How it began

March 2006

Harris is working a job he hates at Duke.

Natalie still enjoys being a corporate sell out.

Harris is living with the ever Fly Brett White

Natalie still lives alone. She has learned her lesson.

Harris likes to go out sometimes.

Natalie goes out every Friday and Saturday to work the second floor bar at Ringside.

Busy New Wave night when Natalie sees Harris on the other side of the bar ordering a drink for someone. She thinks to herself, 'I am so much hotter than that chick he is with'

But he's not with that other chick at all.

who's that lady?

Ringside. What a world. Of course by this point I'm used to its terrible splendor. But at the time, living with the "ever Fly Brett White" (and he is), we would occasionally go out to The Best Damn Party In Town on that wonderous Saturday night known as 80s night. Not that I have that strong of an affinity to the 80s music, but hey, why not? It beats going to dive bars or other watering holes chock full o' Duke students (and you know who you are, jerks). So there we are at the self-proclaimed Best Damn Party In Town. Brett's girlfriend at the time has a friend in town who I've reluctantly accepted the task of entertaining (read: buying drinks, smiling, laughing at stupid jokes, and distracting her from the fact that her friend is too busy with her boyfriend to pay her much attention).

But what?

Who is THAT? No. Harris. No. It's cliche to fall for the bartender. You can't--my god she's hot. Sigh. Time go go....

Three days later.....

Yay for trivia night at the Joyce! Oh well, I lose again. But... who is this captivating woman sitting next to me? Why doe she seem familiar? And what's this? She's talking to me? Blind me! She--she's the bartender! And she likes talking to me? Must deftly insert request for phone number: "oh, my friends are leaving and i need to work in the morning and my house is on fire and my cat is hungry. but i really want to talk to you some more. can we exchange numbers?" Real slick, kiddo. But somehow it worked. We actually, and I'm not kidding, exchanged numbers on matchbooks. I still have mine.

to be continued...

And then I botched it

Being a corporate sell out is hard. Sure, the pay is decent, but the hours, the work, and managing several on-going projects takes a toll. Monday's are especially hard, yet I had made plans to meet this kid from The Joyce for a martini at Sirens later that evening. Ok, so I really did want to talk to him too. When we were at The Joyce, he didn't recognize me. I told him what he drinks, that I had served him the previous weekend at Ringside, and that when going out on Tuesdays I don't normally wear a cherry red wig.

His eye's show a flicker of recognition.

Oh! I thought you were so much more in...
Intimidating?
Well, I was going to say intense.

We made plans for the following Monday night. I got home from work that evening and decided to take a quick nap before going out. A quick nap turns into sleeping on the couch for four hours while the TV blares in the background. I wake up about two hours after I was supposed to meet him at the bar to two missed calls and a voicemail.

If I had any self-respect at all I wouldn't be here. She calls me as I'm walking in my front door, half drunk (well, 3/4 drunk. Ok. drunk.), tail between my legs after being stood up. If not for my kind-hearted and forgiving nature, I would have kind-heartedly told her that I didn't buy her falling-asleep-on-the-couch story, and that nobody stands my ass up.

Alas, I forgave her and decided to give her another chance. I mean... she's kinda hot, and it's not like I've got any other plans. Besides, she did offer to buy me dinner

you're at bar. I'm at table.

I suppose it is good to know that your intended believes you are hot.

On the phone that night we made plans to meet at The Fed for dinner. Maybe we would have better luck at Brightleaf than 9th st. I think I went straight from work, stopping at the Quick Stop/Sam's/Blue Light to grab a pack of Nat Sherman's. I walk in, grab an Indy, grab a table, and sit facing the windows. I got there early thinking that this way I wouldn't go home and fall asleep again and that I could spot him as he walked it.

I am lost in my own little post-work world of drinking, smoking, and reading the paper when I remember that I am there to meet someone. I look up and it's about fifteen minutes later than I thought. Shit! It's late. Where is he? Wait a minute...

That mother *&$%^@

He stood me up?!?
Who the HELL does he think he is.

I mean, I really did fall asleep. What is this, some sort of power play to show that he can stand me up to? What kind of child plans this sort of thing, just say you're not interested. Jesus. Really, this is where I am , dealing with asses with no sense of decency.

I am plotting what exactly I will say to him if I happen to run into him later and trying to figure out what my friends are up to this evening when I notice a guy sitting at the bar chain smoking.

Oh right, head down and reading the Indy really isn't the best way to recognize people when they enter a dark bar. My anger and disgust fades, I feel a little silly, and send off a text message.

Dinner

Harris came over to the table and we made small talk. I can't remember what exactly we talked about, our lives, our mutual dissatisfaction with our jobs, how we ended up in Durham the usual chitter chatter. Then we end up on torch singers. Seems this man sitting across from me thinks he's got better knowledge or connections and can get any song I want. I've played this game before lovey.

Kate Smith- Call me irresponsible.

Done he says.

Kate Smith did indeed record a version of call me irresponsible, however, it was only ever released on LP. To get it, you've got to find the LP or someone who has played the LP into a microphone in their computer. Alternatively you could convince whoever owns the rights to actually put it on a cd instead of the 18 million versions of God Bless America they seem so fascinated with.

We'll see if this version ever actually shows up :) I tease him about it still sometimes.


We continue in this nice little dance of dinner, drinks, trivia, sundays, and a slow introduction to the mob...

The boyfriend shot...

The sumer of 2006 will be remembered as the year Natalie pranced all over Durham in sundresses- white, black, or covered in cats. It will also be remembered for the arrival of "The Boyfriend Shot"

That mob I just mentioned, my merciless friends who would not only kill for me but roast up the deceased and throw a party on their grave, they were quite surprised when in addition to the sundresses I started sporting an openly acknowledged boyfriend. So shocked indeed that we made a game of it. One day, perhaps a Sunday, perhaps a Tuesday, we had taken over the benches in front of the James Joyce Irish pub. Merrily eating, drinking, and enjoying the cool night air. As new people join our table, Dykki announces, shouts really. This is Harris. Natalie's BOYFRIEND.

I look at Harris and tell him I need a shot of Bushmills. He agrees. Hops up to the bar and brings back two shots of Bushmills. Down the hatch they go and I'm ready to join my friends again. Dykki takes in all. Someone else comes up. Again Dykki introduces Harris with a shout Natalie's BOYFRIEND. I look at Harris he hops up and comes back with two more shots of Bushmills. Things get a blurry after that...Harris darling, want to finish the story?