Beav Gets Paid To Witness The Dirty Underbelly Of Human Nature

10/19/05

Tonight was, for the most part, uneventful. I picked up a shift for my friend BrownEyes yet again because she was undoubtedly enduring another smallscale personal crisis. I'm starting to wonder how much money I've indirectly made off of her amazing ability to overdramatize life's minor setbacks. Well, that and her amazing array of psychosomatic ailments...but I digress.

I closed the bar tonight, and I find that I far and away prefer the bar to any other section in the restaurant. This is because the people who come and sit in the bar are far and away more laid back and enjoyable to deal with than some of the stoic, rural assholes and crusty, old fucks who demand booths in the main dining room. I still sometimes get the occasional table of white trash who ask for a Busch Lite, but the good outweighs the bad. Tonight, I got to witness one of the more interesting personalities in the catalogue of human archetypes: The real-life desperate housewife.

The first of this particular pair of ladies arrived at around 5:30 when I got to the restaurant. She was waiting for her friend, so she had a pint of Miller Lite. She got through with that and her friend still hadn't arrived, so she had a margarita. Her friend finally arrived, and they moved to a table, where the friend ordered a bottle of chiraz. If I hadn't already, I started laying on the charm at this point because I knew that for the two of them to get through a bottle of wine, they were going to be spending some considerable time with me. The one on the right (who was the first to arrive and is now certifiably sucking down her margarita) wants to know what I recommend, and proceeds to ask me a lot of questions about fairly self-explanatory menu items. I ask if she's been here before, and her reply is "Oh yeah." At this point I realize that they're going to be my chatty table, and that she, in particular, is going to be my chatty customer. She tells me I should sing because I, "have that really nice, low voice." I stop short of informing her that telling me I should sing is like telling Richard Simmons he should be flamboyant, and instead just let her know her that I do sing in a lot of different settings. The charm is coming on extra thick now, and they're eating it up. I always flirt shamelessly with tables of women...because it works. I don't tend to go so far as to touch them or sit down with them like a lot of the girls do with their tables of guys, but I have my methods.

By the time they've gotten through their meals and their bottle of wine, my new friend on the right is noticably tipsy. A beer, a margarita and half a bottle of wine will do that to you, I guess. I tell them about the 800 number they can call if they want to take the survey for a free dessert, and I joke that they can report how badly I abused them. Here's where it starts to get weird.

They give me the standard "Oh, you didn't abuse us..." business that usually follows that joke, but then the lady on the right says, "You can abuse us if you want to." While I am busy trying to keep from clenching my jaw and trying to figure out if she meant that the way I think she meant it, the words, "Our husbands are away for a year" are spoken. I turn to the lady on the left with an expression that silently says, "WHAT?!? Lady, little help here!"

She then speaks the words that not only confirm the fact that I am being hit on by two middle-aged, married women, but that it's pretty much as bad as I can imagine: "Yeah, our husbands are over in Iraq right now and they won't be back for a few more months, so we're treating ourselves tonight..."

Treating yourselves by getting drunk in a franchise restaurant and making vaguely lewd comments to your waiter, who was born about the time you graduated high school.
U-S-A!!! U-S-A!!!

I look back at the woman on the right. Judging by the way she's looking at me, she's getting drunker by the minute and would probably let me screw her in the back of her minivan right now.

I look back at the woman on the left. She's only just buzzed...but she'd do it too, if her friend would.

A smarter man would find a way to parlay this unbridled sexual frustration into a way bigger chunk of tip money, but I'm too mortified by the fact that I'm being savagely eye-fucked by a pair of thirtysomething soldiers' wives to be quick on my feet. Did I mention that neither of these women is especially attractive? That's not adding any to my comfort level.

I manage to escape after being told twice more by the drunken lady on the right that I’m allowed to abuse them and once more by each of them that their husbands are away. All I’m thinking is that I have no desire to be brutally murdered five months from now when two battle-hardened soldiers return home and find that some punk college kid fucked their average looking wives while they were away risking life and limb for…whatever it is we’re trying to accomplish over there. Point is they’d want to kill me, and they’d know how. The negatives in this scenario far outweigh the positives.

For the rest of the night, I ponder the frequency of such events as this, and I come to the conclusion that people are fascinating, if not fucked up creatures. I also come to the conclusion that between the things I’ve seen and the things I’ve done, it would be best if my future wife and I never spend more than about a week apart. Maybe less than that. Maybe I’ll hire some lesbians to escort her at all times, and then if she sleeps with them I won’t mind…but I digress…