chose to present him-or herself, were endlessly fascinating. And a bar was the perfect venue.
Clay had come to the end of his story. I smiled at him. "I like bars," I said.
"It's better then watching TV, anyway."
"Damn right," I said, with more emphasis than I'd intended. "TVs have ruined the neighborhood bar."
Clay laughed. "That sounds pretty funny."
"I know. But I think it's true. People used to go out in the evening, have a drink with their neighbors, pass the time of day in a social way. Now they stay home and stare at that stupid machine, which proceeds to mold their thought processes into a conventional pattern. It's a double evil."
"You think going out drinking is better?"
"Yes, 1 do," I said firmly. "Though it would be good if people walked or rode their bikes to the pub, like they would in a village."
"Or their horses," Clay added.
"That's right. I think having a drink and talking to people is a good thing, it's a slice of real life. It's," I stumbled a little, "it's living your life instead of absorbing this vicarious experience someone else has orchestrated. I think TV is terrible for people's minds. What they find attractive, what they want, how they look at the world, is all ordained by what they see on the stupid TV." I laughed. "I know I'm ranting on about this; it's a pet peeve."
''I'm surprised you don't have a 'Kill Your TV' bumper sticker on your truck," Clay teased.
"I would if I were the bumper sticker-type. I don't have a TV, I've never had one, so I never got to kill it."
Clay was smiling at me as if he thought I was amusing; I decided to put the ball in his court. "How about you? Do you have a TV? Do you watch it?"
"I guess I'd better watch my step here." Despite his words, Clay sounded relaxed and confident, unworried by my peccadilloes. "Yeah, I've got a TV. I watch it. I like the news; I like to rent movies, watch the occasional sporting event. That's about it."
"Well," I said, feeling mollified, "I do understand why people have them, but I still think the world would be a better place without TV."
"What do you do in the evenings when you're home alone?" Clay asked curiously.
"Read a book, play music, send e-mail," I replied promptly. Brave words. These days I mostly laid on the couch and stared at the wall.
"So why is the computer so different from a TV?" Clay asked.
"It's interactive. You have to use your mind." I was beginning to feel I'd gone on about this subject long enough. My drink was finished. "Are you hungry?" I asked Clay.
"Of course." He stood up and motioned to Caroline. "We're going to sit down at a table and have dinner."
"Right." Caroline gave me that engaging grin as I climbed off my bar stool. "Nice to meet you, Gail."
"And you," I said.
Clay had reserved a table for two in the corner, I found, and we were waited on by the owner of the place. The food was excellent, the wine also. Clay kept the conversation going smoothly. As we drove home, I reflected that it had been what you might call a perfect evening. My pager never even went off.
So, why then this sense of inner malaise, this apathetic distress?
When Clay pulled up in front of my house, I readied myself for the inevitable kiss. Not that I dreaded it. I just didn't feel much of anything about it, one way or the other. But instead of putting his arm around me, Clay sat quietly behind the steering wheel, looking through the windshield at my door. "How about a cup of coffee?" he said.
Uh-oh. A cup of coffee after a date ... even I knew this was code for, "Would you like to go to bed?" And I was not, by any means, up for that.
"I'm sorry, Clay," I said. "I'm tired." Honesty compelled me to add, "It's not that I don't like spending time with you. But I'm not sure I'm ready for anything else."
Clay absorbed this without a flinch. Then he did put his arm around me. "How about a good-night kiss?"
I kissed him willingly enough; his mouth felt soft and warm. As I started to climb out of the truck, he took
Clay had come to the end of his story. I smiled at him. "I like bars," I said.
"It's better then watching TV, anyway."
"Damn right," I said, with more emphasis than I'd intended. "TVs have ruined the neighborhood bar."
Clay laughed. "That sounds pretty funny."
"I know. But I think it's true. People used to go out in the evening, have a drink with their neighbors, pass the time of day in a social way. Now they stay home and stare at that stupid machine, which proceeds to mold their thought processes into a conventional pattern. It's a double evil."
"You think going out drinking is better?"
"Yes, 1 do," I said firmly. "Though it would be good if people walked or rode their bikes to the pub, like they would in a village."
"Or their horses," Clay added.
"That's right. I think having a drink and talking to people is a good thing, it's a slice of real life. It's," I stumbled a little, "it's living your life instead of absorbing this vicarious experience someone else has orchestrated. I think TV is terrible for people's minds. What they find attractive, what they want, how they look at the world, is all ordained by what they see on the stupid TV." I laughed. "I know I'm ranting on about this; it's a pet peeve."
''I'm surprised you don't have a 'Kill Your TV' bumper sticker on your truck," Clay teased.
"I would if I were the bumper sticker-type. I don't have a TV, I've never had one, so I never got to kill it."
Clay was smiling at me as if he thought I was amusing; I decided to put the ball in his court. "How about you? Do you have a TV? Do you watch it?"
"I guess I'd better watch my step here." Despite his words, Clay sounded relaxed and confident, unworried by my peccadilloes. "Yeah, I've got a TV. I watch it. I like the news; I like to rent movies, watch the occasional sporting event. That's about it."
"Well," I said, feeling mollified, "I do understand why people have them, but I still think the world would be a better place without TV."
"What do you do in the evenings when you're home alone?" Clay asked curiously.
"Read a book, play music, send e-mail," I replied promptly. Brave words. These days I mostly laid on the couch and stared at the wall.
"So why is the computer so different from a TV?" Clay asked.
"It's interactive. You have to use your mind." I was beginning to feel I'd gone on about this subject long enough. My drink was finished. "Are you hungry?" I asked Clay.
"Of course." He stood up and motioned to Caroline. "We're going to sit down at a table and have dinner."
"Right." Caroline gave me that engaging grin as I climbed off my bar stool. "Nice to meet you, Gail."
"And you," I said.
Clay had reserved a table for two in the corner, I found, and we were waited on by the owner of the place. The food was excellent, the wine also. Clay kept the conversation going smoothly. As we drove home, I reflected that it had been what you might call a perfect evening. My pager never even went off.
So, why then this sense of inner malaise, this apathetic distress?
When Clay pulled up in front of my house, I readied myself for the inevitable kiss. Not that I dreaded it. I just didn't feel much of anything about it, one way or the other. But instead of putting his arm around me, Clay sat quietly behind the steering wheel, looking through the windshield at my door. "How about a cup of coffee?" he said.
Uh-oh. A cup of coffee after a date ... even I knew this was code for, "Would you like to go to bed?" And I was not, by any means, up for that.
"I'm sorry, Clay," I said. "I'm tired." Honesty compelled me to add, "It's not that I don't like spending time with you. But I'm not sure I'm ready for anything else."
Clay absorbed this without a flinch. Then he did put his arm around me. "How about a good-night kiss?"
I kissed him willingly enough; his mouth felt soft and warm. As I started to climb out of the truck, he took
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