The night was crisp and wet. Crotch would say a little too crisp and I would say a little too wet. We had met up with the now famous “J” and had agreed to meet him at a little dive. This place, a tiny hole in the wall, situated beneath a tasty Indian restaurant, is a dive. It isn’t the worst bar you could end up in, drunk as a skunk and hitting on the wrong guy’s girlfriend, but it isn’t the swankiest either. The name of this gin joint? Spoontonic, or Spoons, as the yocals call it . Arriving at the front we stop to wait for our rendezvous. Crotch lights up and we are, at once, confronted with a piece-of-peanut-stuck-in-your-molar-that-you-can’t-quite-tongue-out blast from our past. Drumster is there and he sees us as soon as our eyes dart away, hoping that he doesn’t feel our collective gaze. We force some small talk, the kind of talk that gets uncomfortable instantly, but will not end. Luckily, his friends come to the rescue and this peanut is extracted from our molars with a ninja’s precision. Crotch’s light is out, the peanut is swallowed, and the night isn’t getting any warmer, so we venture inside to wait. We don’t wait long because “J” is at the bar. His voluminous mop, now freed from that constraints of the wax it was previously coated in, is big and seemingly growing by the second. He casually sips his wine, red, and looks over at us as we approach. The generous application of black light lighting is showing each of us, as well as everybody else in the bar, just how much lint you can gather on a brown sports coat. Crotch seems tickled by his coat’s abilities in the area of lint retaining, but he also seems a little more self conscious and he tries, in vain, to brush the dirt off his shoulders. “J’s” eyes are captivating in the ultraviolet light, and combined with the messy locks on his head, he attracts the attention of a couple of, ladies. These ladies are not looking to join in our conversation, oh no, but seeing as though we gentlemen are gather about the bar, we figure that they are trying to order a drink. “J” moves a little and motions to them that they can cozy up to the bar and order. In my hindsight, I feel as though the ladies may have misread “J’s” motions, because as they, the ladies, proceed to cozy up to “J” intstead, our earnest to carry on our conversation gets disregarded and the task at hand becomes altered. Short lady starts to back up into “J”, who is comfortably seated on a bar stool, and begins to deposit herself in his lap, all the while talking with her friend, Taller-blonde, and this whole time they haven’t even acknowledged that we are here or that “J” is sitting in the seat that Short lady is trying to sit in.
At this point, dear readers, you may well think that a normal man would have had enough. A normal man wouldn’t stand for such disrespect. A normal man would kindly, yet firmly, remind these ladies that an introduction is the very least that should be offered, before the presentation of hind quarters commences. Any long devout follower of these sacred texts could tell that we are not normal men. Nay, we are barely mortal, but that is another story, and shall be told another time.
Short lady looks back into “J’s” homing beacons and smiles, then returns to her (uninterrupted by an increase in female bodies that get in the middle of the semi-circle of guys) conversation with Taller-blonde. The three of us men are now thoroughly perplexed and figure that we had better vacate to another part of the minuscule floor plan. Just as “J” gets practically shoved off of his bar stool by Short lady‘s ever encroaching posterior, she triumphantly takes to her newly won throne and just continues talking to Taller-blonde, seemingly unaware of the breach of etiquette that she had just preformed. This breach was large enough to sink an aircraft carrier in under an hour, no small feat mind. As we walk towards another table, “J” gets one, last, uncomfortable encounter with Short lady: She gives his glutes a once over with her hand, all the while still talking to Taller-blonde!
I have no doubt that those ladies went home with a guy each, and my doubt doesn’t even extend so far as to say that they probably won’t remember ever “meeting” us or even “J” for that matter. Which is a shame really, because to have been so close to our collective greatness, musician, writer, other guy, and to not have come away with even the gleaming of having had the near experience, is something that I wouldn’t wish upon the devil himself, as lowly and wicked as he may be.
What exciting adventures will our heroes have next? Stay tuned for the next exciting episode of: “Cheez-it Evening Theatre presents The Many Adventures Of Scott Free and Crotch Buddy”
Scott Free, trying his hand.