Beam It, Baby

February 12, 2005

Ula is Polish, and on the way to the bar, she explained the similarities between the Polish and Russian languages, so it came as no surprise when she asked for a White Russian. I relayed the order to the bartender: "A White Russian and a Jameson's on the rocks, please."

The bartender was creepy. Neither of us could figure out exactly what it was that gave him such quirky pervert vibes, but we both sensed them. For one thing, he'd been leering at Ula since we walked in.

He asked to see our IDs and made a mumbled apology about a police crackdown as he looked them over. Once he was satisfied, he poured my whiskey, then got to work on mixing the White Russian. After a flourish of shaking and an over-elaborate pour, he topped the drink off with a cherry and said something to Ula as he slid the drink towards her. She smiled politely, picked up the glass, and followed me to a couch near the front window, next to the gas fireplace.

"What did that guy say?" Ula asked.

"I have no idea,” I said. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

As we settled in, Ula proceeded to try spearing the cherry with her small, red straw. "I don't like cherries," she said.

"Is a White Russian even supposed to come with a cherry?"

She scrunched her face and shook her head. "I don't think so."

"The bartender was trying to make it special," I said. "He probably figures all girls like cherries."

We talked about Polish beers, Poland in general, New Jersey and New York, photography and art schools, and before we knew it, it was time to go. The drink was only intended as a pit stop on the way to an art opening that my friend Signe had invited me to. Ula finished her drink with the cherry still trapped under ice cubes, and we headed out the door.

The art show was a typical Williamsburg gallery scene, too boring to describe, but we did find a few things we liked and discussed them the way that art nerds at openings are meant to do. Composition and lighting. Setting, context, and presentation. And so on. Suddenly, Ula stiffened in a bug-eyed freeze-frame anxiety attack: "I left my purse at the bar!"

Shit.

"I'm sure it'll still be there," I reassured her as we cut a line through the sedate crowd and retraced our steps. "The bartender will have it waiting for you behind the bar, I guarantee it."

"I hope so."

"Your lipstick might be slightly used or missing, though. At this very moment, the bartender's nipples are probably a stunning shade of Shimmering Raspberry No. 2."

"Eww. Don't say that. Now I have to throw my lipstick away."

Once we got there, we couldn't tell if I was right about the lipstick or not, but at least I was right about one thing: as soon as we walked in, the bartender saw us, pulled the bag from his secret hiding place, and handed it to Ula before she even had a chance to ask for it.

"Whew, lucky." she said with a sigh. "Now what?"

"Let's celebrate."

"Good idea."

Photo booth pictures, chilly walks through the windy streets, photo-ops on dusty muscle cars and stray couches, and a few more celebratory White Russians later, Ula turned to me and said, "I'm trying to figure you out."

"Good luck. I've been trying to figure myself out for years."

"How old are you again? I forget."

"You didn't forget. I never told you."

"How old?" she nodded. "C'mon."

"Too old for you.,” I said.

“Oh, really?" she laughed. "Just tell me, it doesn't matter. I'm just trying to figure you out."

"You're gonna need a lot more information than that to figure me out."

"You're right, but it'll help."

When I told her, she didn't flinch the way I had expected her to.

"You probably could've lied and gotten away with it," she said.

“I'm too honest."

"That’s a good thing," she said. "I like that."

"So did it help? Did you figure me out yet?"

"No," she laughed.

"Well, if you come up with anything, let me know."

After I drove Ula to Penn Station so that she could make the last train home to the Jersey suburbs, I got a text message from Signe. She was at a bar with some friends, including the photographer from the opening earlier in the night, and suggested I meet them there.

It was getting late, and I'd already had a full night with Ula, so I wasn't sure if I was up for it, but later, as I was on my way home, I replied: “Are you still out?

“Yes. same place.”

“Okay. I’m on my way.”

“Hurry. We're drunk.”

Signe has become something of a texting fanatic. "My phone is like a mini-laptop," she said when I finally arrived. She showed me the full keyboard and large color screen. "Tell me that if you had this, you wouldn't be addicted to it also.”

I agreed that I probably would. She scrolled through some photographs of her dog, Shady, that were stored in her phone and showed them to me. Then she pulled out a stylus and asked me to draw on one of the pictures.

“What do you mean? You can draw right on photos?”

I drew a fart blast coming out of the dog's ass, because Shady’s farts are what I remember most about meeting him. I handed the phone and stylus back to Signe. She laughed and punched a few keys to store it, then began drawing a picture of her own. This time, she just drew on a blank canvas. She wrote my name and a few other things, then signed and dated it.

"Cool," I said. "Send it to me, I want to post it."

She pointed the phone at me for a few seconds.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm beaming it to you."

(Did I mention she was drunk?)

"Beaming it to me? To my brain? To my heart? Where exactly are you beaming it to?"

"Oh," she laughed, embarrassed. "What am I doing?"

“I didn't think your phone was that high tech."

She explained that she's able to beam photos from her phone to her home computer. She thought she could beam them to my phone.

"My phone only makes phone calls," I said.

"I'll e-mail them as soon as I get home."

"Can't you e-mail it to me right from the phone? I want to post the photo of you drawing the picture, and then post the drawing and say, 'Here's a drawing Signe made on her phone, and here she is sending it to me.' That'd be cool."

"Yeah, I can do it, but I don't know how." She fiddled with the phone, trying to figure it out for a few minutes. "Shit. Did I lose it? No, there it is. Hmm...how do I do this? Fuck...Oh wait. Like this? No. That's not right. Shit...I'll just e-mail it to you from home."

“Okay,” I said. “But it would be so much cooler if  you could send it right now from your phone."

"You're right, you're right," she nodded and continued to click around with more determination. Needless to say, I never got it.