His beard is long, hiding his neck. His hair is shaggy, un-kept, and wire-y, It hangs down, meeting his bushy eyebrows. It is the beard of an old man in a winter hibernation but his eyes tell me he is young. They glisten. They are un-mistakingly green. They are piercing looking out from under his shaggy head of hair. Not a sharp piercing, but a piercing that makes you want to know him. I don’t want to know him, I want to be related to him. A guy of this stature gives you bragging rights if you can tell people he is your second cousin, or better yet boyfriend. This guy gives you status. Status that not even a house in the Hampton or a vintage Bentley can give you. This status is more endearing too because he doesn’t know where the Hamptons are and if you mention the word Bentley around him he gets quite and sad remembering his childhood dog that got hit by a car in Georgia.
His childhood dog was named Bentley; a cute little mutt that he got from his childhood neighbor when their dog jumped the fence and came back knocked up. That kind of thing always happened in Georgia. Dogs were always jumping fences and coming back knocked up. In Georgia, dogs do what they want… and they don’t look back neither. He liked it because it was black, brown, and white. He loved it because it always brought back the sticks he threw, even if it was up in a tree, even if it was at the bottom of a pond, even if was dark outside and he had been throwing the stick since breakfast. (Let me cut in and clarify that when I say it I am referring to Bentley, and Bentley is a he. This clarification is important because this guy would not appreciate me, or really anyone, referring to his dead best friend as it. And he is right, I should work on my compassion. My mom side of the family lacks compassion but my dads side has it down to an art. I look like my mom. I act like my mom. Not my best attribute but my strongest without a doubt.)
Bentley always brought back the sticks.
(One more thing, in the second part of the sentence about the stick, when I refer to it I am referring to the stick, not Bentley. Bentley was not thrown up in the tree or to the bottom of a pond, but I guess he did have to go there to get it… it as in the stick.)
Bentley always brought back the sticks. Except for the time Walker threw the stick too far, right into the oncoming traffic on the old town road. Bentley ran out, eager to fetch and bring it back. The car got there just before Bentley got out of there. Really, the car got there just in the nick of time.
I made that up. That didn’t happen.
Well actually it might have happened, I have no idea how Bentley got hit by the car, but I can bet that he didn’t see it happen, and I can double bet that it wasn’t his fault Bentley got hit by this douche bag, stupid, ugly, incredibly guilty car. This guy looks calm. This guy is calm. People who see their best friend get hit by a car (the best friend is Bentley, stick with me), knowing that it was their fault because if they weren’t so idiotic they wouldn’t have thrown the stick into the road…
“God damnit I am a fuck tard, I am a murderer, a fucking dog murder, I am unworthy of love and anything good and fun and tasty.” Tasty? People in Georgia are rewarded with food. It works for their dogs too … I think…
are not calm. I don’t know how Bentley got hit by the car, but shotty-not-it on asking.
I get introduced to him.
His name is Walker.
I get introduced by my friend, who is also Walker’s friend. I get introduced to Walker by a mutual friend. My friend, our friend, introduces Walker as “the coolest guy he knows.” Apparently this guy is the guy. “Walker and his band mates were nice enough to let us crash on their couch when we passed through Athens.”
I wonder how close you have to be with someone to introduce them to someone as my friend. Like, “Oh Erica, I want you to meet my friend Walker.” Do you have to crash on their couch first? Get fucked up with them first? I think in Georgia they refer to it as, “getting fired up.” Do you have to get fired up with them first? Know their last name? Their mother’s maiden name? I bet Walker would introduce me as his friend. He would say, “Ross, this is my friend Banky.” I would smile and shake hands would Ross. He would be a good hand-shaker. Not the sleazy creepy handshaker but a strong sincere hand shake that makes me matter of factly know that he is generally glad to meet me. His hands would be clean and dry too. Not clammy. I suddenly become aware of my hands. My hands are always clammy. I hate that. I would be equally as happy to meet Ross as he was to meet me but my hands are clammy so it doesn’t mean as much. People from Georgia are sincere. It’s refreshing to meet Walker and Ross. Sincere is refreshing.
Ross would think my name is really Banky. He is from Georgia too. People from Georgia are so goddamn trusting.
“When did you go to Athens?”
“What? When we went on tour… remember Banky, I was gone for 6 weeks.”
“I didn’t know you guys went to Athens.”
“Psh that’s because you don’t even know me.”
I roll my eyes in a joking way. I pretend I hate when he calls me Banky, but I don’t, its brotherly coming from him. Walker can call me Banky. Walker can call me whatever he wants as long as he says it in his southern drawl really. You can’t call me Banky. I make some sassy remark, trying to be cute. Cute is my default defense mechanism when I feel a moment of awkward silence settling in. Sometimes it backfires though, trying to be cute. Sometimes I try to be cute but fail miserably, making things substantially more awkward. I actually love awkward but don’t know how Walker feels about it so I am careful with my cute act, making sure it’s actually cute. Brian embodies awkward so I don’t have to worry about him. No one has to worry about Brian. Brian worries about Brian. It has always been like that, at least since I have known him. Brian worrying about Brian is refreshing.
Walker smiles when I roll my eyes. He thinks I am cute. His smile makes me smile. His smile is cute. I feel stupid for being careful. Clearly Walker is not the kind of guy that minds awkward. Walker can’t even fathom awkward. I would bet that Walker is incapable of even feeling awkward.
I love awkward.
The tension that awkward brings, the way it can make you blush or stutter or sweat or get cold. The way it can make you say things that aren’t funny, say something rude, something embarrassing, make you fake laugh, acting overly polite, or just straight up ridiculous. Awkward can be the fattest, heaviest, motherfucker in the room but Walker refuses to give up his bar stool. I like this. He is tough and doesn’t even know it.
Intriguing.
I want to be related to him more than before, heck I want to be from him. I want to be like, “Hey Erica, meet my friend Walker who is also my dad.” That would be almost an over kill of serious status. Maybe not, can you have too much status? That’s like asking if you can have too much happiness. That’s like asking if you can have too much money. Why do people even ask questions like that? There is an extremely high chance that you are just plain average and that you will never have enough money to pay your bills early let alone have enough to worry about how much is more than enough. Stop asking stupid questions and pick up a new hobby or something you know? But maybe their hobby is asking rhetorical questions, and who am I to judge? My hobby these days is watching re-runs of Gossip Girls. Ya, I said it. I know how lame it sounds and I said it. Walker wouldn’t understand Gossip Girls for a second. That’s how much status Walker has. I bet if I asked him to watch it with me, he would.
If you have never seen Gossip Girls then you don’t understand how much status Walker embodies and I feel bad for you. Not necessarily because you haven’t seen Gossip Girls (even though it is mind numbingly good) but because you are missing out on grasping what I mean when I say Walker has a shit ton of status. Like a huge shit ton of status. Like a gigantic load of shit ton of status. Ya, that much.
Walker as my friend and dad. That would be cool. I bet you can say stuff like that in Georgia (“Hey Erica, meet my friend Walker who is also my dad”) and they don’t look at you with that annoying confused look. The look that says I am seriously judging you right now. You know that look. If you honestly don’t know what I am talking about watch an episode of GG (Gossip Girls)… it’s the look that happens after every other look. Walker can’t do this look. Walker can’t judge. But maybe he can and we just can’t see it under that fabulous beard that suits him so fabulously. Walker is fabulous.
Walker is fabulous.
Awkward pushes Brian away from our little huddle, I think subconsciously to mingle with all his biggest fans. What a rock star. I smile thinking about our summers lifeguarding together at the city pools. He played me his first recording just three summers ago. Timid and embarrassed he fumbled around with the fast-forward and rewind buttons trying to find the start of the song. I listened, paying close attention to the expression on my face while the tape was playing in his dad’s four-door not fancy ford. Once his voice beamed through the blown-out speakers I stopped worrying that my face would show disgust but instead became nervous I looked too proud. Like a proud parent or something, that’s creepier than looking disgusted. I guess it’s better than looking disappointed though. The look of disappointment is enough to make you bring the toaster with you to bath time.
Scrub-a-dub-dub.
I don’t know why I would look disappointed when I listened to his music. I’m not a music critique or anything. Actually far from it, I can know every single word to a song, I could even make the bold claim that it is my favorite song, but I will have no godly idea who sings it or what it is called, or when it was produced, and between you and me, I have no desire to find out. Brian would be disappointed in me.
Brian has always been a star. Now he is a rock star. I would probably find him obnoxious if I didn’t know him before, when he was just a plain star. Actually, I do find him obnoxious. Luckily his laugh hasn’t changed since the tack-on of rock to his star. And since he calls me Banky I have free range to make fun of him ruthlessly. He should thank me for making fun of him. It brings him back to earth. Brian, you live with your mom, you are still a lifeguard, you are broke as shit, you had to pond your classical guitar for gas money.
Brian is a rock star. He is obnoxious.
I am his biggest fan.
Walker leans deeper into the bar stool, I am afraid it might brake, but that thought doesn’t cross his mind. He is a trusting guy. People from Athens are trusting, trusting and simple. I’ve never been there. I’ve never even consciously thought, “I want to go to Athens, Georgia someday.”
I want to go to Athens, Georgia someday.
People from Athens are trusting, trusting and simple. The simple that gives you status. He relaxes when he realizes Brian and I are friends and nothing more. If we were something more I would have known Brian went to Athens.
His name is Walker. His southern accent is enough to make my heart melt. He is precious in all meanings of the word. His beard, his hibernation hair, bushy eye brows, his pine needle green eyes, his name, Walker, his southern drawl.
Sigh…his southern drawl.
“So how do ya’ll know each other?”
Precious.
What happens next is the same as what happened before.
There was some more infatuation.
Precious. Awkward. Status.
Sigh… his southern drawl.
I watched him jam out on his guitar and noticed he was playing only in socks. What doesn’t make sense is that it makes sense. Walker has status enough to rock out without shoes. Walker is like those dogs in Athens, Georgia that do what they want and don’t look back. Walker is such a rock star he doesn’t even have a last name … Walker is a Madonna.
Note: Walker probably has a last name I just don’t know it and I wanted to end this paper with something epic. What is more epic than Madonna? Actually forget Madonna, what is more epic than people with no last name? Exactly.
No-last-name Walker has enough status to rock my socks off.
Bow-shicka-wow-wow.