J. Beaman - The Magazine

Sadie Stein is so cute I can’t even stand it. I’m moving to New York City.

Night Two: The Fucking Wedding.

So, I got home around 8am with plans to meet steve at 12:30pm requiring an 11:45am bus-catching in turn requiring a 10:30am wake up. Do the math, it sucks. But I made it happen, got to the bus stop and realized that on Saturdays it’s at 10:45am bus. I took a deep breath, grabbed my phone but was unable to get in touch with Steve. I flopped onto my bed back at the apartment at about 12:30, got a call from Steve; he forgot about me.

I hung up the phone and I put on my fucking grouchy pants.

I want to go home. I hate Brazil. And it’s only going to get worse. Eduardo is leaving a few weeks. Matias and Carmen are leaving in February. I should just take the money I have and move to New York now. Or back to SF. But I can’t move back to SF because I will spend the first month explaining to everyone why I came back. “Because I’m a pussy.” Or I could lie. But I tired of lies in my early 20’s. Too much to remember. Or I could make any potential lies true. Examplo: Go into a favela to buy drugs and and get shot/stabbed/beat up. Have scars and a good reason to come home. Or I could go to Austin. People love me enough there (and would be so happy to have me) that they wouldn’t mind that I’m a pussy.

It goes on like this for a few hours. I couldn’t sleep. I studied Portuguese most of this time (even at my worst I know that answers to my problems - patience and hard work). I finally fell asleep at 4:00pm.

I wake up at 6:30pm, slightly refreshed and only moderately grumpy, walk out of my room and hear from Marcelo (my roommate):

“Dude. Did you talk to Leco? There’s a big party tonight. 600 people. Tons of girls. One of our friends is getting married. I’m leaving in 20 minutes, do you have a suit?”

Like a little tropper, I put on my suit and wash my face. Marcelo comes in:

“Aren’t you gonna take a shower? Are you going to wear your hair like that?”

“Dude. I didn’t fucking have time to take a shower. And this is how my hair always looks.”

“Sometimes it looks better.”

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

“Fuck it. I’m not going. I’m hungry and I’m tired and I can’t be fucking rushed right now. Go without me. I’ll be fine. I’ll go to the movies with Steve and just relax.”

I was pissed.

I hate my life. I want to go home.

I took my jacket off, threw it on the floor. Took off the shirt, walked back to my office and lit a cigarette. Itunes: Teenage Fanclub. Deep breaths. Marcelo walked in with his phone and I knew it was Leco. I placated him and told him that I would come with no intention of actually coming. I handed the phone back to Marcelo and told him.

“I’m not coming.”

He insists.

“I don’t want to fuck up your night. You’re already late. Just go, dude.”

I hate my life. I want to go home.

“My night’s already fucked up. I’m already late. Don’t sweat it. Take a shower and let’s go.”

I do.

I’m exactly as grouchy as I look.

The party is fancy. The guests are fancy. The guests are white. But the booze and food is free and the bride and groom are impossibly cute. I clench my fists and dedicate myself to fun. A glass of whiskey on the rocks holds my hand.

Leco, Marcelo and I

I can’t remember this guy’s name but he was integral in my fun having. Charming and crazy.

This is Bird with some broad. He is exactly as awesome as he looks. Which is hella awesome.

I am the definition of fun

Leco was on the fucking prowl. It’s amazing to watch him work. He just walks around a room (bar, party, restaurant…it doesn’t matter) stalking his prey. He talked, smiled, danced and smiled some more. He finally zeroed in on a group of girls that were all there together (about 12 of them) and works his magic. Introduced me to a girl (his heart’s in the right place but I’m just not like him) and I played along, danced and talked and even smiled some. The girl he introduced me to is one of 2 brown girls in the whole building and she seemed genuinely interested in talking with me even though I sounded like a fucking retard. She asked if I was hungry, I nodded, and she led my by the hand to get food and move over to their table. We talked and ate and I asked every question I could think of in Portuguese. She seemed to be having a good time and I was pleased with my ability to communicate. We headed back over to the dance floor. One of her friends came up to me,

“She’s a nice girl. Make your plan.”
“What? Make your plan?”

Shakira with Wyclef was blasting on the sound system.

“She likes you.”

Make your plan. Make your move. I got it. I saw Leco in the corner and go over to talk to him,

“How’s it going, man!” He was drunk.
“Good. She’s nice. I got her phone number.”
“You have to kiss her tonight. This is Brazil, man. Things are different here.”

Things are different here. As Matias likes to say, “What you call daterape, we call courtship.”

But, Leco was right. I had to kiss her. So I did.

The party was about 20 minutes outside of the city, just a mile or so from where Steve and Luciana live (Retiro das Pedras). Steve sent me a text message, “We’re staying in the city if u guys need to feel free to sleep at our place.” I informed Leco. He shined those flashy teeth at me slightly menacingly,

“We have a plan. Let’s take the girls to Retiro. But it will be very difficult.”

The dude was getting off on the fucking game of it. I loved watching him but I had no intention of taking anyone anywhere. I let Leco plan and plot and he ended up convincing the little “make your plan” blonde to go home with him. I fortunately went home alone with a phone number and a belly full of booze.

I’m even smiling.

Recap: I am crazy lucky to have a couple of friends like Marcelo and Leco that make me go out when I would rather just stay and home and be a mopey bitch. I’m not going to make a life here by sitting in my room, watching reruns of Mythbusters and chain smoking Lucky Strikes. Instead, with a little loving prodding, I made out with a hot, brown personal trainer, drank a shitload of beer, whiskey and Prosecco but still managed to stay less drunk than all my friends. Rolled into the apartment around 5am thinking that Brazil may be fine after all.

I’m starting a new series (well, I already started it, but now I have a name) where I will give a small and (hopefully) interesting Portuguese lesson or point out some funny or dumb or otherwise cool language or culture issue. I’m calling it Por Exemplo (because that’s what they say when they’re explaining anything. And they say it a lot). Por Exemplo.

There’s a cute girl who works at the grocery store (read: poor and uneducated. or maybe I’m just a cynic. But if I am a cynic, it’s all Matias’s fault) who smiles at me all the time. I’m going to ask her what her name is tomorrow and then (two days later. or never) I’m going to ask her out. It will likely go badly. Keep your eye out for updates.

My less responsive but more reliable girlfriend changed her clothes:

I thought I would arrive in Brazil and learn Portuguese in the beds of daughters of captains of industry but instead I just sit hunched over my computer memorizing flash cards and embarrassing myself in the cell phone store.

Those of you who know me well know that I actually don’t go home with girls very often. I keep them at arms length, flirty and fun, but going home alone is one of the many keys to my happiness. I love waitresses this way. It’s their job to flirt and I happily indulge. I flirt with my friend Annie. Fuck, I flirt with Oliver and Josh and Henri. It’s harmless and awesome because all of them know that I don’t want to fuck them. And it’s always more fun that way. I also love this about little girls (you can get self righteous about it if you want but you would clearly misunderstand my meaning). They are fun and flirty and charming with no misunderstanding. I have a new best friend and her name is Victoria.

The line of the night: TiaRe (pronounced chia-hey - Tia meaning Aunt and Re short for Regina) shouts from the back room, “Jay! Jay! Victoria wants you to come watch her in the bath!” As much as I may love to hear that from a lover or some random Brasiliera and have a night of passion and lusty nonsense; I would take the simple giggles and games and Portuguese lessons from Victoria anytime.

I’m going to the burrito truck for a tasty burrito from a truck. Girls are a pain, sex is fun but overrated and I have good housemates. I would date a christian girl if she were extraordinary but I don’t think I would date a girl in AA.

I said to my housemate, Ann, this morning, “I know you’re not an elitist, Ann, but I am (an elitist) and I’m telling you - You are the elite.”

I pass this onto you. You know who you are.

And now I’m rolling around with someone at work, who I really really like, and all the girls at work read the blog and other girls I went out on dates with read the blog (some that I really like but not really really like) and

Oh, it’s gonna get dark.

Sage advice from my best ex-girlfriend and best current superhero, super-beauty, super-underemployed girlyfriend:

And you should not write about the girls you date on your blog, that is if you’re going to tell them to read your blog. Girls are at the same time self obsessed and insecure (and when I say “girls” what I really mean is “all people”). They will Always take it the wrong way.