I used to blog about bar creepers as often as I complained of falling snow or the guy who tucked his hoodie in his jeans. But lately, I haven't frequented the bars as often. Or if I do, I accessorize with a Wrangler-wearing Cowboy ;)
So I was out of practice when a fumbling 50 year-old approached our table and asked our names. As a means of getting one of us to follow him to his residence at the Budget Lodge, he spilt beer on our table.
Cookie, my friend who is forever leaving in pursuit of her opera career, yawned.
Note: Cookie doesn't like it when I say this, but her level of talent borders on ridiculous. See for yourself:
Oooo, a yawn, good one, I thought. Why didn't I thing of that?
Yeah, we have to wake up really early tomorrow, I said.
I gotta wake up early too, he said, wiping his face with his Beer Bulls-eye t-shirt. I gotta work at 5:30 a.m.
Damn.
So the conversation continued:
Him: I'm from Arizona.
Cookie: Oh.
Him: I make $35 an hour.
Cookie: Wow.
Him: Yeah, I do rodeos. I ride bulls.
Cookie: Dangerous.
The cloud of sarcasm was so thick, I almost spit my drink.
Soon Prince Charming hunkered over our table and was ALL up in Cookie's grill. With his spilt beverage now bathing our table, our leading man mapped his city of origin with an ice cube and compared it to Cookie's future home in Colorado.
Still not knowing what to do, I looked around the bar, willing someone I knew to show up. When that didn't work, I pleaded with my eyes for some non-creeper to save us. The problem was, no non-creepers existed.
Suddenly, Cookie's phone didn't ring, but she answered it anyways.
Hello? Oh, shoot really? she said, winking at me.
Uh, we better go, I said, grabbing my purse and Cookie's and high-tailing to the nearest exit.
Saved by the bell Cookie! I said. Who was that?
Uh, no one, she said.
If it weren't for her opera awesomeness, she'd have a career in Awkward Situation Management.
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