Somehow, though, Billy Brylcreem actually pulled off the greased-back look, despite being around 5 decades behind the times on available hair-care products - and coupled with being a man in uniform, a California beach-volleyball-player kind of guy, and a bit of a Tom Cruise lookalike (true story: he was not once, but twice hit on by gay men while out with me, both of whom used the "Does anyone ever tell you you look a lot like Tom Cruise?" line), he found his way into my crosshairs.
(Like so, except more with the height and less with the homoeroticism.)
a) I was young and terrible at dating, and
b) so was he.
I actually swung and missed a couple times and was on the verge of giving up, when Billy Brylcreem came to his senses, realized that his then-girlfriend was stupid, and asked me out for some summertime waterfront margaritas.
(Me, transmitting all-hours brainwaves to Billy Brylcreem's girlfriend)
At the time, I lived right on the bustling harbor of Billymore, and so mostly out of completely one-sided convenience, I arranged to meet him at a place close to my rowhouse (which I shared with our mutual friend), so that I could just easily walk down at the preordained hour. I arrived in time to witness poor Billy Brylcreem driving around and around and around and around in growing concentric circles emanating from our first-date locale, in fruitless search for elusive Downtown Billymore street parking.
When he finally arrived at the bar almost 25 minutes late, despite having sweated copiously during his parking-spot hunt and subsequent extended hike through the muggy streets (I mean humid, yes, but also rife with actual muggings, because the inner harbor was and still is a pretty shitty-gritty area of town), Billy Brylcreem was a chivalrous, witty charmer (with a still-perfect pompadour of outrageous, air-moisture-impervious proportions, because Bryllcreem). I was smitten and almost immediately felt a little bad for putting him through the lower-downtown wringer.
Somewhere toward margarita three (per) and Billy-ordered appetizer four, we decided to call it a night. Billymore skyline lights were now sparkling over the trash-festooned marina water and I probably had tequila-infused stars dancing in my eyes as Billy Brylcreem returned from having gone to close out our check with a slightly uneasy look on his face.
"My wallet."
This sentence obviously did not contain a verb and I like grammar very much, so I stared at Billy Brylcreem expressionlessly, waiting for the sentence predicate.
"I don't have it."
Aha. So this, I realized to myself, must be the part where you also pay a price for selecting this shitty location, Susie, and that price is going to be the entire fucking tab, because Billy Brylcreem had been pickpocketed somewhere along his auto-to-cantina foot journey.
After I coughed up the total, he gallantly, if a little emasculatedly, offered to walk me back home, which I accepted because hey, the Tom Cruise thing and also because whitegirl alone after dark in Billymore harbor = OhHellNo. But there was no kiss. Apparently Billy Brylcreem's mind was on other things at this point, likely things such as his urgent need to cancel all credit cards, in light of my ill-received attempt at levity ("Ah, shit, I hope there aren't crack-houses that take Visa!")
He left, and I promptly awoke housemate Tony from his slumber on the couch next to a pile of Miller Lite empties to tell him the story.
Maybe ten minutes later, Tony answered a knock at the door and just as I glimpsed, from the kitchen, that it was Billy Brylcreem out on the stoop again, Tony stepped outside and closed the door.
60 seconds later Tony reentered the house, re-affixed all four deadbolts and chains on the door, and returned to the couch with a wordless smirk.
I actually didn't get the story out of him for several days, but Tony finally divulged that poor Billy Brylcreem had to return to borrow cash that eve just to get his car out of the hourly garage he'd finally given up and parked in, and also to pay the turnpike tolls home.
Dating me is pretty much a fairy-tale come true.
Aha. So this, I realized to myself, must be the part where you also pay a price for selecting this shitty location, Susie, and that price is going to be the entire fucking tab, because Billy Brylcreem had been pickpocketed somewhere along his auto-to-cantina foot journey.
After I coughed up the total, he gallantly, if a little emasculatedly, offered to walk me back home, which I accepted because hey, the Tom Cruise thing and also because whitegirl alone after dark in Billymore harbor = OhHellNo. But there was no kiss. Apparently Billy Brylcreem's mind was on other things at this point, likely things such as his urgent need to cancel all credit cards, in light of my ill-received attempt at levity ("Ah, shit, I hope there aren't crack-houses that take Visa!")
He left, and I promptly awoke housemate Tony from his slumber on the couch next to a pile of Miller Lite empties to tell him the story.
Maybe ten minutes later, Tony answered a knock at the door and just as I glimpsed, from the kitchen, that it was Billy Brylcreem out on the stoop again, Tony stepped outside and closed the door.
60 seconds later Tony reentered the house, re-affixed all four deadbolts and chains on the door, and returned to the couch with a wordless smirk.
I actually didn't get the story out of him for several days, but Tony finally divulged that poor Billy Brylcreem had to return to borrow cash that eve just to get his car out of the hourly garage he'd finally given up and parked in, and also to pay the turnpike tolls home.
Dating me is pretty much a fairy-tale come true.
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