I had been trying for some time, to get out of work early on Saturday nights. Last night, if finally came to fruition. At the crack of nine, I was out the door.
And off to celebrate.
I live in a very weird, violent, poor neighborhood with no bars. Just down the road (literally 'cross the tracks), is a very placid, very wealthy neighborhood with four bars crammed into a single block.
Go figure.
Anyways, I was off to there to celebrate my new found quasi-freedom.
And it was an awkward evening.
First, I ran into someone who knew me very well. Very, very well. Asked how I was doing, noted that it'd been ages since she'd seen me, encouraged me not to be such a stranger.
I have no idea who that person is. None. And I hate that. So very, very much. I always find myself playing along, asking lots of general questions like "And how are those things which you enjoy?" and "Is all good with you at that job you are employed at?" It's lousy. And eventually the conversation goes on and on and it inevitably puts me in the spot where it would be extremely awkward for me to say "I'm sorry. But I really don't know who you are. I understand we've been chatting like the dickens for the past ten minutes but would you kindly clear that up for me?"
Fortunately, she had some friends to attend to so I was able to slink out and head for the second bar.
This second bar is a classier one. I usually stay clear of bars of a higher caliber but my friend works there. And she makes a lovely Old Fashioned. How I love her Old Fashioneds. I love them so very, very much.
Sadly, it is also a golfer bar. If you've never been to a golfer bar, you can differentiate them from normal establishments by the large number of very drunk, ruddy faced older white guys in ridiculous shorts. They will be noisy. They will also more than likely, be drinking nothing other than Miller Lite. They find this to be a congenial beverage and swill it.
This bar is where I decided to end my evening.
It's a non-smoking bar so when you want to light up, you have to go out to this walkway along the side. I headed out there and was confronted by cigar smokers. I do not like cigar smokers. I do not like people that will happily spend $15 on a reeking status symbol, only to set it aflame, all the while holding it reverently, like some sort religious icon rather than what they are: over priced, stinking, brown turds.
Fleeing the cigar smokers, I headed back into the bar and there was confronted by the Drunk Golfer.
I've run into this guy before. And I always remember bumping into him because I have no idea who he is! I'll be sitting and calmly drinking and suddenly! A big ol' hearty clap on the back out of nowhere! Usually, that's something I reserve for friends and close acquaintances, something that I assume Drunk Golfer has decided I am.
Usually, it's just the hearty back clap and then he staggers off elsewhere. But not tonight. Tonight was share your feeling night. He grabbed me in a man hug and proceeded:
"Mrrmble graah! Raaagha muh gumbaloo! Braaaaah! Nerrrm....French! Lousy French! Nonly goob French.....MARIO LEMIEUX!"
"Indeed. Please stop...."
"WAYRE PITTSBRUGHERS! PITTSBRUGHERS! Wayre...wayre differunt. DIFFERUNT THAN UBBER PEOPLE! Wayre Pittsbrughers....Wanner know why?"
My mind reels. Why are Pittsburghers different from other people? I venture:
"Because we say 'We're "Pittsburghers'?" Surely, not a habit of the people of South Dakota But no....
"NO! It's because wayre lurv MARIO LEMIEUX! MARIO LEMIEUX! Heesh lurv us too!"
At this point the conversation sort of petered out. He realized that I didn't share his reverence for the owner of our hockey team and staggered away.
At this point, I really wanted to get away from horrible, drunk people that think fun is whacking a tiny ball with a stick and then playing the "where did my little ball go?" game.
At the other end of the bar were people dancing and I thought "Fun! Much better than the drunk golfer part of the bar. I shall go and make new friends and dance and be merry!".
But then they put on Vanilla Ice. That's not ironic, that's just bad, bad taste.
And so I fled.
No comments:
Post a Comment