I went to The Meet Market last night. It’s not a bar to which I would usually go, but I was meeting a friend after he finished work and it’s a popular late night spot. It’s a good idea, three bars in one, but it just takes a quick lap from dance hall to pool hall to smoking lounge to make me feel old and like I’ve been in town for too long.
Most of the patrons of The Meet Market are 22 year olds who throw their attitudes around like the brand new drinkers they are. My favorite overheard line from an exasperated 23 year old: “I haven’t been carded in years.” It’s a safe place for me during off-season. The few members of the opposite sex that hover near my age, I already know and have either slept with or ruled out.
My friend, a chef at one of the nicer restaurants in town, brought his friend, who is both a chef at the same restaurant and a recent one night stand of mine. We’ve seen each other once, in quick passing, since the night a few weeks ago, but I’m pretty sure it was a one night thing for both of us.
Here’s the thing about small towns: sometimes it’s like one big game of adult telephone. I mentioned on a Wednesday night that I was attracted to the chef as I was serving a Kettle One and soda (no fruit) to the manager of his restaurant. I might have said something about going through my whore phase. Don’t read too much into that. I’m a female in a ski town, it’s not hard to get laid but I’m still fairly discerning with my choices.
The manager, a dear friend of mine, walked into work at his restaurant the next afternoon and the first words out of his mouth were to the hot chef. I’d love to quote some elegant line, but my guess is that it was a crass exchange that took only a matter of seconds.
Foreplay that evening took the form of a red snapper cooked in truffle oil that he sent out to me and my mom between morsels of raw flesh that my friend was slicing off of fish who had likely been swimming that morning. Fortunately, Mom was on her best behavior that evening and kept her running commentary on her perpetual search for my future husband to a whisper. It can get bad: one Thanksgiving she burst into tears that we were only a two generation household.
So, back to The Meet Market. My one night stand was running all over the place, back and forth between our group and the smoking room. When he’d pass me, I got playful slaps on the ass and flirtatious quips. It was cute, save for the fact that he’s a 40-something year old man. Oh, and for the fact that he was also working a girl in the smoking room.
Huh?
I realized this as I heard his name bellowed out by a raspy female voice, and it was confirmed by a man walking down the stairs who told him that a woman named after a character from a Dostoyevsky novel was looking for him. After a shared chuckle and completely unrelated, my buddy and I decided to leave. We were just out for a quick drink after work, and one a.m. was hovering a little too closely to the horizon.
We navigated our way through friend and foe, to the back smoking room, saying our goodbyes as we went. It felt like we knew just about everyone in the bar. When we finally found our ‘friend’, as we were informing him of our impending departure, the girl in question attached herself to his lips. When he came up for air, we finished our goodbye and made a hasty departure.
Now, as much as I wasn’t interested in anything more than the one night with this guy, and our friendship continuing in its glad-to-see-you-when-I-see-you state, I’d be lying if I didn’t confess that, at the time, the whole thing made me feel a little like Josie-Grossie (Drew Barrymore’s character in Never Been Kissed).
The lip-locking girl, from some developing Eastern Block country, is a gorgeous size two with spiky blonde hair and about four inches on me. I’m 5’8” and haven’t worn a size two since before puberty, so she’s got some serious model proportions.
I’m not being overly sensitive by thinking that it’s a little tacky to make out mid-conversation with anyone, much less a girl with whom you were naked with in the last 14 days, am I?
But wait, the small town gets smaller. A few nights ago they came into my bar for dinner. I got to wait on my one night stand and his new statuesque arm piece. Not as bad as when my ex-boyfriend repeatedly brought his new 21 year-old Argentinean girlfriend into my bar, (do the math, I’m old enough to be her only slightly scandalous teenage mom), but not entirely comfortable for me, either.
Or is it? After some thought, it’s off-season - I had a lot of time to think while I was making their drinks, maybe it’s not so bad. It’s all in how you look at it, really. I’m hugely flattered that the same man who was attracted to her was also attracted to me. That’s a compliment.
While it’s true that the new crop of 22 year-old “freshman” packing up their dorm rooms to come out to Misfit Mountain for the season still make me feel a little older and like maybe it’s time for a change, they also remind me that I’m a little wiser. And that I really like living in a community where we can all be friends in the morning.
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