How You Doin’ Blondie?

There’s this bar I go to, where no body knows my name. Except for Mike, the guy that owns the place. Mike knows me, and my name, and he also knows that I mostly just want to be left alone. Mike sort of runs interference for me, serves as a “cock block”, if you will. He’s missing a few teeth and will never be accused of razor sharp wit but he’s an excellent conversationalist (he knows when to just be quiet), and he’s instinctively protective of me…have mercy on the poor guy who tries to send a drink or cheesy pick-up line my way.

I hate messing up a kitchen and dirtying dishes for one person, and I always feel like the world’s biggest loser when I realize I’m standing in front of a free-range oven fretting over the right temperature for a dish I’m whipping up for Cody…so I went to the bar for dinner tonight. The food there is atrocious, that fact really isn’t debatable. They even manage to mess up french fries, which one would assume to be a pretty fail-proof food. But I ordered a burger (really, really well done) and fries anyway and fell into my usual routine of alternating between staring into the brown glass of my beer bottle and staring at whatever game’s playing on the plasma screen. I was in the middle of trying to figure out what my approximate beer to buzz ratio was when Mike surprised me by cracking open a beer for himself and sitting next to me at the bar. I thought maybe he was just taking a break or something, but he swiveled to face me and I was surprised to find a look of concern on his face. It was a look of genuine concern too, the likes of which I can honestly say I’ve only ever witnessed once in this lifetime, and even then it was fleeting. So I straightened up a little and said, “What’s up, Mike?” He sighed a little bit, and I remember what he said next very, very clearly;

“Suzanne, my heart hurts a little bit for you, honey. You’re so young and so pretty, but your so damn lethal, darlin. I know we joke around and call you the Lone Ranger, but you can’t be like that forever. The way you sit here sometimes, if you didn’t look the way you do, I’d swear you were a 54 year old man with three ex-wives and alimony payments that are slowly killing him. At least you don’t smoke,” He offered one of those wry laughs and then took a swig from his beer. I really did not know what to say in response, and we just kind of sat there in silence for a few seconds while he looked into his beer bottle. Then he looked over at me again and continued;

“Look, sweetheart, just humor an old man, ok? All I want you to know is this: you gotta let something or someone in, you have to. No body can get through this shit alone, and it’ll just kill you if you try. I’m talking about finding a husband, or something. I know I come from a different generation where women didn’t do as much by themselves as they do now, but that’s not the point. I see you come roaring in here with a different set of wheels every week, I know you’ve done pretty damn good for yourself by yourself, but a person can’t be by themselves forever. And especially a sweetheart like you. Honey, you’re one tough cookie, but one of these days, you’re gonna find someone whose gonna be able to take what you dish out, and give a lot back. I just want you to be prepared, is all, because he’s out there. And it’s going to be a Battle Royal when he finally comes waltzing in.” He tipped his bottle towards mine in punctuation and then got up to tend the bar again.   

I left before my food came because Dr.Phil moments make me feel awkward. I’ve tried to fight it, but I always feel kind of uncomfortable when someone opens up like that. It’s not what he said that put me off, I’ve been playing the same fantasy over and over in my head ever since I hit puberty and I started reading those absurdly worded romance novels…I’ve always dreamt of finding that guy who thinks he’s as bad ass as I think I am, and we meet and we just melt each other and we live sometimes happily, sometimes angrily, but always together, forever and blah blah blah all that Lifetime movie bullshit. I want it, I do, I really do, but it’s just kind of weird when the guy who serves you beer and sometimes tells you off-color jokes articulates it to you.

The only reason I didn’t tell him to shut the fuck up is because 1.) I like his bar and 2.) I like him.

And 3.) I don’t know of any other bars I can go to and not run the risk of getting hit on by some Lamborghini-driving stud who fancies his genitals dipped in platinum.

…but seriously? “Battle Royal”? Who does he think is coming to claim me? Hacksaw Jim Duggan?