HAIRSHIRT
Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery
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HAIRSHIRT Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery |
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Thursday, July 14, 2005Boy Meets Girl
She set her drink down on the bar and reached for the pretzels. I followed the progress of her hand as she reached for the low-fat snack food, noticing that her fingers were lacking anything resembling a wedding ring. "So what is it you're asking?" she said, as she brought a twisted brown bread product to her mouth. As she waited for my answer, she bit off a piece of salt, exalting in its non-sweetness.
I sipped my coconut wine cooler and smiled. "You caught me," I admitted. "Actually, I don't care about woodchucks or how much wood they can chuck. I just thought you looked like the type of girl who enjoys alliteration." "Some say it's so sexy," she said, alliterating. My eyes narrowed. I'd played it perfectly. Or had I? Her look turned serious. "But not me." With that, she spun her bar stool around haughtily, coquettishly slamming her knee into the thigh of an old bald guy who was standing on the other side of her. She fixed the newly-injured Kojak with a look that said, "Yeah, I hurt you. And you're going to shut up about it." Uncle Fester took his beer and slunk off to be rejected by some other woman. I wasn't in that kind of mood, though, so I decided to press my luck. I waited patiently until she'd finished her pretzel. I figured her for the type of woman who isn't satisfied with just one. My hunch paid off when, a hundred and eighty-seven seconds later, she reached for the Mr. Salties. I was too quick for her. I moved the basket just out of her reach and she was forced to turn around to locate it. We locked eyes. "Long time, no see," I said, my hand lolling amongst the buttery twists. "Did you want one of these?" The game was on. "Possibly," she said, crossing her leg. Not that she didn't have two legs, but she really only moved the one. "The question is, do I want one enough to talk to you?" I looked her directly in the eyes, although not both at the same time, because I can't focus quite like that, so I picked the left one. "If that's the question, what's the answer?" I cocked my head, like Benji. "Actually, 'what' is an interrogative." Grammatically, she had me. "I'll tell you what," I said breathfully, "I'll make a bet with you." "You're a gambler?" she asked, scraping some spinach from her tooth. "Not in the Kenny Rogers sense," I replied. "Here's my proposition: If I can fit all of these pretzels in my mouth, you and I have a date tomorrow night. Maybe miniature golf, maybe a crochet class, I'm flexible." "But are you bendy?" She flung the spinach to the floor and looked me directly in the eyes, although not both at the same time, because she couldn't focus like that, so she picked the right one. "You've got a deal." I called to the bartender, an old Navajo whose life I'd saved years before in a shrimping accident. I told him to bring me a rolling pin and a gallon-sized Ziploc bag, which he produced from below the counter. I emptied the basket of pretzels into the Ziploc, then pressed the yellow strip and the blue strip together until they made green. With the bag thus sealed, I took the rolling pin and pounded on the pretzels, breaking them first into small, salty pieces, then reducing them to a fine powder. When there was no trace of the interesting shapes that had once filled the bag, I opened it and dumped the contents neatly into my mouth. She brought her hands up in that slow applause that sometimes denotes sarcasm, but in this case meant acquiescence. As my throat was now filled with a mound of salty powder that rendered me unable to speak, I emptied the rest of my drink into my mouth. This did little to solve my immediate problem and, in fact, turned the powder to a thick, strangling paste. I leaned over the bar and stuck my head under a tap, mainlining half a gallon of Coors Light, which, being very near water, rinsed things out nicely. She was still clapping when I finished. I took a bow. "Game, set and match, baby. I don't have a car, so pick me up tomorrow at five-thirty. I don't like to wait. " "I don't like spiders," she riposted. "It's a date." She picked me up the next night and we went to see Susan Sarandon and an all-star cast in The Client, taking time before the show to chat with a guy with a big soft spot in his head. Eight years later, we were married. Three years after that, we celebrated our third/eleventh anniversary. Happy Anniversary, baby.
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