The Sideways Thinker
Chapter 1
Stanley Sidway sat at the bar and slid his half empty glass of rum and Coke back and forth between his thumb and index finger. Right, left. Right, left. It was a nervous tick; a coping mechanism. The repetition of it soothed him, almost into a state of self-hypnosis. He wondered how long he would have to sit here fidgeting with this glass until he wore a trench in the wood. Ten years? The veneer would probably take at least ten. A hundred years? A hundred years, now that's a commitment, thought Stanley. Commitment, as it turned out, was not one of Stanley’s strong points.
He tried to look casual and unaffected, but it betrayed his feeling of raw disappointment. A disappointment slightly buffered by the buzz of his three rums and Coke.
“You good, Hon?” the bartender said. Stanley emerged from his haze.
She’s good at this, he thought. The buzz he had was not bad; a nice warm purr that mostly kept the existential dread in his periphery, instead of hurtling toward him head on. But he knew this was the scene of another failure and wanted out. He was slightly distracted by the diamond stud in her upper lip as it shimmered in the light but fought off the urge to gaze too long.
“Yes. Thank you,” Stanley replied.
She gave him a smile and wandered further down the bar. Stanley swiveled his stool to the right and glanced at the TV across the room. A soccer match droned on. He feigned interest in the game. But after a few moments, he lowered his eye line slightly, down from the TV, just enough to observe a woman in her early thirties, blue highlights in her hair, sitting in a booth across the room with another man. 20 minutes ago, she had sat on the stool next to Stanley.
Her name was September (or at least that's what her online dating profile said). She was the fit, earthy type who smoked weed and had dreams of being a sculptor, although she currently worked collections at a call center. Her eyes were a grayish blue, her voice sultry.
The man in the booth leaned in slowly and kissed September on the mouth. Stanley began to grit his teeth. It soon became clear that the man in the booth was her type, and Stanley...well, Stanley was not.
What makes this guy so goddamn irresistible? His excessive facial hair? The fact that he oozes bohemian charm from every pore? Maybe it doesn't even matter, thought Stanley.
September lit up when the man talked. Her smile was wide and her eyes focused on his every move. He wore his ponytail and beard with a sense of confidence Stanley had never experienced in his life.
Stanley rubbed his minimal stubble and then swiveled his stool back to facing the bar. He caught the pasty white reflection of his face in the mirror and immediately threw his gaze back to the glass in front of him.
He was unable to recall exactly what had transpired during his date with September before she got up and left. The three beers might have had something to do with it. Only fragments came to him now, but they were educational. He did remember the "urgent" texts she had to answer immediately, and how she started to pivot away from him in her stool every so slightly, and how her interest in the soccer game on TV increased with every second.
It was a mismatch, like many dates before. A scenario that was becoming very familiar. There was no specific type of woman that predicted these failures. They spanned all types and ages. The only common thread was their lack of interest in Stanley.
The hipster girls found him too drab. The hippie chicks thought he was too cynical. He was too corrupted for the Mormons and too agnostic for the atheists. The outdoor types thought he was too weak, and the shut-ins found him too restless. The normals thought he was too kinky and the deviants found him too boring. No matter how many times he rolled the dice, no matter what combination, he knew what the outcome would be.
"Fuck it," Stanley muttered as he knocked back the remaining rum and Coke with a grimace. Taking the last bill from his wallet, a worn, faded five with the lower right corner missing, he placed it under the empty glass. He stole another look at the woman with the blue hair, just enough to see her face filled with a school-girlish glee, and walked out into the night.
2014 © Eric Jolley