I mentioned in my previous post that I went to a dive bar last night...accompanied by a good friend who shall henceforth be known as Bow Girl.
Bow Girl is going through a lot of stuff lately. Stuff with her husband has reached the point where they decided to stay married, but basically lead totally seperate lives. She's also currently battling cancer, and is getting radiation once a week.
We didn't start out at a dive bar. We were actually hanging out at The Elbow Room, where we had drinks, steak sandwiches and split a creme brulee. We were out on the back patio, but I was sanwiched between a big heatlamp thing and an enormous fireplace, so I was nice and comfy.
Anyway, we dished and laughed and had a great time, and ended up deciding to go to a slightly less upscale establishment- in a strip mall. For more drinks.
Man, that was a rude awakening. We sat and chatted, and watched the ridiculous things that people ordered get created. One guy kept ordering a vile concoction which is evidently known as an H2- Hennessy and Hypnotiq.
I only know, because I asked. Anything that is blue and brown at the same time can't be a good idea.
"That has to be the most ghetto cocktail ever invented."
"They must be good, he's ordered 5 so far."
"I don't think it should be called an "H2". I think it should be called, "A Prelude to a Vomit."
"Maybe they'll take that under advisement."
At this point, the genial, tall, bald, tattooed, cute-in-a-bad-boy-way bartender got in a huge yelling altercation with a large bearded guy who was trying to order a beer. Most of it seemed to be bellowing back and forth about who was the bigger asshole. The large bearded guy eventually gave up on his string of profanity and stormed out.
"Who was that?" I asked the other bartender, wide-eyed.
She adjusted her studded belt. "Oh, he's just a *&^%$#@ asshole."
Yeah, I gathered that.
Anyway, BowGirl and I were in there with our wifely wedding rings flashing in an incriminating way, when someone plunked companiably down on the barstool next to us. She proceded to explain why we should never date a man like her boyfriend.
As the conversation progressed, we learned that she helped him pay rent on a house she didn't live with, and that she payed the utilities as well. And that he was out sulking in her car because he wanted to leave...he had work early the next day. She wanted to stay at the bar and drink black widows. (She'd obviously had several already.)
"Well," said BowGirl, soothingly, "At least he HAS a job."
"Yeah," I mused. "If he's got a job, why are you paying for all this stuff?"
"He has to pay a lot of child support."
"How many kids does he have?"
It was loud in the bar, so I thought I mis-heard her.
Ten. Ten kids.
By the way, this was not an old guy. I know, because he came into the bar to get her, and she shrieked at him that she wanted her keys and he could "use his Air Jordans to walk his dumb ass home."
I had another drink. It was crazy- like some ghetto OZ that I had stumbled upon.
Sorry, I am still reeling. Ten kids!