In Which I Date A Mythical Creature
Once upon a time, in an act of stupidity, I went on a date with a man who called himself Ogre.
Wish I was kidding.
Ogre was a friend of my friend Jules’ boyfriend. Jules’ boyfriend is great. I thought to myself, “Wasn’t there something about birds and feathers and flocking? He should be a great guy, too.”
That, it seems, is another fairy tale.
Ogre was a before picture and it was going to take a Bob Villa-like effort to make him into an after. I didn’t realize this at the time. I was still going on that whole birds, feathers, flocking mentality. It didn’t take me long to realize he acted, most of the time, like a beast rather than a man. He had been a bachelor for so long that he did all the nasty bachelor things that PG movies have been immortalizing for years. Ate borderline rancid food straight from the container, standing in front of the fridge. Burped, farted, picked whenever he felt the urge. Plus, life to him was the part you had to put up with between buzzes. He drank. Excessively. And he wasn’t always a fun drunk.
The last straw was when I met the other friends. The ones that he kept hidden for a while until he felt a little more secure in the relationship. He saved Pete for last.
Pete was an older guy, a mentor, if you will. That is, a mentor in the sense that if you wanted your life to turn out really, really badly. Like highlight of your life was the time you made a “guest” appearance shirtless on “Cops” badly. Pete thought he was the life of the party, though, and the more he drank, the more he wanted to reminisce about the good old days.
“Lemme tell you a funny story,” Pete says to me and my friend E, taking a big gulp of what smells like diesel fuel. “Lemme tell you a funny story about the last time I saw this guy here,” clapping Ogre’s friend Bear (so named because he’s big and hairy) on the back. Bear is actually the only friend of Ogre’s that I actually like. Although the fact that I met him at all is something of an oddity because, ever since he got married, his wife doesn’t let him play with his old friends any more.
Bear’s wife is a very smart woman.
Pete launches into his story. “So this one time, I walk into the strip club and there’s this guy there. This big black guy that I used to do time with.”
“Did time in the strip club with?” I ask hopefully. I cross my fingers under the table. Please let it be the strip club. Please let it be the strip club.
“Nah. We did time upstate together. Jail time.” Oh Jesus.
Pete continues, “So, anyway, I went up to him and called him a Nigger. And he was all angry about it and shit.” Can’t imagine why. “I didn’t mean it bad or anything. Like, my friend. They call each other that all the time I didn’t see what the big deal was or anything. So anyway, he wants to fight me. He gets his other big friend with him and they’re starting to come at me, so I grab Bear, so it’s even. But these guys are big. Usually, I have a gun on me, but for some reason, I left it in the glove compartment in my car that night. And the car was in the parking lot. Luckily, the hooker with the drugs showed up just then, so we just grabbed the drugs, jumped in the car and took off.”
I am gripping the table, white-knuckled at this point. I cannot believe that I’m sitting across the table from this guy. I am mortified that I brought my friend E into this situation and I can’t help but think, “I am a professional who went to school and busted her ass to get a great job. What the hell am I doing sitting across the table from a racist ex-con who’s drinking himself into an early grave?”
E interrupts my thoughts. “Which part of that story was funny?” she whispers “‘Cause I think we really should laugh. I don’t want to get shot.”
“I have no idea.” I turn to Bear. “What part of that story was funny?”
“It wasn’t funny at all. It was the scariest moment of my life. I thought I was going to die.”
Pete has now finished his drink and has returned to us from memory lane once more. “You know,” he says, looking at me. “You, you’re really uptight.” He turns his attention to E. “But you, you’re kinda cute. You know, I’d rape you if I wasn’t facing 10-20.”
E stands up. “I gotta go,” she says.
That was the last weekend Ogre and I ever spent with each other.
Wish I was kidding.
Ogre was a friend of my friend Jules’ boyfriend. Jules’ boyfriend is great. I thought to myself, “Wasn’t there something about birds and feathers and flocking? He should be a great guy, too.”
That, it seems, is another fairy tale.
Ogre was a before picture and it was going to take a Bob Villa-like effort to make him into an after. I didn’t realize this at the time. I was still going on that whole birds, feathers, flocking mentality. It didn’t take me long to realize he acted, most of the time, like a beast rather than a man. He had been a bachelor for so long that he did all the nasty bachelor things that PG movies have been immortalizing for years. Ate borderline rancid food straight from the container, standing in front of the fridge. Burped, farted, picked whenever he felt the urge. Plus, life to him was the part you had to put up with between buzzes. He drank. Excessively. And he wasn’t always a fun drunk.
The last straw was when I met the other friends. The ones that he kept hidden for a while until he felt a little more secure in the relationship. He saved Pete for last.
Pete was an older guy, a mentor, if you will. That is, a mentor in the sense that if you wanted your life to turn out really, really badly. Like highlight of your life was the time you made a “guest” appearance shirtless on “Cops” badly. Pete thought he was the life of the party, though, and the more he drank, the more he wanted to reminisce about the good old days.
“Lemme tell you a funny story,” Pete says to me and my friend E, taking a big gulp of what smells like diesel fuel. “Lemme tell you a funny story about the last time I saw this guy here,” clapping Ogre’s friend Bear (so named because he’s big and hairy) on the back. Bear is actually the only friend of Ogre’s that I actually like. Although the fact that I met him at all is something of an oddity because, ever since he got married, his wife doesn’t let him play with his old friends any more.
Bear’s wife is a very smart woman.
Pete launches into his story. “So this one time, I walk into the strip club and there’s this guy there. This big black guy that I used to do time with.”
“Did time in the strip club with?” I ask hopefully. I cross my fingers under the table. Please let it be the strip club. Please let it be the strip club.
“Nah. We did time upstate together. Jail time.” Oh Jesus.
Pete continues, “So, anyway, I went up to him and called him a Nigger. And he was all angry about it and shit.” Can’t imagine why. “I didn’t mean it bad or anything. Like, my friend. They call each other that all the time I didn’t see what the big deal was or anything. So anyway, he wants to fight me. He gets his other big friend with him and they’re starting to come at me, so I grab Bear, so it’s even. But these guys are big. Usually, I have a gun on me, but for some reason, I left it in the glove compartment in my car that night. And the car was in the parking lot. Luckily, the hooker with the drugs showed up just then, so we just grabbed the drugs, jumped in the car and took off.”
I am gripping the table, white-knuckled at this point. I cannot believe that I’m sitting across the table from this guy. I am mortified that I brought my friend E into this situation and I can’t help but think, “I am a professional who went to school and busted her ass to get a great job. What the hell am I doing sitting across the table from a racist ex-con who’s drinking himself into an early grave?”
E interrupts my thoughts. “Which part of that story was funny?” she whispers “‘Cause I think we really should laugh. I don’t want to get shot.”
“I have no idea.” I turn to Bear. “What part of that story was funny?”
“It wasn’t funny at all. It was the scariest moment of my life. I thought I was going to die.”
Pete has now finished his drink and has returned to us from memory lane once more. “You know,” he says, looking at me. “You, you’re really uptight.” He turns his attention to E. “But you, you’re kinda cute. You know, I’d rape you if I wasn’t facing 10-20.”
E stands up. “I gotta go,” she says.
That was the last weekend Ogre and I ever spent with each other.
posted by Still Hopeful @ 1:20 PM
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