Tuesday Night Turkeys

I enjoy doing things alone. Not all the time, but sometimes. Going to movies, eating out, going shopping. But woe unto me for trying this craziness at a bar.

Yeah, I said it. Bar. Came home one night, husband was out doing whatever, I wanted a toasted turkey sandwich and a couple of pints of beer on a weeknight. Walked to the place around the corner, brought along a book. It being a weeknight, it was quiet and nearly empty. A few bar flies sat at the rail over their own plates, eating slowly and in silence, enjoying or not enjoying their own company. We had at least 4 stools between the three of us. I sat, I ordered, I began reading. It was lovely.

Until…

A friend of my mother-in-law’s arrived with a friend of his own. My powers of deduction led me to note that some predrinking was done as they were both rosy-faced, lose limbed, and God damned boisterous. Too God damned boisterous for the scene. I was instantly irritated.

I got a loud and enthusiastic HEY! accompanied by a firm grasping of each of my shoulders and a hardy massage-shake that is never appropriate in any situation ever at all. I hey’ed back, offered up a polite yet disdainful how ya doin’, and had returned to my reading before the question was answered. Something or other was muttered, and the pair stumbled past me without further issue.

Until…

The charming couple saw that there were hardly any other people in the bar and I was apparently the only person either of them knew. This translated into an open invitation to sit right next to the woman reading the book. They happily plopped next to me, loudly ordered, and began staring expectantly in my direction, as if this was my moment to engage, this was my time to seize the marvelous opportunity they presented by sitting in my vicinity. It was time for me to entertain them.

I continued reading my book.

Mother-in-law’s friend, or MILF from here on out,—wait.

Older dude I circumstantially knew, or Old DICK from here on out, and younger douche-y dude I didn’t know, or Mr. GED from here on out, mumbled to each other. I know it was something concerning my lack of engagement because they both turned to me after and Old DICK began yelling “hey!” at me until I responded out of exasperation. Old DICK grinned and said, “How ya doin?”

While many expletive-filled responses suggested themselves to me, I remembered that this was in fact one of those moments my husband and close friends urge me to step back, take a moment, consider what I would normally do, and do the opposite. A solid 10 seconds passed as I was picking the response of which my dear ones would be proud, and this made Old DICK and Mr. GED snicker. “Dyou know howyouuh?” drunk ass Old DICK asked. Mr. GED continued to chuckle. This made me finally look him in the face. Who was this co-signing douche nozzle who didn’t realize how hard I had just worked to not push this nigga off his stool? And why was he sitting so close to me? Again, I think in real time, people, so the prolonged looked that occurred while I was thinking the above sentences must have translated to Mr. GED that I was appraising him. In his drunken uneducated stupor, he must have interpreted my scowl as a come hither…glare. I mean, can a come hither glare even be done? I want people to send me pictures of their best come hither glare. Winner gets a prize.

I digress. I answered Old DICK’s question with a clipped “good” and returned to reading. This did not deter OD. And the questions continued. Why was I here alone, dressed as I was, and not smiling? Where was my husband and did he know that I was here, alone, dressed as I was, not smiling?

“I have a signed permission slip from my husband, you wanna see it?”

“Oh, shit, she’s married!?” says the ever enchanting, staggeringly perceptive Mr. GED. He promptly checked out of the rest of the conversation. One down.

Chuckle chuckle chuckle. “Girl, you know what I’m sayin’. I was just—”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? Since I’m a grown woman who dresses herself, and since you’re not my daddy, though you could be, I believe what I’m wearing is fine. What’s your issue with it?”

“I-I-uh, I was just—”

“Can I go back to reading my book? I was enjoying myself before you came in and starting interrupting my peace. Can I just have my sandwich and read my book? I’m not smiling ‘cause I don’t feel like smiling. I feel like reading. Can I do that? Should I go get my husband to see if he’ll let me keep reading alone in public in my clothes?”

Old DICK was befuddled. “I…uh…hahaha,” was all he could manage. “Girl, you alright. Your husband has his hands full! Hahaha!”

“Huh huh huh huh. He’s aight. He’s a grown ass man. I wouldn’t be with someone who couldn’t handle me.” I rolled my eyes as Old DICK and Mr. Good Enough Degree drank their whatevers and I hurriedly finish my sandwich. Night. Over.

After I’ve cashed out and begin getting my things together, Old DICK felt compelled to come over and hug me. I turn a shoulder to his chest uncomfortably saying, “No, no. I’m good.” Old DICK starts muttering.

“No, no. I’m sorry. I know you’re a big girl and can handle yourself. I was just teasing you. Blah blah blah.”

This was when I wanted to start postulating like Queen Latifah on that episode of 30 Rock where she played a congresswoman. “I am not a big girl, you patronizing sot, I am a woman. I am the Woman of the 21st century, going where I please, wearing what I dare, eating and drinking at a bar on a Tuesday night with impunity. I am not here because my husband gave me permission; I’m here because Sojourner Truth & Mary Church Terrell & Betty Friedan & Shirley Chisholm & the Oprah stood up and said I don’t need permission to do what I want to do, what I was born to do. I was born to use the magnificence that allows me to discern and refine my tastes, rise up to meet challenges, and rise up to challenge the illogical, the discriminant, the cruel practices of man on behalf of all who suffer, all who lack, all who have been denied their basic rights as a human being! It’s the same magnificence with which you were born; it is FREE WILL! I will smile when I am moved to smile, not for the sake of your enjoyment. It is not my job to enchant you every time you bumble around in my general vicinity. I CAN EAT THIS GOD DAMN SANDWICH ALONE IN A BAR ON A TUESDAY NIGHT WHILE READING A BOOK AND DRINKING A BEER IN THE OUTFIT OF MY CHOOSING AND I DON’T NEED YOU TO UNDERSTAND WHY I’M DOING IT!!”

Instead I said, “Dude, sleep it off,” and left.

And the moral of this muthafucka is: ladies, make ‘em act like they know. Drunk dudes who interrupt your night get to pay for the turkey sandwich you just ate with the $10 bill you tucked into your book that they set down to pay for their drinks that the bar tender hadn’t yet picked up.

Idiots.