He Was Mysterious.
While I spent evening after evening and night after night at The Hood, I remember very little about being inside the bar. I remember the smell of stale beer and the drab, darkened decor, but my memories of what happened there are … foggy.
Mostly I sat at the bar, if crowds were low, and drank beer. On really special occasions, I would get a Hood Burger, but mostly I sat and drank beer. If the bar was crowded, my activities consisted of making my way through the crowd to get another beer, then finding a less crowded place to stand and drink … and then making my way back to the bar to get another beer.
Then one night, when crowds were low, I saw a guy walk in dressed all in black: leather jacket, black leather pants, and black fingerless gloves that he didn’t remove, even when drinking his can of Coors.
I’d never seen fingerless gloves before, so I decided that he was the coolest person ever to walk into that bar. His eyes were as black as his clothes. He sat at the darkest corner table, right next to the door.
Once in awhile, if he turned his head just so, I could see the glint of gold in his left ear. Like the incomparable George Michael, David Bowie and Boy George, this guy had an earring, too.
He was mysterious.
He lit a cigarette which made him even cooler. After only one beer he left, never speaking to anyone, not even looking around. Just sitting quietly and then disappearing.
For weeks afterward, I went to the bar looking for the black-clad man. I wanted to know this guy.
Finally, one night, he returned: same black leather, same fingerless gloves, new can of Coors. I stared from across the bar. He sat at the table next to the door, spoke to no one, and then he was gone again.
I nearly followed him outside – but instead, I just watched him go. Again.
This happened four times over several weeks before my nerve – and my alcohol level – sufficiently pushed me to speak to him. Or maybe it was Bonnie and a dare. I don’t actually recall.
Suddenly I was at his dark table, plopped down next to him, introducing myself and shaking the hand with the fingerless gloves.
“Scott,” he said, his voice low, nearly nonexistent. I was terrified and could barely form a sentence, so I raced into the bathroom to make sure I looked okay.
When I came out, he was gone again.
The next time he walked in, I nearly threw myself into his lap. “Where did you go?” I yakked – then kept yakking until somehow I got his number – before the days of cell phones, so I had to call him. Having this incredibly cool guy call the dorm floor payphone seemed ridiculous.
I waited a couple of days and then I called.
“Hey,” he said. And then I talked for half an hour.
We were officially dating.