No one has a sense of humor any more. Or, perhaps a more accurate assessment of the situation is that no one shares my sense of humor anymore. My wife used to laugh (with me, presumably) at the weird shit I think is funny. But, now that she’s gone, I play for an audience of… well, zero.
Now, not only am I not funny, I’m also without a watering hole. That’s right: Last night I got kicked out of the neighborhood bar where I’ve been drinking for years, and it was suggested in no uncertain terms that I refrain from bestowing my future patronage upon the establishment. Sounds crazy, right? I mean, I’m a 52-year-old widowed librarian. I haven’t a contentious bone in my body- or at least that’s what you’d think if you passed me on the street, or worked with me, or processed my dry-cleaning order. I’m not by nature a belligerent person. The problem is, that when my wife died I lost my anchor to reality. After all, my wife didn’t laugh at everything I did; she was like a kind of personal censor, using her discouraging frown to save me from my most twisted and inappropriate ideas.
So whatever did I do to arouse such ire at the Hitching Post? Well, for starters, I drank too much. I wasn’t staggering or puking on myself, but I had consumed just enough alcohol to dissolve the mental filter that sifts out the really terrible ideas and relegates them to innocuous fantasy. Remember those two snotty girls that decided I was a stalker just because I tried to have a conversation with them? Yeah… still smarting over that one.
But it doesn’t pay to try to get even.
I didn’t even know the girls were at the bar until my buzz was almost at the Time To Go home And Eat Half A Bag Of Potato Chips Before Whacking It To The Victoria’s Secret Catalog level. I saw them sitting at the bar, flanked by a couple of backwards-hat-wearing young males. I just wanted to have a little fun with them. I mean, if you’ve got the name, why not play the game? I wasn’t planning on being an asshole, it just sort of happened. Or maybe I was planning on it. My memory is a little scotch-smeared at the edges.
I was about to leave the place, but then I saw Chubs get up and walk to the hall where the toilets are located. With no particular plan in mind, I followed her. She was waiting outside the door to the locked ladies’ room. I couldn’t tell if she recognized me or not, because she didn’t look directly at me. But I could sense a certain level of psychological discomfort as she moved to let me pass. Instead of stepping back, she stepped forward, bringing her face within inches of the wall. As I passed, I leaned in close to her ear and whispered, “See you in the parking lot, honey.” She inhaled sharply, and I disappeared into the men’s room for a chuckle and a piss.
It was funny for about one and a half minutes. That’s about how long it took me to piss off some of the scotch and exit the bathroom. When I emerged from the hallway, there were two burly, surly-looking men with their arms crossed over their chests. Waiting for me. I recognized one of them as the bartender- a new guy I didn’t really know too well. Chubs was at the bar, looking visibly shaken. Her girlfriend glared at me.
Damn. Why am I such a moron? I’m lucky they didn’t call the cops. I would have had a hard time explaining that particular escapade to my superiors at the University.
I don’t remember walking home, only that I was surprised when I arrived and no one had kicked my ass. In my head, I could hear my wife sighing the way she used to do when I did something irresponsible. I could envision her shaking her head at me, at my hopelessness.
“Sorry,” I said out loud, to no one in particular. From his fishbowl, Mr. Pibb mouthed his silent reproach. I was so humiliated, I couldn’t even bring myself to face the Victoria’s Secret girls.
1 Comment
June 30, 2008 at 8:03 pm
That was actually funny! I, for one, am glad you said that to her, even if you’re sad ass did get banned, LOL!