Hello, My Name Is: Creepy Old Guy

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Last night I decided to go to a bar and have a drink, just to have some kind of human interaction. I shut down my computer and realized it had gotten dark. Another sunset had blossomed and whithered behind my back, and all the lights were off. It was depressing. I shrugged into my coat, and turned on every light in my house just so it would be cheerfully lit when I returned. I might also be cheerfully lit, and there’s nothing like coming home to a cold, dark house to trample your buzz.

My neighborhood bar is patronized by quite a few college students. Actually, all the bars in this area are watering holes for the University, without whom this town would be nothing more than a dreary little monument to the late 19th century. The college crowd is both a blessing and bane. They’re easy on the eyes, but when it comes to exchanging a little small-talk, they’re remarkably disappointing. I don’t know why I keep trying. I suppose I could chat up some other lonely, old bastard. They say misery loves company, but my particular brand of misery loves big eyes, big butts, and big smiles smeared with lip gloss. So there you have it.

This time, I didn’t have to chose my victim, she chose me. Actually, she chose the barstool next to me, which is the same thing, in my book. There were two of them. The girl that sat beside me was a little fat, but she had a nice face, and long tangled-looking hair which was dyed black. The one sitting furthest from me was the prettier of the two, but chubby girls are usually friendlier than lean ones, so I was pleased with the arrangement. She ordered her drink (a seven-and-seven) and glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. I could tell she was trying to decide if I was creepy or not.

“Hello,” I said, and smiled my least-creepy smile. “I’m Norm.”

The corners of her mouth upturned into a tight little grimace. “Hi,” she said brusquely. The verdict was already out: I was creepy. Damn.

“What’s your name?” I asked her.

“Jennifer. This is Carly,” she said, leaning back on her stool a bit so she could gesture to her friend. Carly gave me a constipated little flick of the fingers that was probably supposed to be a wave.

“Y’all go to school here?” I asked. Of course I knew the answer, but the conversation was in its infancy- I wanted to feed it, to keep it alive.

“At the bar?” asked Carly. They burst into fits of laughter. Carly punctuated her laughter with unattractive little snorts.

“Yeah, we do,” answered Chubs. “We’re here more than we’re in class, anyway!”

The bartender brought them their drinks and Chubs then unceremoniously turned her back to me and began conversing with Carly in the giggly, conspiratorial manner of girls who want to be noticed but not approached.

About fifteen minutes later, Carly got a call on her cell phone. “Oh my God,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s Captain Shithead. Be right back.” She stood up and walked toward the entrance, her phone smashed between her shoulder and her ear as she rummaged in her bag for cigarettes. Chubs was visibly uneasy, and tried to pretend I wasn’t there.

“So,” I said to her, “What do you study?”

“Sociology.”

“What year are you?”

“I’m a sophomore.”

“Where are you from?”

“Dallas.”

It went on like this for a few minutes. My polite attempts at conversation were met with monosyllabic hostility. The benign interrogation came to a halt with Carly’s return. Wreathed in the stench of cigarettes, her blue eyes still rolling like marbles in her heavily made-up face, she plopped gracelessly onto her barstool and gulped the rest of her drink. “You aren’t going to belieeeve the shit he just tried to tell me,” she said to Chubs. Chubs turned her back to me and gave Carly her full attention. The recounting of Carly’s conversation with Captain Shithead was so corrupted by the overuse of the word “like” and unfamiliar idioms that I was denied even the pleasure of meaningful eavesdropping.

I had two more drinks. I thought about buying the girls a round, but decided they’d only see it as some sort of predatory gesture. They’d probably accept the offer, but it wouldn’t get me anything except more scorn and contempt.

The low point of the evening: I was finishing up in the john when I heard two familiar female voices in the cramped hallway outside the restrooms. The bathrooms are a one-at-a-time affair, so patrons frequently cluster in the hallway while waiting their turn.

Girl A: I know! It was like twenty questions or something! Seriously!

Girl B: He’s like, older than my dad!

Girl A: Sick! What if he’s like, a stalker or something?

Girl B: (snorting) Ha ha! He’s like, totally gonna be waiting for you in the parking lot! Ha ha!

I had to decide: is it more humiliating to be the guy that spends twenty minutes in the bathroom, or to face the people that have just been performing a character assassination on you within your very earshot? The bathroom reeked of piss, so I chose the later.

Chubs looked surprised and then embarrassed to see me emerge from the bathroom. I got a more diluted version of the tight little grimace she’d given me when I introduced myself. Carly’s lips curled inward like she was trying to bite down another round of uncontrollable snorting. I wanted to say something to them, to let them know what cruelty and unfairness they were guilty of. I wanted to say, “You know what, girls? I’m a nice guy. What in God’s name makes you think you have the right to act like such unmitigated bitches? So what if I’d like you to come home with me and let me watch you take your clothes off and make out on my couch? I’d never force you, and I’d certainly never stalk anyone! I just wanted to talk to you! What’s so awful about that?”

I wanted to grab Chubs’ hands and look imploringly into her big, brown eyes and say, “Let’s be honest, honey. I’m probably the best offer you’re gonna get all semester. Would you really rather waste your charms on some drunken fraternity member, and wake up with puke in your hair and an STD? Come home with me. I won’t even make you take your clothes off- just let me lie next to you and smell your hair. Let me hold you while I fall asleep. And in the morning, I’ll make you breakfast and coffee, and we can have a real conversation. I’ll show you my pictures of the South Pole, and I’ll drop you off at class on my way to work.”

But I didn’t say any of that stuff. Instead, I looked at the floor and mumbled “‘Night, girls,” as I shuffled past them.

Then I went home and jerked off thinking about the two of them engaged in a naked make-out on my couch.

I miss my wife.

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