As it turns out, I was "the last man standing" at the pub the other night, left alone with the girls who had quarreled with the gymroids. But the story, it seems, wasn't quite over when I left. Tennessee's son went back to the bar with his buddies around midnight, and the two girls were still there. Now remember, one of them was enamored of him earlier in the evening, so of course they approached him when he came in.
"What's up with your dad? He was yelling at us. He's a racist."
Something like that. I was getting the story from Tennessee while he was driving and talking on his shoe phone. I never can hear more than half of what he is saying.
"What are you on, an iPhone 5? Who's your carrier."
"Shit. I've got to get a new phone. I'm with T-Mobile."
"Get a real plan you cheap fuck," I joshed. But I never got the end of the story, except that his son blew them off.
"Did you tell him the one chatting me up kept creeping her hand up my thigh? She's the one that wanted his contact info."
"I'll tell him."
I figured out the day after the debacle that it went bad when the two girls wanted to take a selfie with the patron.
"We want our picture taken with Steve Carell."
"I look like Tom Cruise," he said. But they weren't having it. They kept on with the Carell thing. I'm sure this is where it started. Needless to say, he's all over their social media pages as the fascist, racist, asshole creep now.
I was trying to clue Tennessee into this, but the phone kept cutting out. That never got through, but I will see him today.
What did get through, though, was this:
"Hey. . . I found out who your ex-wife is. She's a babe."
"What the fuck."
The Patron had looked up my house deed and saw her name on the original purchase.
"I've known her for years."
Yea. . . racquet club crowd. She is a well known society girl here in the village. She owns the big jewelry store on the Boulevard and several other properties. Her husband is the hotshot Builder of the Moment in town. Big houses on prime properties. His shit is everywhere. It's an incestuous crowd.
"Look," I told The Patron, "I try to keep that quiet. I'd appreciate. . . ."
"Yea, yea. . . don't worry. I'm not saying anything."
So, to Tennessee, I said, "Who told you? The Patron."
"No, man, I looked up your deed."
I knew that was bullshit. So he fessed up, "Yea, he told me."
These boys are like high school kids, Chatty Kathys who can't keep their mouths shut.
"So, you're my pal, I'll tell you a little bit about that. She stalked me when she was a kid. I was dating the Richest Girl in the World at the time, but her father gave her a penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side, and that summer, I was at a famous lake party, and there she was all hot shit in her little bikini paddling over on her raft. We went to dinner that night with a group from the party and she invited me to the beach the next day. When she came to the house, she never left, and a few years later, when she graduated, she insisted we get married. It was a long time ago. The funny thing is that now she is friends with the rich girl who is a Jeweler to the Stars. I'm not sure, but she probably sells some of her stuff in the Boulevard store. It's a weird world."
"Yea, I know her husband. He builds shitty houses. He built a five million dollar house down the street from me. I know the people who bought it, and they complain about it all the time. Shoddy work. I told them he was a blow and go builder."
Tennessee is a good guy. But now, I'll have to deal with this shit. The builder my ex dated after we got divorced works out in the Physical Fitness Club, too. I don't want to get into all this shit there. I may just change gyms.
Another thing that turned the night around at the Irish Pub, I am remembering, is when the pretty serving person asked how we all knew one another. She was a friendly, curious girl person. The Patron told her we all went to the same gym. She said she wasn't sure if she believed us.
"Did you all go to college together or something?"
That set him off as there was about a thirty year gap between us all. I was laughing under my breath when he pointed to me, Farah Fawcett, and started outing me, but the pretty waiting person was on my side. Of course she was. There are a thousand reasons why, but the main one was that I, for professional reasons, know the language she speaks. I know the zeitgeist of the time. I'm soft and malleable and confident, at least on the outside. These guys were contractors and businessmen except for the young college prof sitting next to me. He was getting a giggle out of it all, too.
Tennessee just called and his phone didn't crap out. I got to remind him about the Steve Carell selfie. He's shitting himself about it. Can't wait to start in on The Patron.
"Dude--you're all over the Metro Social Media page. Have you seen it?"
He reminded me that the girl's parents are both well known attorneys. He sent me a link to her mother's page while we were at the table. I'm sure the girl's parents are good socialists living in cold water huts and giving all their money to the poor. I shouldn't be so crass. It's possible.
But I told Tennessee I wasn't going to bring any of it up. The Patron is kind of sensitive. Tennessee, though, can't wait. Today could be a real shit show at the Body Sculpture Society.
Tennessee wants to go to dinner tonight and then take me to a bar where freaks like me go. I should use quotations.
"I hope the band is playing."
"Fuck that. I hate bands."
"No, it's not what you think. It's three Gay Asian guys playing instruments. They don't sing. It's cool."
"O.K. That's fine. Are there any Sufi dancers?"
"What was that Russian guy's name again?"
"The one Clyde asked the dude if he was him."
"Yea. . . Russia something."
"Just Google 'Satanic Verses.' You'll get his name."
So. . . the weekend looks promising. I mean, in a weird way. As I told an airline stewardess at the gym yesterday, I'm not a player. I am just looking for My Own True Love.
"I'm not looking for 'a girl.' I'm looking for 'The Girl.' I just want to snuggle up on the couch and eat and watch movies and shut out the rest of the world."
Even the stewardess guffawed. I guess she, too, thought me a sissy.
The pretty serving person was from a town somewhere between Lodi and Stockton. This song has been rumbling around in my head since.