Bent Words

Bent Words

April 01, 2010

(I've experienced little to no sleep and therefore the following is a bit muddled/forced -- I draw the story to a closing rather preemptively. But I must get to bed...)

At approximately 6 in the PM Saturday I arrived to the Nice Ash. What is now known as "your seat" was graciously vacated in honor of my birthday. Tar Bender switch from Bear to Casey (Joette's, the owner, eldest daughter).

By 6:10pm, it was necessary for Casey to throw out her first two customers. Splendid beginning to evening. But do take note that if she asks you to call her Casey instead of "Sweetie," "Sweet Tits" is not a preferred alternative. Unless you're me. For my birthday, she made me two necklaces made out of the sea glass she found while on vacation in Puerto Rico. Quite a grand gesture!

One of the regulars (recently turned licensed bartender just because he's always there), Chuck, bought me my first beer.

Jim, my favorite tar bender, arrived in rare fashion as he has recently quit smoking. He proceeded to buy me my second and third beers. I thanked him via text. I also mentioned that it was good to see him as he has been MIA for the last two weeks. Wasn't sure if it was due to the lacking nicotine or if he really digs me but after I complimented him he said; "It's my job, as the man, to pick YOU up, Laura!"

Highly entertaining.

King Crazy showed up (Stalker Dude from previous evening). Luckily Patrick and his buddy blocked Crazy by taking up seats on either side of me. Eventually they had to go so far as to corral him into a corner and explain my absolute disdain toward his mere visage. Undeterred, he came up to me later and asked if he could buy me a drink.

"Dude. I am sorry but I don't know how much more of a hint I can give you so allow me a moment to give it to you straight. You scare me. Please don't speak to me. In fact, it would be my absolute pleasure if you could behave, from now on, as though I do not exist." He started to refute my statement with a reply. I reminded that, "AH! Remember, I'm not really even here... I do not exist...."

** Apparently I made him cry. I know, not nice. I didn't want to be rude but the situation warranted it. I mean, the guy turned all kinds of drunk on me last week. He kept asking me what my story was ("I don't have a story, Dude, I'm just hanging out."), what kinds of music I liked and what books I've read and where I've traveled and how I got into motorcycles (Honda jacket Shane bought me) and I just wanted to chill. When I told him he was trying too hard, he got very angry and started yelling belligerently, going on about how he was dumped at the alter (I didn't have the heart to tell him that stalkers usually don't qualify for marriage licenses). I tried to calm him down but eventually he had to get escorted out. Aaaawkward.... **

The one man band played the Happy Birthday song for me. The whole bar clapped! I giggled like a high school girl. And up until this point I was rather effective with my anti-shot speech. "No, really, I have to be someone's favorite aunt tomorrow." Somehow I was unaware that the clear liquid set before me was tequila. A trap. Later on, Brady would promise that it was the good stuff.

Sorry, Brady. There's no such thing as good tequila. I promise.

9pm came and went and thus I missed Saturday's Superbike race. The Worm won -- most deservedly so -- and I cheered in my seat after checking the stats from my phone. Laura Land style (all by myself but happy as all hell).

I purchased a pack of smokes (GASP) and allowed the rest of the evening to wash over me with ease. I didn't pay for a single drink. Brady walked me home. I found my jacket, shoes, sweatshirt and contacts doffed in the bathtub by the time I finally rose the next day. Late, that is.

On Sunday I managed to be somewhat coherent while eagerly awaiting the arrival of my nieces at the Lake. Finally, they arrived. We spent the day outside, spinning and running, making up stories and playing baseball, shooting the .22 (!) and just being plain goofy. Alexis, 7, asked me again to show her how to ride a motorcycle. We pretended one of the plastic yard tables was a bike and I showed her where to position her hands and feet. "I remember the clutch, Aunt Laura!" Later Alexis would ask me when I'm going back to the 'motorcycle store.' I told I was going back on Tuesday. "That's good. My Suzuki shirt is getting too small..." I love my little girls.

After the shindig I plopped myself down on the 'rent's couch for some Superbike action. Barely conscious, I watched in horror as Yates power wheelied out of a corner during practice (qualifying?), lost control of the bike (wind? lack of traction control?) and got thrown onto the track. He was hit by a fellow racer which resulted in a broken leg. Get better soon, Buddy. Podium for Jordan during the weekend but no wins to squeal about. Still, it was a great weekend with some wonderful people and a hell of a hangover.

And now, it's time to get back to work...

Written at 7:52 a.m.