Still Got It
On the plane, I ordered a scotch. “We don’t have scotch,” the flight attendant said. “All we have is bourbon.”
“That’s fine.”
“We have Wild Turkey. But that’s terrible. You’re better off with Jack Daniels.”
“Anything is better than Jack Daniels. I don’t mind Wild Turkey.”
“Are you sure? It’ll take the paint off your house.”
“I don’t need the paint taken off. I need the siding taken off.”
“It’ll do that.”
“The Turkey is fine. On the rocks, please.”
He brought it a few minutes later. It was fine. It always is. It’s not like it’s Jim Beam. Jim Beam is what I drank back when I was a virgin trying to give my virginity away. My mom mocked me for drinking it. “That’s what college kids drink,” she’d say smugly. Well, yeah, I was in college.
Then he brought he tablet with the due bill. “You’re gonna make me pay for this swill?” I said jokingly.
“I know, I shouldn’t—I should be paying you.”
“Yeah, for clearing out your inventory.”
He leaned in. “You know what, forget it. I’m buying this one. You’re cool. On me. Our secret.”
✶
The lobby bar of this particular New Orleans hotel was busy but I managed to find a table. I was hungry for a bowl of gumbo and a stiff old fashioned. I was waiting for friends to join me but I wasn’t waiting to order.
The server was cute. Reminded me of an ex—the ex. The one I lost/gave my virginity to. As if virginity is something. Short brunette hair. Full lips. Dark eyes. No chin. But this one had tattoos. An attraction I didn’t have back when.
She brought me the gumbo. “Just waitin’ on that Makers Mark, m’kay?” she said. And she danced her fingertips along my shoulder blade. Naturally. Casually. Flirtatiously. Professionally.
My best pal, in college, had this terrible habit of flirting with servers—waitresses back then. And I’d tell him, “Waitresses don’t like you. They care less about you than strippers. But they have to work twice as hard for the money without the assistance of tits and landing trips to shove in your face. Do not engage. You’ll embarrass yourself.” And he did. With every order and every tab paid.
My friends arrived. They ordered.
“I’ll be right back with those drinks,” she said to them as she once again touched me. This time dragging her fingers deep along the length of my arm. It was equally intimate, inappropriate, and nothing at all. My friends took note. They Ooooed and Ahhhhed like a sitcom in-studio audience.
“That waitress likes you,” one said to me. “What did we miss before we got here?”
“Nothing,” I said. “She’s working. And they’re called servers now.”
And it was nothing. To me anyway. But to my friends, it was something. Because she didn’t flirt with or touch the other guy at the table. And nothing for the two women. Just me. I was the object of her workplace affection.
“Apparently, you still got it, Himmel,” one of my female friends said to me in a mocking manner.
And maybe I do.
✶
Part of getting older is realizing that you are, in fact, older. And in many cases, we age out of our horned up youth into a relaxed state of domestication. But it’s naturally human to wonder if you still got it. If you’re still an object of interest—not affection—to the people you meet or even pass on the street or at Target on Sunday mornings.
I know my wife thinks I still got it. She told me the other night that she’s in her sexual prime. “So, stay hydrated,” she said just before we pushed the iPad aside and turned the bedside lamp off. As if she has a choice. At this point, she’s stuck with me. Divorce isn’t something either of us are interested in. But should that terrible day come, we’ll both be wondering if we still got it.
So, yeah, maybe my friend was right. And that’s a good thing to feel about oneself. I’m not as interested in still having it as a means toward sexual prowess but as a reminder that among the conversations of work and homeownership and kids’ schedules and the politics of in-laws and the latest surprise ailment that I’m still providing some degree of interest to the outer world. Even if it’s limited to the professionals in the customer service industry.
Because even love from a hooker can make a man feel pretty good about himself. Not that I’m frequenting hookers. Why would I? I’ve got a wife in her sexual prime and way too much work to do before the kids wake up.
