I don’t know how many of y’all (yes that’s a real word where I live) read my previous post about sitting at the bar — but this story relates directly to that so I’m going to include it at the bottom if you care to refresh your memories.
I just had the most annoying experience sitting at a bar. And I share this with you because it is by far the exception to the rule of pleasant ones.
I am that extroverted introvert. I am also Italian. Eating alone is sometimes not a thing for me. Plus the local wing place has great craft beer and completely kick ass chicken pecan salad. Add to that I adore the company of the bartender and a few of the regulars and BAM! I’m in, maybe once a month or so.
Tonight I was in the neighborhood and that chicken pecan salad was calling my name so I stopped by for food. The place was nearly empty as I was pretty early but no worries, food and a good beer and I was outta there! Yoga is on my hit parade for later this evening.
I sit down at the bar a couple stools away from Middle Aged White Dude Typing On His Computer With A Bottled Beer By His Hand — I make nice. Because, its a bar. There is a code of etiquette. I add — I am trying very hard not to judge — because bottled beer. I live in NC, the land of micro brews and some of the best beer I’ve ever had! But still — I am not holding that against him. He does not return my greeting. And he looks at me as if I am the dog shit on the bottom of someone’s shoe. Hmmm.
One of the waitresses brings him a special take home packet of some sort of desert and he engages in conversation with the younger, thinner, pretty version of my gender. Hmmm.
I am happy to ignore him for the rest of my time there. Whatever.
At the end of my meal I am preparing to pay and I look at the chair between us — only glance mind you — as it holds a black back pack which is very simlar to mine. However, it’s not mine, it’s his. I immediately recognize my error and reach behind me to my own back pack slung on my chair to pay my bill.
And you know what this guy does?
He packs up his back pack, returns for his computer and moves to a table in the corner. I attempted to apologize for eyeing his back pack & show him mine. He remains silent.
I am left wanting to tell him many things —
#1 I am not a thief. I would never take anything out of your precious back pack. I save lives. Humans bleed on me. Literally. Don’t even go there regarding my ethical code of honor. I am not stealing from you. SIT DOWN.
#2 The bartender KNOWS me. By first name. I am a regular here. I live down the street. I only came in here for the salad, not to find Mr Right or to pick his pocket. I am paying and leaving now. SIT DOWN.
#3 Don’t flatter yourself, I have a boyfriend and you are about 15 years and 30# out of my price range. Even if I am a grandmother and 15# and 30 years out of yours. You don’t need to run — saying good evening to you is not hitting on you. SIT DOWN.
#4 What kind of childhood/marriage/relationship could you possibly have had that makes you think a grandmother in a bar eating a chicken pecan salad after she spent the day cutting cancer out of people could possibly be a threat to you? You poor pathetic man. SIT DOWN
#5 Never mind any of the above. I did not mean to scare you. I did not know I was so terrifying. May you find the courage to let people in — not just the young, pretty people, but all people. No one wants to hurt you. We just want to fucking eat our chicken pecan salads — just go — and get the hell away from me.
Now I have indigestion. Dammit.