Me & my girl Shai got together last night at a bar where another of this particular crew happens to work some evenings. We were enticed by the promise of free drinks and free fried chicken. No need to cook dinner or spend money? Well, TGIW (Thank God It’s Wednesday)!! The running joke between she & I was her confusion whether she’d be allowed entry with her flip flops on. Based on the address of the establishment I had to assume that perhaps even the barefoot could pull up a stool. Prior to voyaging inside, I arrived first to receive her text that I should grab us some stools and hold it down and that another member of the crew would be extra late. What I witnessed outside the bar, just parking my car, made me rethink entering alone and taking up residence with no one to my left or right to buffer the onslaught of ignorance. All manner of Dad Jeans went inside and older women who’ve been hangin’ on to the concept of their “best dress” longer than the dress has been able to successfully hold on to them. Yeah…the car was the safest bet until she arrived.
When Shai arrived I tried to warn her of what I’d seen while waiting but she had to see it for self to believe it. We took our places at the bar and readily accepted our Styrofoam tapas-sized plates of piping hot wings from da back. I won’t begin to describe the cast of characters because I just don’t have time to run down EVERYONE in the spot. Special Foolwang Shouts go to Rooster Rita holding it down at the far end of the bar, Grandaddy I.U.D. who was ready to pounce on Shai, and my man Bearded Bangs (of the Lollipop Guild) who was ready to teach me how to “jack” him if I would so much as look directly at him. Since I wouldn’t, he kept his conversation earside. Note to self: grab a q-tip and some peroxide. STAT!
Anyway, Shai and I are cracking up when my phone rings. Now, the back history is that while driving to the beach on Tuesday I get a text from the 571 area code. Someone said “hey beb. sorry I haven’t called. i lost my phione.” Those typos are not mine, and they made me REALLY wonder who it was ‘cause I don’t know any people who communicate in this way on a personal level. I dismissed it and continued toward beach salvation. So, when my phone rang and I saw this number I answered the phone out of curiosity.
571: (female voice) Who is this?
Me: YOU called ME. Who is THIS?
Some unintelligible babble ensued and then she asked me who I was again. Sigh…even when school’s out they make me teach.
Me: See, you called my phone. I’m the one who gets to question who’s on the other end. So, I’ll ask again, who is this? Who are you looking for?
I wish I was lying when I share what came next, but she says:
“I really don’t know. I don’t remember his name, it’s been a long time. “
Apparently folks just open their mouths and let the syllables they know fall out at random and hope the people listening can make sense of it. Even if she thought she had gotten a hold of the person she thought she intended to call, how would she have addressed this person whose name she doesn’t remember? And WHY if she doesn’t remember his name does she think he remembers hers enough to care about her reaching back through the, I assume, drunken fog to reconnect with him in the sober light? And WHY when she got me on the phone didn’t she just tuck tail and run away with a “I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number,” so as not to have to eventually explain that she NEVER KNEW who the fluck she was calling?
My breath and my time are precious so I hung up and waited to be introduced to my cousin who worked there. According to our friend who works the bar, we looked like family because we both had ‘fros. I learned that afros are a genetic trait. See…everybody’s suspect out here. Even ya friends. I'll let Shai write the rest of this nonsense if she so chooses. I. Can. Not.
Ignorance comes shaken, not stirred, & poured over the rocks.
Watch me move.