• articles >
• Joelle

Joelle

Ashley was the kind of girl who had a tattoo of her first name sprawled across her lower back.

Joel mused on the practicality of the tattoo before judging her as a human being. Given her profession, perhaps she got tired of needing to constantly remind her suitors of her name, and rather than exert the energy of leaning uncomfortably close to the inebriated patron and mouthing two syllables, she could simply point to her tramp stamp as she was grinding in the inquirer's lap to answer the question.

Or maybe she was afflicted with a deficiency in forming memories and, much like Guy Pierce in Memento, had to tattoo all the vital information about her life throughout her body. She would never have to worry about forgetting her own name, so as long as she was standing between two parallel mirrors. And at the Pink Pony South, a mile or two off of I-85, scattered in the outskirts of Downtown Atlanta, there were no shortage of mirrors.

It was late afternoon and the mismatched couple were sunk back into the velvet-coated bar seats with wheels attached to the bottom so as to make retreating from the bar an easier and discreet ordeal.

Ashley had just finished recounting her past with him, which, with his constantly shielded ego, Joel immediately questioned the authenticity of, so as to not look a fool. She confided in him how she allowed her grandfather to grope her in exchange for gifts or money. It wasn't so much the memory that haunted her, but how she still kept her secret in shame from the family she abandoned. If she ever let her mind idle, it was an invitation to wallow in a deep, inescapable depression.

Whether they were genuine or strategic tears, Joel watched Ashley wipe the few renegade droplets that streaked down her cheeks with two sorrowful sniffs. It seemed like the most inopportune moment to do so, but he stopped and appreciated everything about her. Even in her emotionally depleted state, she still looked beautiful.

The admiration was curt, as he was still new to the scene, but well aware of the lore of these sirens' mighty calls. He wasn't about to play the sucker to one of these devious succubi.

He stood up and waived for the bartender's attention and ordered a round of shots. As Joel internally challenged the validity of Ashley's sob story and convinced himself it wouldn't matter anyway if he took the bait, he reflexively tensed his quadriceps in preparation for lowering himself back into his seat.

Unbeknownst to Joel, when he had lifted himself up to grab the attention of the bartender, the back of his leg surreptitiously nudged the chair away from the bar. The wild wailing of Steven Perry demanding the girl on stage to walk his way muted the gentle squeaking of the wheels. By now, Joel had already put his complete trust and fate into gravity's hands.

Joel had a millisecond to think, "Hm, weird, why am I not sitting down yet," before plummeting onto the floor with his chair violently spiraling towards one of the booths behind him. To make matters worse, his legs flung towards the ceiling in an exaggerated, Tex Avery-esque manner.

"Oh my god, oh my god. Get up, Joel!" Ashley gasped.

With genuine concern, she gripped Joel's arm, begging him to get off the grime-crusted floor.

"What the fuck just happened?!" Joel rhetorically asked, as if his gross offense at the situation would somehow have history tremble in fear and rewrite itself.

"Just get up!"

With a slight grunt, Joel picked himself up, but left part of his dignity on the floor. In the few seconds it took for him to regain his composure, he scoped out the rest of the club. There were looks of shock, pity, and belittlement. Joel was clearly drunk and his clumsy, third-grade-caliber, social-setting faux pas just screamed 'amateur.'

While very self-conscious by nature, he felt the crushing sense of embarrassment melt away with Ashley's heart-warming laughter.

"Thank you for that," she smiled, still wiping away a few tears (of laughter or lingering sadness? Joel couldn't tell).

They exchanged smiles and raised their glasses in the air.

"What should we toast to?" Joel asked.

"To making a fool of yourself and not giving a fuck!" Ashley cheered.

They clanked their marked up shots of Jameson and lifted their elbows while pressing the rim of the glass against their lips, letting the brown liquid hit the back of their throats like a tidal wave smashing into a pier, before draining down their esophagus and washing away any shred of common-sense for the remainder of the day.