ladies, it happens to us too...

These days I’m more of a lounge guy.  Been there and done that with the whole club scene and now I’m all about low-maintenance fun.  I just want to sit around with cool people and enjoy a cocktail or two, listen to some music and/or watch a game.  

I have a couple places that I haunt on a regular basis, and the one I’ve been frequenting more often as of late is the one that’s about five minutes from my house.  It’s truly a lounge in every sense of the word, too.  They play blues and steppin’ music and the occasional dart game may break out from time to time.  It’s also in the hood, which makes the cast of characters you’d see on a Friday or Saturday night range from folk you’d see in a downtown office building to those whose faces you’d see on a post office wall.  Nothing out of the ordinary for lounge on the south side of Chicago.

This particular Saturday night I had just come out for a beer after running some errands and having shoveled snow, so I was a little tired.  Add to that the fact that my brother was in town and I really needed a drink.

As I said, it was Saturday night so the place was a little more crowded than usual, but there was an empty seat at the bar next to one of the regular guys I’ve known for years (we’ll call him Melvin), so I parked there and waited for the bartender.  I have shoulder-length locks so I’m used to the feeling of them being tugged slightly while I’m out at a bar.  When it happened this time, I turned to see the culprit, a forty-something woman who’s glassy-eyed grin registered approximately seven sheets to the wind.  “I juthhhht loooove yo’ hurrrr”, she said and managed not to spray me in the process.  Drunk folk can be amazingly polite sometimes.

I thanked her and listened to her mumble something about her own hair while I ordered and received my beer.  Having spent a good portion of my adult life in bars, I’ve mastered the “nod & smile” maneuver that’s necessary when accosted by incoherent but profound drunks, and while “listening” to her I went through several of my favorite variations including the “yup, that’s right” and the “no kidding”, and my personal favorite the “ain’t that the truth”.

Although slightly annoyed at not being able to enjoy my beer, I was doing ok, and the jukebox was jammin’, which was loud enough so that I didn’t have to hear what she was trying to tell me.  Little things do mean a lot.  It was then that the friendly jukebox turned on me: “her song” came on.

Winter in Chicago can be beautiful, with our downtown trees and buildings draped in lights and our neighborhoods decorated in holiday colors.  A light dusting of snow to cover the top of the grass just adds the perfect finishing touch.  That day I spent a good hour shoveling four inches of that damned finishing touch and my back was accusing the light dusting of being a blizzard in disguise.  Even if she wasn’t drunk, the chances of her getting me to dance were, at best, remote.

After the first few times I said no to her, it became clear to me that my car was turning into a pumpkin and that the best thing to do was to leave, so I started plotting my escape.
God has already forgiven me for what I did to Melvin, but I doubt he ever will.  As I mentioned earlier, I’m an expert barfly, so executing the “take one for the team” was easy.  It was actually beautiful.

When “her song” #5 came on, I announced loudly to her that Melvin was going to dance with her while I went to the bathroom.  He never knew what hit him.  I would have gotten away with it completely if someone hadn’t bought me a drink (Functioning Alcoholic Rule #1: Always accept a free drink), so I was sitting there when they got back from dancing.

I’m not a punk.  I don’t go looking for fights but I won’t back down from one either.  The broken beer bottle Melvin was threatening me with didn’t even faze me.  But then “her song” #6 came on and I turned 100% bitch.

At least women never go out without a pack of girlfriends who would cut a man for even staring too hard at one of them, all I had was Melvin and he wanted to do me bodily harm.  Now she was asking me to buy her a drink since I wouldn’t dance with her.  When did drunks learn the art of negotiation?

Meanwhile, things were far worse than I suspected.  I’m used to people staring at me in bars; the long hair and goofy looks make me somewhat of a walking sideshow.  Usually when a guy is staring at me it’s because he’s had too much to drink and is trying to remember the reggae artist I remind him of.  Bob Marley probably turns over in his grave every time the phrase “dude, you look just like Bob Marley!” is uttered.  But the guy staring at me this time was sober, and he looked like something was bothering him. I sized him up at around 6’4”, 250.  I’m 5’9”, 180.  That’s when I heard Melvin giggling.  “You know that’s her man over there, right?”

So ladies, the next time you think that it’s bad being accosted by that guy who bought you a drink and wants to talk your ear off, remember that it could be worse.  By the way, thanks for all the get well cards and flowers (you know who you are).  I’ll be out of traction in a few weeks and the doctors say I’ll be able to dance again once I re-learn how to walk.  And look at the bright side; at least I don’t have to shovel snow for a while.