Monthly Archives: December 2011

A Character Study and My Inability to be Concise

I spent yet another night warming a stool at my favorite GR bar this week and as usual, it provided an endless stream of interesting characters to entertain me.

First to settle in was a marginally attractive man who looked to be about my age. His eyes lit up with that familiar glimmer of lechery the second he set eyes on my lovely friend the bartender and I knew I was in for a treat. Admittedly, I was impressed with him during the first few minutes of our chat. He struck up a conversation that conveniently led to him announcing his recent move to GR from New York City. He spouted some pretty convincing drivel about wanting to get in on the ground floor of GR, seeing as how it was one of the fastest growing cities in the country. Evidently, according to Mr. New York, GR has the highest percentage of “young professionals” and he certainly wasn’t going to miss out. He explained that he was a chef, but not the kind that cooks (?) and seemed to know a lot about the local bar scene for someone who had just moved to town. We commiserated about the scarce availability of decent downtown apartments and I watched him take far too much advantage of the drink specials. As his beers and accompanying shots of Patron disappeared, he revealed himself layer by douchey layer.

Not only did he continue to shamelessly hit on the bartender (who was exchanging texts with me about his level of creepiness), but he began to tell me things that were unnecessary and rude. Such as his complete disinterest in me, romantically, and how he likes girls who look like my friend MUCH better. I think he confused my blank stare with hurt feelings and continued to let me down gently (from what, I still have no idea) by explaining that Miss Bartender seemed like a real girl, not like those models he was so used to dating in New York. Apparently, Mr. New York was SO sick of dating models and he just longed for a normal girl. One who is extraordinarily pretty and clearly not interested. I felt it was my duty to tell Mr. New York that what he had just uttered was the douchiest thing anyone has ever said. Ever. That is, until he began complaining about a girl he likes and how she just wants to use him for his deep pockets (not from being a chef who doesn’t cook, but from his “rich family”) and doesn’t let him surprise her with private jets since she expects that sort of treatment. He then attempted to secure my company for the rest of our lives when he asked me to be his best friend and promised endless drinks and rewards. I said no.

As if summoned by some sort of douche-mating call, a bouncer from the most annoying bar on the street suddenly appeared to warn us ladies of a sexually predatory rapscallion who had been causing trouble all over “bar row”. I would have been swooning at his knight-in-shining-armor presence, had he not been wearing a ridiculous snowflake sweater at the time. Intimidating.

Next up at bat was a rather peculiar fellow who wandered in carrying an odd-shaped bag as if it contained a live organ (which I sort of thought it might). He sat down on the stool next to mine, despite an entire bar full of empty seats. I was instantly irritated and made it clear by ignoring him with all my might. He ruined that strategy by asking me several questions about my life and career and staring at me (intently) while I drank my wine. He went the opposite route as Mr. New York and threw himself at me full force. I let him down gently by telling him that I didn’t like boys (my go-to) and he got very upset, revealing that I was the third girl to tell him that in a week. Sounds like someone has a type. After planting a big sloppy kiss on my hand, Creepo left the building. I thought I was safe in my solitude and Pinot until he returned 15 minutes later seeking some water. He tried chatting me up once more and then retired to what we assumed was the bathroom.

When the ladies of the bar (as there were only 4 of us there at the time) realized he hadn’t returned for his iced liver, heart or lung-bag in over 20 minutes, we grew concerned. I paired up with the manager and we set off to investigate his whereabouts, exaggerated cop movie style. Once we reached the top of the stairs, we noticed an all-consuming stench. My first thought was that he had died and his body was rapidly decaying. The manager put a stop to that train of thought when she suggested that he probably passed out on the toilet, after destroying it with a powerful bowel movement. That seemed more plausible albeit less “crime drama-y”. I was full of bravado thanks to a few glasses of wine and the fact that there was literally nobody else in the bar to take care of the situation, so I knocked on the men’s room door and opened it gingerly, not knowing what I would find. What I did find was a large pile of feces on the floor and immobile feet under the stall door. I yelled for him to come out and got no response. Not knowing what else to do, and giggling in disbelief, the manager and I ran (well…as much as I “run”) upstairs to tell the other girls. Suggestions flew as to how to handle the situation and it was decided that we should just call the police to come retrieve him. No sooner had that thought floated through the air then did our party pooper appear at the top of the stairs. We all quickly asked him to leave and handed him his creepy bag (I had checked it for live animals and black market organs while he was in the bathroom). Then, my brave bartending friend ventured to the basement bathroom to quench her curiosity, only to find that the extent of the damage was not a pile on the floor, but rather a festive display of smeared nasty all over the walls. Who does that?! And why?

After that, we four brave souls did a “party pooper survivor shot” and continued with our night. There were a few more characters after that; a portly bald man who argued with me about Michigan being referred to as a “midwestern state” (I’m against, he’s inexplicably for), a divorced Brit who gladly discussed the state of the Euro and the fact that Wales is basically the Arkansas of the UK, and the friendly owner of the bar next door who I seem to always see at this bar that is not his own. None of these characters could compare to the self-proclaimed modelizer and my suitor the party pooper, however, so it is here that I will end this extremely long rant. If you’re still with me, I commend you on your attention span. If you’re not, then I’m just typing for my own need to slowly wind down to the end of a blog at this point.

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