A Story Untold

I'm feeling pretty well for a guy who spent the night at an Irish pub with gymroids and the Woke.  The night started off early and well, but it became a shit show by the end of the evening.  How much of this should I tell?  It is an ugly, ugly story if told truthfully and correctly.  But what is truth?  I have only half memories and impressions I can count on.  And of course. . . my heroic part.  For you see, I'm a man above the fray.  I float above it all on a cloud, a good guy, a hero. . . or so it seems to me.  The perspective of looking down from on high is a stilted one for sure, but it is all I have.  

As reported, we went to the pub because months ago when we went there, I told everyone that the waitress had freakishly small hands.  Everyone wanted to see if it was true.  When we were seated, though, "Little Hands" wasn't there.  We had a beautiful, scantily clad lass instead.  I think right there is where the trouble began.  

But she was a great person and rode it out like a real bronco buster.  B.S. degree from San Diego State, the girl grew up close to Lodi and Stockton.  Rough places, so they say.  The "boys," all married men, were out to show their wit and charm, such as it is.  But it was o.k.  There was food.  People were drinking beer.  And then the bar began to fill.  It was Trivia Night.  Who goes to such a thing?  Well. . . let me tell you. . . there are many rabid fans.  So as the rooms filled and the place got louder, so did we.  I had ordered a Campari and soda when I got there, and this broke the boys up.  They wanted to know if I had a UTI.  I had just come from the beauty parlor where I had spent much of the day.  So they said to the pretty serving person.  

"Doesn't he look just like Farah Fawcett Major?"  

That's not who they said, but I can't remember.  Someone similar.  I just shook my head.  

"I like his hair," said the pretty serving person.  Well, if nothing else, she was gracious.  But the boys figured if they could get me out of the way, they might have a chance.  Or that is what I thought they thought.  That's what I would have thought, at least.  

The announcer for the Trivia Contest had his volume set as if we were at a '70s rock concert.  Our table, not playing trivia, became louder.  Once the contest began, people were looking at us and a couple times even shushing.  One of the fellows, a tall fellow who is somewhere pretty deep on the spectrum, got up and went to the table behind us.  I looked at Tennessee and said, "What the fuck is he doing?" What he was doing was leaning in aggressively and asking one of he fellows behind us, "Are you Solmon Rushdie?"  The guy got pissed.  I have to admit, he did bear a small resemblance, but this was just wrong.  When our guy came back to the table, I said, "That guy was pissed off."  

"I wasn't worried.  I have two black belts in Marshall Arts here to protect me."

Indeed, there were.  Tennessee and the fellow who usually pays for everything both do.  

"That's fucked up," I said.  

"What was that shit?" the fellows asked.  "What did you ask him about Russia?"

None of them had ever heard of Rushdie.  

The Trivia questions started coming.  We weren't playing, but "some of us" kept calling out the answers which apparently you are not supposed to do.  Our patron had to keep sending drinks over to the tables of the people around us to palliate their irritation.  It was getting weird.  

Tennessee's son who was leaving to go back to college the next morning came in.  He wanted to meet "The Shaman," his dad said.  "He saw your photos at the house.  We got him a house in Nashville and he wants to buy some for the walls."  The kid sat next to me.  He's talented.  He is a studio musician in Nashville and had been in L.A. recording with what I am told is a famous rapper.  Why rappers need a bass guitarist is out of my wheelhouse.  But that's the fact.  He stayed for awhile, but the man on the spectrum got hold of him with his ridiculous questions, and in about an hour he said he had to go pack for the trip.  

I think this is when it really started to turn bad.  Two of the fellows who came early had to go, then a third.  There were some young women playing Trivia at a table next to us, and the money boys were trying to play it cool.  But the girls wanted to know what happened to the kid.  

"Is he coming back?"

I thought that made it pretty clear, but some are not to be deterred.  

Tennessee had eaten a gummy before he came, and I saw him reach into his pocket, palm something, and pop it in his mouth.  

"Did you just eat another gummy?"

"No," he lied.  

Not long after that, his chin hit the table.  He wasn't following conversations at this point.  He was no help at all.  

Around ten, Trivia was over, and just like that (finger snap), the bar was empty.  Except for the two girls at the nearby table.  Our patron sent them a drink.  I was more than ready to go.  The famous DJ had been chatting the girls up for a long while and their eyes were dancing.  He's an entertainer.  That's his profession.  Once a shock jock, he's now a radio show host.  Times have changed, and so has he.  But I couldn't tell what the girls were thinking.  I heard him tell them about his radio show and when he mentioned his stage name, I saw them giggle.  

"Do you know what radio is?" I asked them.  "There is now way you listen to the radio."

Now, though, the room was quiet and some of the other fellows jumped in on the conversation.  I knew this would be bad.  Some drunks get more confident than they should.  The waiting person, being smart and kind and working for tips, was perhaps partly to blame.  She had given the table an opportunity to think they were. . .  well, something they weren't.  So, a question was asked.  A debate ensued.  The dj and the man on the spectrum got up to leave.  The patron ordered another round of whiskey for the table.  I should have left.  I should have left.  But Tennessee was sitting in a gummy and liquor stupor and I didn't want to just split.  

I wan't paying attention, but the young women were not speaking the same language as our patron, and with the wide eyes of youthful condemnation, they rose from their table and headed for the door.  I could only giggle.  Now we were down to three.  The pretty serving person came over and we settled up the tab.  It was pretty, pretty big.  The patron, always generous, picked it up, so Tennessee and I put in a bunch of cash for the tip.  The pretty serving person was well taken care of for her patience.  I'm certain we more than doubled her income that night.  There are just some things you can buy your way out of.  

As we were finishing our final drinks, though, the two girls walked back into the bar.  I wasn't paying attention, but then I heard one of them ask the patron, "Are you buying us drinks?"  I was amazed, really.  But he said yes.  One of the girls, a real product of her time and had come back to do battle.  I was talking to the other girl, or rather, she was talking to me.  I wasn't about to engage.  We were just chatting amicably when Tennessee and the patron got up to go.  I hadn't heard what was going on, but apparently the whole thing had gone sideways.  No shit, I thought.  Such things, however, don't bother me.  I don't get nervous.  But I heard the final salvo before I was left alone with the two girls.  The product of her generation was still going on.  

"Do you know what he said?  What an asshole." 

"He's alright."

"How can you hang around with them?"

"It's good for me.  I'm a hippie.  I love everybody."  

They were looking to me for succor at this point, I think, but the night had been long and I wasn't interested in whatever it had in store for them, so I stood up, told them it was a pleasure to meet them, shook hands to see if they felt normal in size, and limped stiffly for the door.  

I wasn't home before the texts were coming in.  It was still in the 80s outside, but my house had cooled down.  The cool, dry air woke me up a bit.  I poured a final drink and sat down to think the night through.  I should have left when the first group did, I thought, but then I wouldn't have seen the evening's denouement.  But did I need to see it?  I could have written the script.  

I don't know.  I haven't told you the half of it.  I've sanitized this even more than I intended.  But I have no idea who reads this blog.  I've gotten in trouble telling things here several times before.  I was never as careful at being as anonymous as I should have been.  Ask Q.  He knows the consequences of writing a blog under your real name.  It becomes impossible.  You have to tell the truth when you want to lie and lie when you want to tell the truth.  I am, at least, partially removed from that scenario, but you can never tell.   

Yea. . . I didn't really tell the tale the way I had intended.  Not really at all.  Selavy.  Another wasted morning.  I can't just delete it, so here it is.  

I guess all you should know is that I was above it all like an omniscient angel floating on a cloud of divinity.  Look up.  See?  There I am.  What?  What?  

Oh.