natural blonde

a smarter girl plays dumb

I tried to dial you. I was on your side of town, having just watched Irma Vep, 1996, in some little art space outfitted like a theatre. It was not about sexy vampires as I had assumed, although Maggie Cheung was so gorgeous on the screen that the length of this chaotic, buzzy movie was suddenly tolerable. That’s the trick sometimes, to include beauty. We’ll sit through a lot for beauty.

But, yes, I tried to dial you. I forgot my pride for a moment. When you didn’t answer, I got an uber instead. This time, for no particular reason, I read through the driver’s profile. Odd fellow. Said he likes anime and cartoons. Shamelessly, too! That’s certainly a personality.

He was playing a song by CHVRCHES loudly when I got into his corolla, that rattled, plastic-y, when we hit certain speeds. “Have you seen The Boys?” He shouted over the music.

“The Boys? Uh no.” I looked at my phone. I wasn’t really trying to talk.

I had heard about The Boys. Once, someone had explained to me that it was a tv show about “the real life implications of super heroes, the stuff nobody even considers” in all seriousness.

The real life implications of super heroes.

“It’s edgy, you know, not everyone’s taste. It’s like South Park,” he explained.

“South Park is edgy now?” I blinked.

“Are you a natural blonde?” He asked.

“Pardon?”

He had not turned the music down and was still shouting over it. The song now was “Kiss from a Rose” by Seal.

“Are you a natural blonde?”

“Yeah.”

“Some of my friends are blonde, but they dye it. Do you dye your hair?”

“No, this is my hair color,” I said.

He went on to ask me if I had seen The Dark Knight. If I had seen The Black Phone, with Ethan Hawke. He asked where I was from, what I did for work. Then, he asked if I watched anime. I said, honestly: “Cowboy Bebop, a few episodes.” He told me I looked like the blonde in Cowboy Bebop. Then, he told me he looked like a blonde girl he once had a crush on in high school.

He said, “I thought you were her, when you got into my car.” I didn’t say a word. “What’s your favorite movie?”

He was creating a profile for me. Girl, blonde, likes movies. Reminiscent of someone else. A fill-in.

“I’m not sure. You know, I do like Sofia Coppola. Probably The Virgin Suicides…”

“Jesus Christ!” He yelped, interrupting me. “The virgin suicides? Is that dark?”

I thought that one was a fairly popular movie, but maybe I should have given some non-answer, whatever Avengers movie was out now, something with Adam Sandler maybe. These moments are strange to me. I can’t predict, sometimes, how someone will react to me. A different person would’ve said I’m an entry-level hipster fuck. This type of conversation is never about the art you like. Rather, the basis of these conversations is: what do the things you like say about you?

I’m not sure why, either, the invitation to divulge details about myself is so hard to turn down. Even if it cannot lead me anywhere good. A smarter girl plays dumb, I think. I wondered if I was doing this out of politeness. Maybe I figured it was harmless.

I talked to him about the movie and explained why I like it.

When we got to my house, he asked for my instagram. I said, “No thank you.”

He pried. “Why?”

I was stuck. He knows where I live. He didn’t seem to clock why that would make me uncomfortable. Or, maybe he did. Maybe he’s smart enough to play dumb.

“I have a boyfriend,” is a lie that works, but stings. I told him that.

“Oh come on, I’m not trying to holler at you,” he said.

I thought about how I used to have a boyfriend. Then I opened the car door.