Oh, For a Muse of Fire, Plus 15-20%

Last night M and I went out for Chinese food for her mom’s birthday as we do every year (followed by the also annual ritual of the Drinking of a Bathtub Full of Water to Fend off Salt-Induced Dehydration), and I thought at one point how long it had been since I’d had a waitress crush. I love waitress crushes because they’re exciting, but also harmless. You never actually expect, or even want, something to come of it, and the lines of propriety are clearly drawn, so it’s all just in fun. It’s a platonic crush, so you can be in a relationship and not feel too badly about the crush, because the lust-level is virtually pre-pubescent – it’s like when you’re little and decide that when you grow up you want to marry your mom or dad – there’s nothing perverse there, it’s just a warm affection couple with an imperialistic desire to possess. These crushes are also somewhat inspirational – like a muse. I’m convinced that the bulk of muses through history are waitresses crushes in a literal, or analogous form.

One of my last ones was some years ago. Still don’t know her name. She worked at this hipster after-hours place. Thin, clothes were clearly thrift-store but still looked cool, wild hair barely contained in a band, horn-rimmed glasses. Disdain or disinterest in all temporal things. One night I went out with some friends to a show. It was loud. Really, really loud. One of my friends decided to stage-dive and asked me to hold her coat, and be a back-up cushion in case no one caught her. So, fine, I can do that. Only she kept hesitating, and so I was standing just over a foot away from the amplifiers for several minutes. So, she goes, she jumps, she’s wild, a good time is had by all. After the show, we all go to the after-hours place. I’d had quite a bit to drink, so had to wait for a while to drive home. My waitress-crush was working that early morn. Now, understand, I’m buzzed and deaf. My left ear is ringing, and might right ear is ringing in the higher and lower registers, disturbingly mute in the mid-range.

Hey, I’d forgotten all about this until just now. When we left the show, one guy we knew but didn’t like all that much, left early in a huff over something, and when we left some time later, he was standing in the parking lot sulking. He couldn’t leave because two people were having sex on the hood of his car, and it was too weird to tell them to move.

Anyway, at the restaurant, first I informed my friends of my joy that my crush was working at an unknown volume, but definitely too loud. Then we’re sitting and talking (I had gotten some alligator jambalaya because it was that kind of place, then, in my logical-thinking state, decided I might as well have glass of wine too while I waited to sober up. It took a bit to realize I had extended my wait-time by a bit that way). So she came over and filled our water glasses. When she was maybe, maybe, six feet away, I blurted, quite loudly, “Haha! She filled my water glass first! She likes me!”

Yes, she heard me. Everyone heard me. Obviously, I could never return. I probably should have killed myself on the spot, for the sake of retaining dingity. Although, she did inspire the central character in a play I wrote, which would be the first play of mine to get produced, so that’s something, I guess. Muse mission accomplished, even if she didn’t know it. Or care.

Maybe the idea of muses is bullshit, an arrogant idea created by artists to imbue their lusts with a higher sense of purpose. This is probably true much of the time, but I think not always. Just as 99% of art is bad, so, I suppose, must much of the inspiration be bogus as well. I wonder what ever happened to that girl?