Hissy Cat

« The Secret To My Success With The Men-Folk | Main | Ew, Mom »

December 25, 2005

On The Town

A few nights ago, after a dissappointing meal (tasty cocktails, though) at French Roast (my mussels tasted like they'd been steamed in my boot) followed by a throroughly satisfying frozen treat from Tast-D-Lite, Cheryl and I went out for drinks at the Cubbyhole, a neighborhood lesbian bar, normally quite cozy, but on this particular night, throbbing like an overripe blister full of pushy women in poorly considered vests engaging in unseemly activities during "I Will Survive." There was much too much Late Madonna-- and that's too much's more than a person can stand. All in all, it was too much gay boi/ bar mitzavah hoo-la-la than either of us had the energy to cope with. We left

Not wanting to be overtaxed, we headed to Art Bar, where we could get trashed on gimlets (me) and mojitos (Cheryl) in a semi-reclining position, on a sofa and, importantly, within reaching distance of a generous plate of curly fries.

At one point, I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. Dissappointingly, a gaggle of people were already pooled around the door, but I excused myself, stepping politely around them. "What? Don't you have the money? I have hundreds of dollars in my pocket?" I could hear one of them show-hissing as I side-stepped by.

They hushed at my presence and I could smell their pot smoke. Quite obviously, they were considering what to do, whether to play it cool or not. As I lit my cigarette, I stepped a little farther away to indicate, 'go ahead, really, I don't care what you do, just please don't talk to me, because you seem like a bunch of jackasses, and I just want to enjoy my cigarette in peace.'

I know that probably sounds harsh-- what's the big deal? why not make a little friendly conversation? and so forth and on and on-- and in a different mood, on a different night maybe I might've been chatty and done just that but on that night I just didn't want to talk to them. Or anybody, while I was out for my cigarette. It's a pet peeve of mine the way men at bars feel entitled to a woman's attention, no matter how uninterested or occupied she is; yes, it's nice to start up a conversation with a nice-looking person, that's very nice, but do not plant yourself at her side while she is clearly in the middle of a conversation with her friends, and if she is frowning, or looking at the exits, or playing Tetris on her cell phone, or just, you know, not smiling, move on, ok? She doesn't have to talk you, ok? And it was her table first? This was not the case the other night, I just thought I needed to say this on record, as this crisis has reached epidemic proportions. Someone should start a ribbon campaign.

The four of them are very-- what's the politest way of saying this?-- Jersey looking: guys with greased hair and child-molestor-length overcoats and a girl wearing glittering strappy sandals over black tights with her hair in a frosted, fluffed-out 'do. They looked like people who'd gotten very dressed up for an occaision, like people who'd driven into the city and who'd drive back out late at night or early the next morning

There is a tap on my shoulder. A somewhat hunched in the shoulder, slim man, mumbling something wholly unintelligible that I am pretending I do not hear, is holding out the wee-est little stub of a spliff you ever did see. I'm not a proud woman, and when substances are scarce, I take what I can get, and then I take from other people, but I would rather have rubbed my face against a cheese grater than be under any obligation to make chit-chat, so I made the universal sign for 'smoking my own cigarette, can't be bothered, but thanks,' and went about my business. Annoyingly, a second man-- this one quite plump-- stepped over to me and, to my deep regret, began talking.

Chubby: Don't mind my friend John. John has a lot of money in real estate.
Me: I really don't care.
Chubby: I'm introducing myself. I'm harmless! Can't a guy introduce himself? This is Ashley (points to girl). We're visiting from Pennsylvania. I'm John, too. He's John, and I'm John. We're both John! What's your name, again? What'd you say your name was, again?
Me: I didn't say what my name is. It's Joanna, though. For the first time.

A little circle has formed, a circle which I have no desire to be a part of, so at the first opportunity I take a step back to distance myself from the pow-wow. Annoyingly, Slim pursues me. It appears he is attempting to communicate.

Slim: Mumble-mumble-mumble-mumble-mumble-mumble-bumblu-mumble-tumble-mum.
Me: You'll have to excuse me, but I have no idea what you are saying.
Slim: Marble-mumble-mum-mumblemumble-mumble mumlbe. Mumble mumble-mumble-mumble.
Me: Yeah, you're going to have to speak up because I really can't hear what you're saying.
Slim: MUMBLE MUMBLE MUMBLE MUMBLE MUMBLE!
Me: No, I'm sorry, but I just don't understand what it is you are trying to say. Maybe if took deeper breaths between words and slowed down?

After much shaking of head and hands he was able to get me to understand he was asking my opinion on the transit strike. Now, it's nice that I finally understood what he was saying so that I could stop being quite such a drunken bitch but still, the last thing I wanted was to talk to this stranger about the transit strike when I could be eating curly fries or talking Cheryl or, oh, I don't know, sticking my hand in meat-grinder.

Me: Yeah, I live in California, so I haven't been following it so closely. And I'm staying with my folks who live just around the block, so it hasn't inconvenienced me at all. So, yeah, nothing to say on the topic. Except, I don't care.
Slim: Mumble mumble mumble?!
Me: Yeah, I still don't understand anything you're saying.
Slim: Mumble mumble!
Me: Well, I'm pro-union, if that helps you, for general reference. Just stop talking to me for the love of--
Slim: So what do you think of disease?
Me: WHAT?
Slim: What do you think of disease?
Me: Disease? What do I--? Well, I guess I'd have to say that disease is a real killer.

Slim nods at me.

Me: Yeah, that's it. That's definately what I think of disease. It's a killer. And it makes me sick.

Slim looked at me funny, squinting out of a tipped head. You could almost see the gears churning, trying to figure out if he'd just been made of. I stomped my cigarette out and saluted Slim and went back inside and tried to explain the exchange to Cheryl, but by the time she went out to take a look, the little party from Pennsylvania had already left.

Posted by hissycat at December 25, 2005 03:07 AM

Comments

Posted by: cheryl at December 26, 2005 09:37 PM

Posted by: Ben at December 28, 2005 09:28 AM

Posted by: Osmund at November 24, 2006 02:13 PM

Posted by: sex mpegs at December 3, 2006 05:42 PM

Posted by: pantyhose sex at December 3, 2006 06:17 PM

Posted by: Anonymous at December 23, 2006 02:46 PM

Posted by: Anonymous at December 23, 2006 02:48 PM

Posted by: Anonymous at December 23, 2006 02:49 PM

Post a comment

Name:

Email Address:

URL:
Remember Me? YesNo

Comments: (you may use HTML tags for style)