking while waiting in line to play. When I finally finished my beer, and Sam and Gabbi had finished their fifth, I walked to the bar to order a round for everyone. “One Stella, one Hoegaarden, and one Lindeman’s Framboise,” I said not looking at the bar tender. I was looking across the bar casually and noticed Wallace Rhodes McNeil. He was with his best friend, Stephen, who looked hopelessly bored, as well as two other young men that appeared to be having a much better time. I was no longer the second best looking person at Ormsby’s. Wallace and I made eye contact and he waved. He then completely ignored a group of attractive young ladies that were desperately trying to hold his attention and walked over to me.
“El Ward, how are ya?” “I’m doing well, Wallace. How are you?” “Pretty good, working a lot right now.” We talked some more and I realized that very little had changed with Wallace since I last talked with him. Wallace is one of those rare people like Steve McQueen or Robert Redford that just transcend “cool”. We talked more and after a few minutes his female followers found him saying: “Where’d you go, Wall?” “Look at this Wally?” “Wallace!” etc, etc, etc...
“Who are you here with?” he asked, still ignoring them.
“Sam,” I said pausing, “...and Gabbi.”
“Oh,” he replied, “Are ya’ll staying long?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Ok then.”
“Stella, Hoegaarden, and Framboise?”
“That’s me,” I said putting some paper bills on the counter, “keep the change.”
“I’ll let you get back to your friends,” said Wallace.
“Good seeing you, Wallace.”
“Good seeing you, too, Liam.” I find most people unbearable. Wallace is an exception.
“Wallace is here,” I said.
“Oh,” said Sam, momentarily sobering up.
“I talked to him for a bit.”
“I was wondering what took so long.”
“We can go if you want.”
“I know.”
“Wallace is here?” Gabbi half drunkenly, half optimistically chimed in.
“Yes,” I said and she raised her eyebrows and looked around the room.
Leaving the restaurant we passed Wallace and his friends, but did not say anything. Outside I asked Sam where we should go. Virginia Highlands was the answer, so we went.
Previous Posts:
Midtown West Doldrums, Part I
- Posted on: October 6, 2010
An Introduction
- Posted on: September 9, 2010
If you wish to contact me, please direct all emails to the blog administrator at fistfulofwords@gmail.com and include "LW" in the subject line.
Wallace sounds a little to confident within himself. He changed the whole course and mood of the night!
ReplyDeleteI appreciate you taking the time to read and comment.
ReplyDeleteWallace's connection to you and Sam was omitted -are we going to hear the rest of the story in later blogs, or will it be left to speculation?
ReplyDeleteYes and no.
ReplyDeleteMore information about Wallace (as well as Sam, Gabbi, etc...) will be revealed in future posts, though much may still be left to speculation.
I hope the "Comments" section will be a place for you and others to discuss these speculations.
Thank you for commenting and I hope that you continue to follow our posts.
Part III is scheduled to be posted one week from today.
-LW
I enjoy reading your posts. I have some speculations but will wait to see what info. is included in your next post before I share them.
ReplyDeleteThank you for your interest. I look forward to hearing your thoughts. Please encourage others to read and comment as well.
ReplyDelete-LW