Dating SUCKS.

 Dating SUCKS...

             I’m entering year for of working at the Labyrinth.  I’m this weird mix of happy that I still am gainfully employed and jaded/depressed/surprised that I still work there.  Just yesterday I have this customer order a drink from me.  As I am mid shaking whatever vomit-inducing shots he had requested and he yells, “OH MY! YOU WERE MY BARTENDER LAST TIME I WAS HERE 2-YEARS AGO!”

            I don’t really know how to respond so I just give him my most polite smirk as I pour his fruity-shots.  He then says, “You look good… You been working out?  Your hair looks much better that short.  You look much better.  You must be getting it all the time.  Are you in school?  What are your plans?”

            The truth is that I don’t know how to take compliments, never have.  I grew up a fat kid and have a whole complex about it.  Compliments, mixed with questions I would expect from a guidance counselor, from the mouth of a stranger no less, it’s a no go.  Who is this guy my mother?  I of course just pretend to not hear him, like the music in the bar is too loud for me to focus on him.  I then wait a minute before I respond.

            I say, “I graduated 3 years ago, was laid off twice since and don’t need to defend myself to you.”

            He gives me the look one may give to a crack-head standing in the middle of the street for no reason wearing a helmet made of tin foil and walks away.  Something oddly commonplace in San Francisco.

            It’s happy hour on a regular Wednesday.  I just started my shift at 5 and am waiting the coffee from 20 minutes earlier to kick.  I also have a secret fear any time I drink coffee it will give me the runs.  That comment isn’t relevant, but just trying to paint a picture.  Like I said, I am 20-minutes in.  There is just a tiny bit of day-light peaking into the bar, another bartender working 10 feet away from me, 2 old men sitting at his station.  I am diarrhea free so far, so because I am in am in the phase where I believe what I read in the Secret, it’s a good day. 

            After about an hour and a half of no customers, I like most bartenders in my situation start to get antsy.  I got rent to pay.  Then, this group comes in.  It’s a group of girls and their 2 gay friends who are run of the mill average guys.  Like most jaded bartenders in my place, I roll my eyes, slap on a smile and offer one of the girls a shot hoping the whole party will buy more drinks from me.  They proceed to purchase about 10 shots from me and out of nowhere their third gay friend shows up.  I guess he was at the ATM, cause he is waving two twenty-dollar bills at me as he runs up to joins the group.  Now this guy is so attractive he makes you want to slap your mother for not having as good of genes.  He is around my age, fit, light hair, surfer tan and looks someone who would be on an Abercrombie and Fitch bag.  I immediately create a story in my head for him.  His name is something like C.J., Brent, Dakota or something that would look good on a Porn-film cover.  He is from Santa Barbara and just moved to San Francisco after turning down many job offers all over the country.

            The group walks away and C.J. comes back.  He smiles and asks me what he has to do to get another shot from me.  I don’t get the game he is playing, so I wink and say, “money.”

            He orders another shot from me and asks for my number.  Which is odd cause in the whole time I have worked there, this hasn’t really happened to me.  Usually people ask me if I have the number of another bartender who is working.  If they do ask for my number they are usually so hammered I can’t take them seriously.  This guy is seemingly sober-ish.  I tell him that I don’t give out my number at work cause I’m not allowed to which is a plain lie.  He responds by winking, tossing a card onto my bartending station and walking away to his group of friends.

            I wait a day before I break down and text the number on the card.  I have to.  People that pretty, never talk to me, let alone have any interest in me.  They usually talk to me like I’m their therapist for no reason other than the fact that I am Jewish.  The card says nothing other than Mike Smith and a phone number.  I text, “it was nice meeting you yesterday at the bar.”

            He responds with, “:) “.

            5 Minutes later his next text, “Drinks tomorrow at 8? You’re very cute.” 

He makes the little fat kid inside so happy I then commence have diarrhea.  Nerves I guess.

I plan on meeting him at the bar.  I dress up.  I wear my favorite jeans, shirt, actually shave, spend 45 minutes trying to tame the curls on my head so that I don’t look like Mufasa from the Lion King.   Get close to the bar a little early and get nervous.  I decide I need to be 10 minutes late.  I don’t want to look desperate.  I scarf down a doughnut, a bag of M&Ms and 2 99cent cookies from the 711 a block earlier to kill time.  I get a text mid-bite, “I’m wearing blue.”

I finally get to the bar, excited to see this HOT man waiting for me.  I am a bowl of nerves, with a side of self-loathing.  As I look through the place I instantly see a man wearing blue in his mid 50s who looks like a mix of Bruce Velanch meets the guy from Inside the Actor’s Studio.  I look past him and quickly weave through the room for other people wearing blue.  I look for the hot boy from days earlier.  I walk through the entire bar, which isn’t that big to begin with at least 4 times.  I actually am the only person under the age of 40 in the place.  I don’t see him at all.  I also start to notice that I have pit-stains quickly forming, that make it look I am wearing an ill-fitting bra.  Oh, did I mention that I am wearing a white shirt?  Thinking I was stood up or somehow ended up at the wrong bar, I text him back.  2 Seconds later I hear “Ding-Ding-Ding with the TROLLEY!”

It was someone’s text alert ring.  I thought, “How fucking gay.”

I then looked over at the older man in the blue, noticing his hair is died an unnatural brown and he is wearing foundation to cover his age and see him opening up his phone.  He is pressing the buttons very slow, pulling the phone far away from himself so he could see.  This is the way my grandmother dials people cause she is far-sided.  As he shuts hit flip-phone I get a text alert.  I don’t want to acknowledge what is happening so I ignore the message.  I pretend I can’t hear the alert.  He starts to walk close to me.  I hope that I am really misunderstanding something or that I’ll wake up at this point.  Then someone walks past me and accidentally bumps me with their drink, spilling all over my jeans.  I now look like I peed myself.  Now of course I feel like I have to pee too and am getting anxious.

It all of a sudden clicks.  C.J., Dakota or whatever his name is gave me someone else’s card!  I must look like that much of a dope.  The thing I can’t understand is who the fuck this guy is at the bar and why he responded to my texts like he knew me?

Grandpa gets to me and says, “so are we having a drink or not?”  Not knowing what to do I go right past him, straight to the bar.  I put down a twenty and tell the bartender to get him whatever he wants as I bolt.  Instead of crying like a normal person I start to laugh uncontrollably as I make my exit.  I keep laughing until I get a block away to another bar where I proceed to drink enough to kill a horse.