The following story is 100% true.  Unfortunately.  Names have been changed to protect the innocent.  But only the innocent.  Tim, as the drunken moron of the story, gets no such protection.  I will, however, abstain from using his last name.  My apologies if certain parts of the story offend anyone, since that is not my intent.  I am simply sharing my encounter with a drunk.  A drunk with no boundaries, inhibition…or sense.  You see, Tim was on a mission.  A mission to meet women.  Dumb women. (his words, not mine)  So naturally he sat next to me.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.  Please enjoy The Epic Tale of Tim, God’s (drunk) Gift To Women…

 

It was one of those days.  Not a “bad” day, per se.  Just a day when things don’t go quite right.  It was a Friday, so it had that going for it.  But the day simply didn’t unfold the way I planned.

I had two tours scheduled at my hotel, and I enjoy doing that.  Getting to show potential clients around the property, bragging about our upcoming renovations…it’s fun.  Sadly, one of the tours cancelled semi-last minute.  The good news was the second one showed as planned, and I think it went very well, if brief since they were touring over a dozen hotels in preparation for an event they are bringing to OKC.  Plus it is always nice to see my friend, Holly, from the CVB.  So that was one bright spot in the day.

Reports that wouldn’t print.  Reservations that were cancelled.  Clients I couldn’t reach.  Programs, which are usually slow, were SO painfully slow that I could leave my office and come back and it still wasn’t ready to use.  It was just one of those days, and I was looking forward to meeting a friend after work for drinks.

Unfortunately she had to cancel.  She, like myself, gets migraines, and she was trying to fight off a doosey.  So it became a question of “what should I do now?”  Do I go out as I originally planned?  Or do I go home and make myself something to eat?

I love a good game of “What If?”  Have you ever taken a moment to think of a particular time or event in your life, and consider how things might be VERY different if you had made a choice OTHER than the one you made?  I think it’s fun to consider the path not taken.  But I’m weird, and I think most of you already know that.  I digress…

I decided to go as planned anyway. (“What If” #1: had I gone home, I’d never have endured the events that followed, and had no fodder for this blog)  I was going to my favorite place (which, for the purpose of this story, shall remain nameless) and would get to see the servers, bartenders, and managers who have become friends over the past few months.  Surely they would turn my day right around.

I entered, and took a look around to see who was working.  It was pretty busy on the main level, and I didn’t see the main crew I was looking for.  What I failed to notice was one of my favs (we’ll call her “Stacy”) was indeed working the bar. (“What If” #2: had I seen “Stacy,” I likely would have stayed downstairs, thus avoiding the wonder that is Tim)  About this time the manager (we’ll call him “Dave”) welcomed me, and we talked for a brief moment.  I asked who was working the bar upstairs, and he said it was my buddy, whom we’ll call Steve.  So I went upstairs.

I’m going to go ahead and rename the servers right now.  Rather than tag them as Server A, B, C, D, I’ll give them names which begin with those letters.  Let’s call them Ann (short with red hair), Beth (dark hair), Cathy (awesome rocker chic), and Deb (short, with dark hair).  Yes, the hair color will be important later, as you will learn.

As I reached the top of the stairs, I saw “Steve” behind the bar and gave him the universal “what’s up,” reverse head nod that all dudes recognize.  “Bro Code.”  It’s a thing.  Anyway, the bar was empty, so I got a stool toward the end.  Steve reached for a pint glass to pour me my “regular” beer.  I stopped him just in time.

Me: “It’s been one of those days, so why don’t we start with a Maker’s Mark instead?”

Steve: “You want that with Coke, or Ginger, or…”

Me: “Just Maker’s, rocks.”

Steve: “You got it.”

This venue has a couple of banquet spaces upstairs, and they both had something going on this evening.  One of them, as fate would have it, consisted of cheerleaders.  Cheerleaders in evening wear.  I can’t tell you if they were highschool or college because, while I enjoy cheerleaders as much as the next guy, I also try not to be the “creepy guy at the bar staring at girls.”  Let’s face it: A) I’m not interested in dating, so why torture myself, and 2) regardless of whether they were highschool or college, I’m WAY too old.  Moving on…

So Steve and I are talking away, having a great conversation when lo and behold it happens: Tim arrives.  Little did I know how my night was about to change….

I mentioned the “Bro Code” earlier.  There are unspoken rules that all guys know.  They aren’t taught (though perhaps they should), they are just understood.  Many (but not all) of these rules involve a “buffer zone.”  I’ll give you some examples of what I’m talking about:

• When using a public bathroom that has multiple urinals, you ALWAYS leave a urinal between yourself and the next guy, unless that is not an option.
• When going to see a movie with friends, you leave an empty seat between you, unless the theater is packed and the seating is needed.
• When at a bar, leave a stool between yourself and the next guy, unless that isn’t an option.  Then it is fine to sit on any empty stool.

Is it silly?  Sure.  But it’s the way it’s done.  It’s the way it’s been done for centuries.  When King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table met, they left a buffer between their chairs.  When Caesar went to the Coliseum, he left a buffer between himself and Brutus.  And during the Spanish Inquisition, there was always an empty rack between tortured dudes.  It’s just common courtesy.  Lost my train of thought…where was I going with that…ah yes, the “buffer zone.”

A dozen empty bar stools, and where does Tim choose to sit?  You got it.  He plops down right next to me and orders a martini.  Even Hellen Keller would be able to tell this guy was three sheets to the wind, so Steve makes him a VERY weak martini.  Turns out that effort may have been moot as Tim proceeded to spill half of it.  Tim grabbed some bar napkins and began to wipe the mess in front of him.  Not sure how he managed to do it, but with the paper napkins he smeared the liquid around rather than absorb it, and this confounded him.

Tim: “What the hell…?”

Me: “Need some help there?”

Tim: “No…n…no…I think I’m getting it now.”

He took the martini-soaked napkins and dropped them in the bucket on the bar.  Unfortunately the bucket wasn’t for trash.  It held the lemon wedges Steve uses for his drinks.  So much for that batch.

Tim: “So what do you do?”

Me: (without turning away from the tv in front of me)”I’m director of sales at a hotel.”

Tim: “I sell drugs…” (long pause, at which point Steve and I give each other a look that says “shoulda known”) “…for a pharma…pharmaceutical company.”

Me & Steve: “Ooohhhhh.”

Tim leans over and put his arm on my shoulder,

Tim: “There are some really HOT women in here.”

Me: “Yes.  Yes there are.”

Tim: “I think we should go talk to them.”

Me: “Well, I’m just here to relax.  But you go ahead.”

Tim: “You don’t wanna talk to those women over there?”

Me: “No thanks.  I’m good.”

Tim: “You married?”

Me: “Nope.”

Tim: (taking a moment to process the situation) “Hey man, that’s…that’s cool, ya know?  That’s cool.  I mean…I’ve got some friends who are gay, ya know, and that ok.”

Me: (with a slow head turn) “I’m not married, I want to sit and enjoy my drink, and NOT talk to women, so I MUST be gay.  Awesome.  That’s great, Tim.”

Tim: (realizing he’s put his foot in his mouth) “Oh man…I didn’t mean…dude…no…I just meant…

Steve is cracking up behind the bar now, and Dave has come upstairs and taken a seat on the other side of me.  (leaving a buffer, I might add)

Tim gets distracted as Beth walks past.

Tim: “Did you see that?”

Me: “Yep, sure did.”

Tim: “She’s hot.”

Me: “Yes, she is.”

Tim: “You know…I guess…I guess what I’m trying to say is you gotta own tomorrow, ya know?  You know what I mean?”

Me: “Yep.” (not really, but then again I don’t really care)

Tim: “I…I mean you get what I mean?”

Me: “Sure.  But really, you never know what could happen.  Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.  So really, you’d want to own TODAY.”

It’s fun to confuse drunk people.  He takes a long pause to process…

Tim: “You seem…you seem like a very responsible person.”

Me: “Thanks.  I try.”

Tim: “What do you do?”

Me: “sales for a hotel.”

Tim: “Cool.  I sell for a drug company.  I had…I had an interview today.  I don’t think it went very well.”

Ah, heeeere we go.  The crux of the problem emerges…

Tim: “They’re not gonna give me the job.  They’ll give it to some other schmuck.”

Me: “You never know.”

Long pause, with a confused look on his face…

Tim: “What?”

Me: “You never know.  Maybe it wasn’t as bad as you think.”

Another long pause…

Tim: “You really believe that?”

Me: “Absolutely.” (I’ll take my Academy Award now, thank you)

Tim: “I think we need more drinks.  HEY! BARTENDER!  HEY!”

He yells in Steve’s direction as he’s walking by.  Steve comes to a dead stop, and turns on his heels…

Steve: (with force, yet still professional) “‘Hey?’  My name is Steve.  What can I do for you?”

Tim: “Oh.  I pissed you off when I called you ‘bartender,’ didn’t I?”

Steve: “And ‘hey.’  I don’t like being called ‘hey.'”

Tim: (surprisingly quick for his condition) “What if your name was Jorge, and I called you hor-HEY?”

Steve gives me a glance, then looks back at Tim…

Tim: “We need a couple of martinis over here.”

Steve: (as I give Steve a look that says “hell no”) “Enrique doesn’t drink martinis.”

Tim: “What?”

Steve: “He doesn’t drink martinis.  And as for you, I can give you one more (even weaker than the first, I’m sure) then I’ll have to cut you off.”

Tim: “That’s cool.”

Dave has joined Steve behind the bar…

Tim: “I love you guys.  This is a great place.  Hey, we’re looking for girls…we’re looking for dumb girls.  Really dumb girls.  Where can we find the dumb girls?”

Dave: “We don’t have any dumb girls here.  You’ll have to go to [bar name omitted] or [bar name omitted] if you want dumb girls.”

Once again putting his hand on my shoulder…

Tim: (talking to Steve and Dave) “See, it’s all about having fun.  And he’s a part of this!  You know?  And I’m a fun lover!”

I almost spit out my Maker’s, and Steve and Dave are rolling in laughter.

Dave: “I don’t think Enrique is ANY part of you being a fun lover.  Wait…did you mean a ‘lover of fun?’  And you were asking for ‘dumb girls’ a minute ago.  Do you need a ‘dumb girl’ in order to be a ‘fun lover?'”

I’m failing miserably at keeping a straight face at this point.  The slam has gone completely over Tim’s head, as he is once again distracted when Ann and Beth walk past.

Tim: (arm again drapped over my shoulder) “Seriously…seriously…we need to go out and get us some women.”

Me: “No, I’m good, but thanks for the offer.  You don’t need me as your wingman.”  (I decide to try a tactic in which he will think of me as a liability in his endeavor to score with a dumb girl.)  “In fact, you really don’t want me as your wingman.  I’m kind of a woman repeller.  You’ll do much better on your own.”

Tim: “I think that’s bullshit.  Here I’ll show you…”

He leans back so he can see across behind me to where Ann and Beth are at the server station…

Tim: “HEY!  MISS!  HEY!”

Beth, looking a little startled starts to take a step in our direction.  I was embarrassed for both of us…

Tim: “No, not you, the redhead!”

Awesome.  And here I was afraid it couldn’t get more awkward.  Ann walks over…

Tim: “Hi, my name is Tim.  My friend here…is so insecure…he doesn’t think we could talk to you.”

Ann looks at me with eyes that ask “what is this guy talking about?”

Tim: “So what would it take to talk to you?”

Ann: “Well, I’m actually working right now, so I can’t talk.”

Ann returns to the server station to get her drinks and proceeds to her customers’ table.  Lucky girl.  Wish I had a good escape plan like that.

Tim: “Oh well.  You gotta try, ya know?  So, what do you do?”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Tim: “What do you do?”

Me: “I work at a hotel.”

Tim: “That’s cool.  I had an interview today.  Worst interview ever.  I mean…I mean…you know, it’s all uncomfortable and stuff…and they’re asking their stupid questions, you know…they’re asking me ‘how big is your penis,’ and I say ‘I’m sporting 7,’… you know…(shrugging) which is, I mean…totally just…”

Really?  REALLY?!?  There’s NOONE around to hear THAT gem?  Dave had gone back downstairs, Steve was taking care of customers at the other end of the bar, Ann/Beth/Cathy/Deb were being smart and keeping their distance.  Where was my backup when I needed them?!?  Ugh.

Never mind, he got distracted again…

Tim: “So…what do you do?”

Me: (growing weary of answering the same question, I change it up a bit) “I work at a toy store.”

Tim: “Right on.  I sell drugs for a company that does cancer…”

He was frozen.  Mid sentence.  Mouth open, and a look of a man searching for the right word.  Nothing came.  What seemed like an eternity passed, though I’m sure it was only 5 seconds.  It was painful to watch.  I had to step in…

Me: “…research?”

Tim: “YES!  They do research.  You…you seem like a very responsible person.”

Me: “Thanks.”

Tim: “What’s your name?”

Me: “Enrique.” (I immediately wished I had given a pseudonym, but he’s so trashed there’s little chance he’ll remember anyway)

Tim: “I’m Tim.  What can I call you for short?”

I’m not a fan of nicknames, so I give him my old stand by…

Me: “You can call me ‘E.'”

Tim: “HEY!…YOU!…HEY!…”

Cathy has made the mistake of entering Tim’s field of vision.  “Cathy,” you have to understand is seasoned when it comes to working in bars.  She’s the one I referred to earlier as the “awesome rocker chic.”  Cathy is fun to talk with, and knows her stuff.  She has tattoos and some piercings…she has that rocker “edge” to her look.  She’s had to deal with guys like Tim many times before, so this was not her first rodeo.  And she was NOT going to take any garbage from the likes of Tim.

Tim: “Hey, I’m Tim and this is my buddy, E…”

Cathy: (looking stern, shaking her head matter of factly) “Uh, no, I don’t think so.”

Dave: (once again sitting a couple stools on my other side) “Yeah, we all know Enrique.”

Tim: (again speaking to Cathy) “Hey, I need some special service.”

Cathy: “How many of those have you had, Tim?  Goodbye.”

Game, set, match.  Cathy turned around and left.  Tim had enough as well, it would seem.  He paid his tab (which with his drunkard handwriting appeared to give Steve a $16 tip on two drinks) and went to the restroom.

When he returned, he first tried to put on my coat, then realized it wasn’t his.  As he put on his own coat, he unleashed one of his best lines of the night.

Tim: “Didn’t I make us look good?”

Me: “What?”

Tim: “Didn’t I make us look good tonight?”

Wow.  I had no words.  Turns out I didn’t need any, because he continued as he gazed at himself putting on his coat in the mirror behind the bar…

Tim: “Ahhhhhh….you ever do that?”

Me: (frightened to ask) “Do what?”

Tim: “You ever put on your coat, look at yourself in the mirror, and say ‘I….am 100%…awesome.”

Me: “Yes, Tim.  Yes I do.”

I turned my head to conceal my smirk, and when I turned back…Tim had disappeared.  Like Batman, he simply vanished.  What I would learn later is the moment I turned, he walked into the backroom behind the bar in an effort to talk to Ann.  Thankfully, Deb was there to escort him out.  Good news for Ann, bad news for the cheerleaders.

In his inability to find the exit, he came across the banquet room containing the partying cheer groups.  Thankfully Steve saw this and, like lightning, very quickly collected Tim  and guided him to the exit.  Steve offered to call him a cab.  Tim, being ever so industrious, already had one. 

And just like that, he was gone.

Did he eventually find his “dumb girl?”  Did he get the job?  We may never know.  What we do know is this: if Tim is God’s gift to women, then God really needs to quit “shopping” in the dumpster behind Goodwill.