Sunday, February 12, 2017
How to Lose a Creepy Guy
Uh. Three more hours till I get off. Guess, I will go pick up trash and empties. Jesus it’s been slow tonight. I am having a drink now… not waiting for 2. Damn cocktail waitress hours. I don’t really feel like going home. There is no one there since Tommy the weasel dropped the “You are not the kind of girl I would marry” bomb on me at dinner. What the hell does that mean? Am I too old? His mama said “Tawmmy, she’s older than Claudia”. Yea, I am a year older than his big sister. So what. Am I too ambitious? Squirrely? Not compliant and wifey enough? Who knows? I feel hollow without him. At least I have a job.
I like working at Palomino Club. You never know who is going to show up on stage or in the audience. Last week Mick Jagger was here—that was cool. Recently Stephen Stills showed up when Commander Cody played and I saw Emmy Lou Harris fall down on stage being silly. What am I doing here? Why did I drop out of school and leave singing?
What? Who the hell is this guy talking to me? How am I doing? Right. He is trying to pick me up. Just what I need—some yahoo wanting to talk.
Through the cocktail haze, I think...um...he looks ok. I hand him my number. Should I have given him my number? What’s his name? Shit. I don’t even know his name. Am I nuts? Giving some stranger my telephone number, that’s smart. Well he’s… ahm… good looking enough. Good thing it’s a weeknight so I don’t have to worry about him lurking in the parking lot when I get off. Everyone says not to make rash choices right after a breakup. Do I listen? No.
Why am I surprised when he calls? This guy seems really creepy. “No thank you.” I hang up. Done.
Seven days later, I answer the phone and hear his voice again. I wish someone would invent a way of knowing who is calling before you answer! “No thanks. I do not want to go out with you.” I hang up.. Surely, this is the end of it.
Oh my god. I need to buy one of those new answering machine things. “Do not call again. I don’t want to go out with you. I don’t like you. Leave me the fuck alone.” Surely this will be the end of it.
Nope. Damn it. Here he is again. I am over being nice—I am pissed. “Leave me alone. Do not call here again. I don't like you. You annoy me. I do not want to go anywhere with you. Ever.” I feel like a fucking broken record. Hopefully, I have insulted him enough to make him go away.
Some guys never learn. What has it been? Two days? I am angry enough not to have the sense to be afraid of him. What do I know? Nobody worries about stalkers. (It’ll be another year before Paramount releases Looking for Mr. Goodbar.)
Obviously, I am never going to get rid of this guy without hiring a strong man or filing some kind of civil suit. If I don’t say yes, he isn’t going away. “Alright. Let’s go out next Saturday. I have two tickets to a show. You buy dinner.” We have a date. Yippee.
I do need a ride to the show as I have no car. Who tries to exist in Southern California without a car? Me. Mind you, I had a car. I just sold it because I did not want to have to fix it. Now, I pretty much hitchhike everywhere. That’s really safe.
It’s Saturday. Downtown Los Angeles awaits our adventure. After dining at some dive, we head to the theater. He hasn’t got a clue what’s in store for him. Even as we are riding, he doesn’t ask. I remain mute.
At the theater, I settle into my seat to enjoy 2 hours and 45 minutes of glorious singing punctuated by two intermissions— one 30 minutes and the other 20. During his 3 and half hours of captivity, I occasionally glance at him. He looks horribly uncomfortable and bored out of his mind. Between the frowns and pouts, he is, apparently, not altogether thrilled. As he squirms in his seat, it’s also apparent he is experiencing some degree of digestive discomfort. I am here with him. Isn’t this what he wants? Poor thing, he has no idea what is happening on the stage. It’s all in Italian. There is no translation in the program nor any subtitles. All the characters are dying off one by one. I am not sure what he thinks of the wall to wall vibrato, but, I do know it is an acquired taste.
We sit in stony silence during the ride back to the Valley. When he drops me off, I thank him. “Talk to you soon” I chirp. Funny, my phone is and has been silent for weeks. Guess he was not thrilled by Tosca. Perfect way to lose a creepy guy-death by opera!
© February 12, 2017