This is my thirteenth story. There may be more...
... if I'm lucky.
My thirteenth story for this site happens to coincide with Halloween, so here we go. And it's a slow build.
***
One good thing about having a rich friend like Peter Fisher is that he has a pool room in his house. Wednesday night we got bored in an empty pub, so I ended up playing pool there with him and beer. I broke the rack and soon sank the ten, so I was bigs. I lined up the thirteen for a simple shot and missed.
"Fuck that was an easy one," I complained.
"Bad luck," Peter said like he didn't mean it. I'd given him a chance and he took it. And proceeded to clean my dial.
"Beer usually helps me shoot straight," I complained.
"And helps you shoot straight in the other sense?" Peter smirked. This was one of our long running conversations. Is beer our psychological enabler, helping with our social confidence versus its effect on our performance? And the careful balance to get the two right. This was about talking to women we didn't know. We had experimented with wine, mixers and rum, as well as vodka and other straight shots. And what they wanted to drink. Since the results were inconclusive, we usually returned to beer because we like it better.
Peter put on a CD after flicking through his stack for a moment. The Doors sang Love Me Two Times. "So what's your success rate been like recently?" Peter asked me, getting into the mood of the music. I set up the rack for him to make the next break.
"It's not about numbers and keeping score," I complained. "It's about finding the ideal partner and building a meaningful relationship."
"And in the absence of this mythical meaningful relationship thing, how are you scoring?" he chortled. "Come on, this is important for our chronicles." And he got me another beer.
So I got serious. "You know about Lacy, the love of my life..."
We had done this routine before. "Your first. I liked her."
"Shame that her parents decided to emigrate and took her with them. Next, Lisa was the rebound. Apologies to her. And then the two one night stands that followed, Marella and Juni."
"The old story. Man goes from monogamy to spreading it around. Suddenly from keeping on the path, there are no rules. Next you two-timed Trina and Paulina."
"I never did find out how they both found out at the same time." I gave Peter a questioning look.
"One of life's mysteries. You really didn't like either of them," Peter concluded with a poker face.
I nodded at that so he continued. "Then there was the longest time with the other Lisa," he added.
"I liked her, shame it didn't work out." As if on cue, Jim Morrison started crooning You're Lost, Little Girl. I smashed the white inclusively into the rack hoping that something would go in. Nothing did.
"She didn't like your friends," Peter reminded me.
"She wanted babies, everything else was secondary. You were just collateral damage. But there was a determined side to her that was scary."
"Especially for a commitment avoider like you," Peter observed. He sank a couple of balls and started to show a bit of a swagger.
"Haha," I joked. "Like you're Mr Reliable, an example to me, not. I had a pause then got back onto the scene. Since then it's been Tinder time with Mavis, Fleur and Ulrika."
"Which brings us up the present." Peter watched as I caught him up with some pretty good potting.
Morrison sang Hello, I love you won't you tell me your name.
"Add two others that I'm not going to tell you about so the total's twelve."
"Not bad," Peter conceded. "I'm up to seven. I wasn't into the Tinder scene for too long, but inspired by you, I must say that something may be developing with Cindy who has come into my life from that site." He showed me her photo on his phone, and I of course approved. "You will meet her. She has unfortunately gone away for a few weeks."
"Which means that you are going to stay at home this weekend, waiting for her to return?"
Peter looked at me incredulously. "Sure it's only Wednesday today. But we've got to plan. You know what Friday is?"
Yeah, clubbing night after work. The usual.
"The date, you idiot. I'll give you a hint. It's the day after Thursday the twelfth."
"So?" What was he on about?
"What a perfect time to land your thirteenth."
I thought about it and shrugged. "Yeah," I drawled like it didn't matter, "who's counting?" Yeah, I was.
+++
And so the two of us stood outside The Wild Duck, part of a slow moving queue and dressed for the occasion. Both of us in calf-length leather trench coats, broad-rimmed black hats, the black boots and best of all, tight black pants. While standing outside, we learned that The Duck was charging $13 to get in, that the first drink was free and others in the queue were getting excited about what they heard was happening inside.
Soon enough we were inside, a regular club transformed into a gothic den. The room was lit by long tapers in wrought iron holders. They had painted the walls black, hung with ornate mirrors. The DJ looked down on us from an ornate wooden pulpit that may have been purloined from a real church. The sounds of what the two of us agreed was from Bauhaus's first album resonated throughout. Peter happily pointed out that everyone else inside had made at least as much effort to dress up as we had. I soaked in the people watching as we sipped our free beers. Two go-gothic dancers writhed in their cages above us. In the spirit, they wore little other than black heels and stockings, bustier tops and dark feather shawls. Which Peter and I agreed was absolutely a good thing.
Peter offered to go to the bar and buy a round of drinks and I didn't object, I got some solitude to check out how everyone else had turned out. I noticed a woman leaning against a pillar by herself, dressed much as the caged dancers. Since she was alone I kept staring. When she caught my eye contact and scowled at me, I smiled back. She allowed me that as her scowl turned to an evil smile. I felt good.
At that moment, Peter came back with some foreign wheat beers. "You're not going to guess how much they're charging for drinks," he exclaimed.
"Let me guess."
Oh, how we laughed.
I realised that the woman who may have been a go go dancer was still alone. She appeared to have forgotten I exist. This was not fair. "Peter, I need to leave you alone for a moment. If you see someone you want to talk to, go for it." I walked over and asked her if she was going into the cage.
She denied it, but admitted her name was Cathy. "I'm not a dancer," she advised. Then she looked up to the cages saw what they were wearing and twigged. "I guess men are going to ask me that all night," she sighed. "I'm not even into this whole superstition thing. But a night out's a night out." She yawned. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.
Unsure whether she meant in general or invading her space, I accidently blurted the truth. "I'm trying to meet a woman to take home," I told her. "And I think you're funny and attractive."
