Well, my little tour on the trail of positivity has ended, and that’s no one’s fault but mine. And this guy’s. It was Valentine’s Day. The day of love and light and joy for couples, for single people, a day of heightened awareness of their singlehood, and for discontented married men, the day for finding a little gold digger to call their own. The only problem is, I don’t do gold.
He comes into the bar. “Shay, baby. Hit me one time with one of dem beers.”
He speaks as if he hails from the hood but he’s whiter than the backdrop of this page so I’m thinking he might just be confused. Or already drunk. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“Shay, when are we taking that trip? Out to the desert? Just you and me beneath the stars we’ll smoke some weed and chill, baby, just chill.”
“Oh, probably never,” I say, placing a cocktail napkin under his frosty brew. “Too busy.”
“Stop taking so many classes and spend some time with me. You need to get right, girl.”
“No, I need to get smart.” And by smart I mean smarter than him although the more he speaks it’s becoming very apparent that I may, perhaps, have already surpassed him in intelligence.
“You work tonight? Because I’ll be back tonight and I’m gonna light you up, girl.”
First of all, no, I don’t work tonight second of all what the hell am I a cigarette? Light me up my ass. Speaking of asses, the tread of my nonslip boot is about to slip its way up yours.
The worst part about it is he’s going to come in tonight with his wife, who’s going to do her damnedest to control his raging tongue, knowing all the while he’s trying to pick up on the poor girl behind the bar (yo, Gabby, stay strong, you got this).
I’m not your cup of tea and I’m not your shot of whiskey or your mug of beer I don’t have that hourglass shape you’re looking for don’t you try and drown your sorrows against my lips. One of these days I’m going to be feeling a little vengeful and I’m going to let it slip that I met your dirty little secret the day before when the two of you came in for a late brunch after tennis lessons, sweat brewing at the collar of your starched, white, Ralph Lauren Polo.
Don’t play with me. Don’t mess with me or toy with me remember that I have a little black book behind the bar that’s inventoried every thirsty low class broad you’ve brought into this place. And they don’t glimmer like that gold you’ve promised.
I’m trying to do a job. I don’t mind playing around I don’t mind the jokes and I’ll even swallow a little harassment every now and again don’t threaten me with a good time. But you and your pathetic attempts at getting me into your sleeping bag with the promise of a fat joint are becoming exhausting because one, I don’t sleep with married men, and two, I live in Southern California–if I wanted some weed, I’d just take a walk across the street.