There was no great revelation in the first few months. Since moving to Richmond, we had met the young and the old at the corner bars, drinking and talking with little care or repercussion. John and I had picked up a few girls, made a few friends, but there was almost no sense of permanence in anything we did. It was, at best, a game.
Every morning, we would wake up, check the internet for jobs, mull around the apartment and then play a game of disc golf. We stopped keeping score after a while.
I tried to remember the early days at LOPI, how we had formed friendships out of necessity and proximity. I tried to remember how I had met Grace Nichols or John Fairbanks or Al Dunne. They were just there, magically appointed to play some sort of role in my life.
But here! Here there were no rules, no obligations. Just job hunting, disc golf, drinking and bill paying.
We had our side projects, of course. I was still walking around, saying that I was writing the Great American Novel; when in reality, I couldn’t pick up a pen, for fear of ruining it. John kept on drawing.
One night, we headed out to a bar down the street, just past a life-sized wooden polar bear that was frequently ridden by drunk girls in short skirts. The bar, which we had passed several times, was called Albion. Unlike every other bar on the street, it was sunk into the middle of several row-houses. As John and I handed our IDs over to the bouncer, I noticed that this was no dive bar. The interior was well appointed, with a classic, well polished wooden bar top and dozens of glimmering whiskey bottles sitting next to the cash register.
After taking a seat and ordering our beers, we scanned the crowd, picked out a few cute faces and set to work.
“Alright ‘Banks,” I said in a low voice, “Mission: Two girls, five o’clock, black shirt, red dress.”
John Fairbanks could walk up to any girl and start a conversation. He walked over to the table, introduced himself, and began talking with them. Being less confident, and slightly unshaven, I waited for a few minutes before heading over.
“Oh, by the way, this is my roommate, Dan,” said Fairbanks, gesturing to me as I approached.
The girl in the red dress shook my hand, “Ah, hello, I’m Wendy and this is–”
“Melissa,” the girl in the black shirt interjected.
We talked with them for a while, telling them about our great migration from the North, raising toasts to the South. John went to get another drink, but didn’t come back — he’d already struck up a conversation with another group of girls.
“Well, Melissa, what do you do?” I asked the blond girl in the black shirt.
“I’m a lawyer.” she replied, with a hiccup.
“A lawyer, eh? Where do practice?”
“Uh, actually I’m a second year law student.” She blushed.
“I see, well I’m glad to see you’re already perjuring yourself.” I had been watching a lot of lawyer shows on television lately and in my current state considered myself an expert. “I’m a journalist, and I almost usually tell the truth,” I said and handed her my card. I liked doing that.
“Are you expecting me to call you or something?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t be opposed to you calling me.”
“I don’t call boys. Boys call me.”
“Well,” I said, thinking quickly. “What about the 14th amendment?”
“What about it?”
“Doesn’t the 14th amendment guarantee equal protection under the law?”
“So?”
“Shouldn’t a girl be equally obligated to call a boy, if a boy gives a girl his number?” I was stretching the constitution to its breaking point.
“I’m still not going to call you,” she said and paradoxically moved closer to me.
“I don’t know, I could probably win this case in court.” As I said this, she moved even closer, her face just inches from mine. I smiled.
“I don’t care, I’m not going to call you.” Instead she kissed me. That went on for a little while.
I went outside for a cigarette. John was out there already talking to two girls, a blond and a brunette. I told him what had happened.
“Wow, the 14th amendment? That’s almost as bad as the time you tried to use the 8th amendment to stop that girl from biting you,” John replied.
Just then, Melissa emerged from the bar and handed me a slip of paper with her phone number on it.
“You should call me,” she said.
“Then it appears we’ve reached an impasse,” I replied.
“How’s that?”
“Because I’m not going to call you.”