Malding by Midnight
For our first foray let us venture into the literary microgenre of Baldcore — a phylum of low follicle count writing thematically centered on the undisputed tragedy of male pattern baldness. The Tooky crew fell in love with this depiction of young infatuation and its ability to drive us to make assumptions on a hair-trigger.
Enjoy!
MALDING BY MIDNIGHT
Maria Rodriguez lived within a five-mile radius of me. Twenty-four years old with a lovely round face (great skin), and a helluva profile from the side — as if the Lord above had left one of the fellas at Chipotle in charge of stuffing that bra. Maria's Tinder profile showed she had no cats, no tats, and most importantly no rugrats; so a week back I 'hearted' her, got the ‘heart’ back, and set up a cocktail date at a swanky little gin bar called Gino's. If it sounds like the setup to the sweetest little love story you ever did hear, then there's something else I should tell you.
I'm bald.
On date night I stomped into my apartment and ran a hand over my scalp. Sure enough, side-head stubble bristled beneath my warm fingertips like a Vegas dealer's felted table that ended at a bare cap of scalp up top which stuck to my fingers, skin-on-skin, like a dry waterpark slide against bare thighs. I showered and ran a razor over my head to destroy any evidence of the tell-tale growth, that dreaded horseshoe of peach fuzz that Maria needn't know about until our wedding night.
After toweling off I paced about my apartment for nearly an hour before going to meet her, trying on four different shirts before settling for a navy gingham button up that struck that level of casual sophistication I aspire to. Hanging from my walls were a collection of my past selves smiling down beside family, college buddies, and coworkers; each photo was an archeological record of my enlarging forehead as from the age of twenty my follicles started clogging every dorm and apartment shower drain I crossed. My transformation from human, to Klingon, to bulbheaded alien Gray was as well documented as it was complete by the age of twenty-five. Maria would be unfortunate enough to meet me at twenty-seven.
Despite the overcast evening sky I arrived at Gino’s feeling like a wind carried me; even against the summer humidity I hadn't broken a sweat. After a steadying breath I pushed an oversized door handle.
With a blast of crystal cold conditioned air the bar devoured me whole like Jonah's whale, drawing me in deeper with the harmonious heartbeat of a bossa nova as I passed high tables over which long legged pairs of women chatted on stilted chairs. Amber back-lights silhouetted bottles and models of the female form and I was led on from below by glass tracks that ran the bar's walkway. Ambient blue lamps above cast a siren's call to all souls for the mature leisures of drink, gossip, and alluring strangers.
I saw her then, shining smooth legs crossed at the end of the bar. Ice water sweat in a plastic cup in front of her that seemed to be a castaway bit of debris in the whale’s stomach, mistakenly inhaled from a polluted ocean into this sea of beauty. She had not yet seen me and her phone cast her face in moonlight. Her mouth broke into a private little smile at some message, causing her cheeks to rise into round little cherries by its pale glow.
I strode up, my eyes taking full advantage of her inattention to drink in her body, hugged at every contour by the glove-like grip of her green dress. She balanced presentation and modesty perfectly as no bust was visible but volumes could be inferred. In short, she was as hot a chimichanga as they come, but not the kind you’re likely to burn your fingers on.
"Maria?"
The moonlight vanished. "Graham?"
"The one and only," I said with a not entirely forced smile as I pulled up a stool to join her.
"You look different than your profile," she said. Her high voice had a sing-song quality but completely lacked an accent which was regrettable.
"Oh that? Yea it was an older picture from before I shaved my head for summer. It was starting to go anyway so I might just keep it this way. I don't know yet."
"Cool."
Cool? Sweat cracked through the Old Spice fortifications between the coiled hairs of my armpits. Was she dismissing me, the topic, or commenting on the principles of heat retention? Before my mind could race too far afield the mixologist materialized by our side.
He resembled Urkel if he'd been hitting the gym, and he spat out the wide range of gin cocktails, mixers, and garnishes available to us with the rapidity of a boxer punishing a speed bag. I deferred to the lady and she picked a 'Gin & Ginger Snap'. I selected the slightly more masculine 'Elderflower Infusion'.
After a moment of clink and clatter the man left us with a pair of tumblers beautifully appointed with a shaved finger of ginger and a muddled bed of leaves respectively.
"So you're a programmer?" she asked, her mascara framed eyes sticking to the sheet of skin covering my skull-top.
"I am. I manage the backend of a financial news site. Data trawling, tracking, junk mail spamming, that sort of thing. But I'm really passionate about —" her eyes drifted off to the back-lit bottles mounted on the walls like hunting trophies, "well, the money is good I mean. What do you do?"
"I'm a mental health counselor for mental wellness workers. Not the best paying job in the world but I really feel like I make a difference."
"Oh yea, I mean who helps the helpers, right?"
"I do, that's my job is what I was saying."
"I — yea I see that " I gave her a reassuring smile. She had liked that one so I threw her some more easy lines:
"Where were you born?"
"Wow two sisters, what was that like?"
And so on.
The bartender came back and I knocked back the last of my clear drink — hardly any bite as the flowery liquid swam about the backs of my cheeks. We both got more of the same.
Thunder rumbled outside like God's own indigestion as we shifted to talking about rent prices and our various tricks to maintain sanity while living in stacked human roach motels. A drumming of rain rose as an undercurrent to the low percussive music playing from hidden speakers as I told her about my double ear plug technique for sleeping — she seemed impressed.
We came to the end of the date and I wasn't having a good time, which was par for the course as I don't try to have 'good times' on dates anymore; I just keep the woman spinning from topic to topic, and pray she stops noticing the barren flesh mound on my head. To that purpose, Maria did seem to be having fun — laughter bubbling up at her own stories as she asked me if I'd ever heard of such a life as hers before. I had, but insisted otherwise under the masquerade of a smile.
The check came and I struck it down with my shuriken, a metallic VisaPremium. Maria fumbled with her purse, unintentionally wagging her chest as she did so, but I insisted — you don't 'go Dutch' with girls like Maria unless you want to be plying your own rudder.
The humidity outside smacked us like a brick wall and warm rain spat on us as we jogged over a blinking crosswalk and into the parking garage. I led her up a flight of concrete stairs that echoed with our footsteps and excited chatter about the storm. Dark flecks marked her dress where the rain had struck it like the chips of a cookie.
Once in my car I drove fast and with the radio just loud enough to fill any lulls in conversation. Bass heavy new-wave pop did the job. I think she liked the leather and I liked the way her floral perfume filled the space. After a few stoplights and a drive-by conversation about politics we pulled into the parking lot of her brown brick apartment building.
I parked near the door but left the engine running. Our eyes met for the first time in a while.
She brushed back a cascade of raven hair, smiled. "Thanks, we should do this again sometime."
My gut tingled like my plane was taking flight, the moment of truth was coming. "I'd like that a lot."
"I've actually been on a break from dating, but I'm glad I came out tonight. You're such a nice guy."
"Well, welcome back," I said, and without waiting for any signal leaned over for the kiss. My breath caught as my seat belt snagged across my chest, catching me in a vice so that I floated in front of her face for half a heartbeat until she leaned in to meet me halfway.
Gracefully, she kissed me back with plump lips oiled with cherry gloss. We stuck together and soon her hands pressed onto my chest as the kisses deepened, a soft moan emanated from her chest as hands ran over the muscles of my neck. The soft curve of her palm passed over my ear, then froze as long nailed fingertips struck the bare skin above it where I knew a vein pulsated like a Beholder’s slithering ocular tentacle beneath my alopeciatic scalp.
She froze stiff, as if she'd gotten her hand stuck down the garbage disposal, and my heart lurched at the snap of tension in her body. The poor girl didn't even have the courage to run. She remained pinned in my arms like a trapped animal, and only put out the softest of pecks in return for my kisses until I released her.
"Thank you again for the drinks, I had a great time," she said.
"Of course. Anytime."
She let herself out and I watched her sashay up to the main doors before going in without a glance back. I wiped the gloss off my lips and drove home.
We would only speak once more by text message. She responded to my follow up two days later that she didn't think we should meet again and that she regretted kissing me — she wasn't that type of girl and was sorry if she had led me on when she wasn't ready for something serious.
Perhaps I just wasn't that type of guy for her. Not anymore.
