Time to Settle Accounts
March 15, 2012: Dance with somebody!
I was feeling fine and enjoying my fourth Beck’s at Richard’s Bar when an older woman looked my way. “Yeah, that one,” she giggled to her friend. She was an effervescent blonde in her late 40s with thick makeup and kind eyes, as was her friend, and they were seated at the perpendicular end of the bar with a portly gentleman and a younger – though older than me – couple. “That one’s cute. Yeah you, uh huh,” she mouthed when we made eye contact, “you’re a cutie.”
I was there alone, just myself and a book on the tail end of a walk, and four beers was plenty. But now I was buzzing on that old what-the-hell feeling. I ordered one more, smiled coyly at my new friend, and walked to the bathroom. I passed the portly gentleman on my way back. “That blonde thinks you’re something else,” he said. “Go talk to her.”
Which was my plan, of course. Just some conversation with my last beer before I head back out on the range. No numbers, no suggestive talk.
The two blondes were now talking to a 70-something man seated nearby. He had white hair and glasses and worn skin and a Bogart smile. I grabbed my beer and my book and walked thru the now crowded bar to say hello.
“Hi there,” she said through her Budweiser. “Love your glasses.” She was referring to my L.A. shades from Train, hooked on my shirt collar. We chatted pleasantly and drank, and meanwhile the older man took the other blonde by the hand to dance. “Why Do Fools Fall In Love?” was on the jukebox, and he carved out space among the patrons to spin and dip her. He walked her back to the bar and she and her friend laughed and walked in unison to the bathroom.
I said hello to him and started to introduce myself when he looked at me coldly.
“WHAT the hell are you doing?” he said to me.
“Women don’t come here to talk,” he said. “They want to dance! And you’re sitting here talking, like a young idiot. I just danced with that one,” he said, “and she loved me! Do you know how much pussy I’ve gotten at this place from dancing?”
“Recently?” I asked.
“Goddammit,” he said. He took a drink. “I hate guys who go to bars and say ‘Eh, I’ll just have a beer.’” He looked to his right and saw them returning from the bathroom. “Bullshit,” he said to me, a bit softer now. “You’re a man. Dance with somebody.”
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