Bar Night – May 11, 2007: Keep Your Drink, Just Give Me The Money

Bar Night

I have had better nights.

I was left to my own devices that night, what with Uncle needing to take care of things. It’s not unusual and I run most Thursdays by myself. Fridays aren’t much busier unless there’s a band in. I set about reading my new issues of Black Ink Horror – this is the publication I’ll be appearing in come October – after reminding myself what a lousy pool player I am.

Who should walk in, but my dear friend – Jochen.

Oh joy.

He buys me a drink. Fine by me. A shot of Jack for me. A shot of Jack for him. He begins wooing me by complaining that we were not open the night before and he drove all the way down from his digs just to see me. I shrugged. Poo happens and Uncle was detained the night before and couldn’t get away to open. I do not have a key to open, so the bar stayed closed. I told him he should call the bar to check and save himself the gas. This was a mistake.

He wants my number.

Not going to happen. I tell him that no one gets my number and this is widely true. Very few people have it, they all have a specific ring and I like it that way. I don’t wantonly give out my number and then just screen my calls. Not worth my time and the last thing I want is my phone rung off the hook by people I don’t care to speak with.

He reminds me that it has been 28 days and we should go out. Roughly 28 days ago I told him to stop asking me to go out, and if he really wanted to he could ask me in 28 days, figuring that the parasite in his brain that’s telling him that I’m just playing hard to get will have either died or moved on. I was banking on early onset Alzheimer’s. I was sort of hoping he’d forget.

He didn’t forget.

He’s launches into a tirade of how I make him sick in his heart. This line of insulting goes round and round for about 45 minutes. I am smart and pretty but I am not smart because I won’t let him take me for drinks. It’s not about “the sexy” but I could be very happy. He has respect for me and no one has to know.

He tells all of these things to my breasts.

I hate this line of reasoning. See pal, I know, and “the idea hurts me in my head, my gut and my heart”. I even pointed to these three places to emphasize both the guilt and absolute revulsion. I told him no, “I can’t do it.” He couldn’t tell me what color my eyes were if a gun were put to his head.
He turns his back on me. “You make me sick in my heart.”

“These things happen,” I say. But me making him sick doesn’t stop him from buying me two more drinks. I’m guessing he figures if I drink enough I’ll change my mind. Ask anyone who’s tried that tactic and they’ll tell you the tale of the time a night out with me gave them alcohol poisoning.

He tells me he won’t harass me anymore, and it doesn’t escape me that he pronounced it “her-ass.” He chases his tail for another twenty minutes trying to get me to change my mind. It’s not a language barrier, I tell him when he laments that maybe it’s because his English isn’t good. I tell him, “It’s not you, it’s me, and I don’t like you” (hat tip to RJ) in the nicest way possible.

Then there’s the borderline assault.

He asks for my hands, and I’ll admit to lacking the kind of common sense that would make me say no. I’m at work and I’m in “eager to please mode.” What could the harm be?

Right, he refuses to let go.

I tug a few times, and he kisses my hands a few times. I’m sure in Montenegro girls drop to their knees over stuff that, but after I jerked away when he touched my face in a moment of coy oblivion, you’d think he’d take the hint.

I relax my hands and he relaxes his, but doesn’t let go. I expect this. I curl my fingers up and he naturally responds by intertwining my fingers in his. Aww – now we’re holding hands, my cool fingers locked around his warm sticky ones.

Idiot.

There is a laminate bar counter top between us, not to mention the drunk bar on his side to give the over-inebriated one more thing on which to bang their chins on their way to the floor, and I have the leverage since I’m standing and he’s tottering on an old barstool.

I bent his fingers back looking him squarely in the eye and gently in a low voice tell him to let go. It makes him squirm a little. My eyes tell him in no uncertain terms, “Seriously, let go”, and they are not smiling in the happy I’m merely flirting way, but the I will cut you so bad you’ll wake up dead way. He thinks a minute and lets go, scoring a victory for self-preservation. I added insult to injury by wiping my hands on my pants. He still manages a smile, because I think deep down he realized I wanted to break each and every one of his fingers and cram them down his throat but I didn’t so there must be *something* in my heart that  melts just a little. “Finish your drink,” I say. “It’s time to go home.” Finally, he leaves, telling me that he won’t bother me again, but he’ll still come in to see me.

I can hardly wait.

Next, we’ll discuss how to book a band a month in advance and how they’ll still manage to only pull in a crowd of two.

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