You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
Rubbing ointment on a friend.
Those are five words that I never thought I would ever put in the same sentence.
But there it is: RUBBING OINTMENT ON A FRIEND.
So I’m in a popular restaurant with a buddy.
It’s Tuesday which means two for Tuesday.
Two for Tuesday is one of the great American marketing campaigns where self indulgent citizens get to double their pleasure, double their fun. That means you order one beer and get a 2nd free. Order a slice of pizza and get a 2nd free.
And we wonder why Americans are so freaking fat.
The weather is pleasant. It’s cool, but the sun is out and it’s rays are reassuring. I look into a vast brilliant blue and immediately things I don’t think about are global warming, starving kids in Ethiopia and the score of the Rangers Hockey game.
It’s one of those life moments where it just feels good to be alive, to be wearing a pair of sunglasses and letting the wind blow through my hair.
I look around at the crowd. It’sa mix of English rugby players, Vanderbilt Co-Eds, and business people getting off for the evening.
The outdoor portion of the bar is lively and beers are flowing. There’s a scent of perfume and unfiltered Camel Cigarettes blowing by.
The plasma TV’s are showing the NBA play off game and another ubiquitous version of SportsCenter.
Patrons are drinking out of mason jars, which is how this bar serves its beers. It must be a southern thing. I like the concept visually, but have you ever tried to seal your lips against a mason jar? It takes concerted effort. If you don’t hermetically seal your lips over the glass edge, you are sure to be wearing your beer on your new dress shirt and silk tie.
We’re two beers in when my buddy suddenly blurts out: “Damn. I gotta go to this girl’s house and rub ointment on her tattoo!”
I stare at him with a cartoon like bewilderment.
“Huh?”,
Ointment? Tattoo? It sounds kinky, sexy.
Check please!
“Yeah she has a new tattoo, it’s the size of the parking lot,” he says gesturing to the cars before us on 12th Street South.
“Her tattoo is festering and she wants me to rub ointment on her back,” He says swigging from his mason jar.
I notice a bit of Blue Moon seep across his chin.
Damn Mason Jars.
I laugh out loud.
“That’s freaking disgusting.”
A bar patron looks at me incredulously. Her glance is one part indignation, one part intrigue. Who the hell talks about ointment and tattoo festering.
I wince at the thought.
“what the hell is the tattoo of?” I ask.
“It’s a Phoenix rising,” he says almost falling over laughing.
“A Phoenix rising? You mean like the city in Arizona?”
“No, the symbol of the bird rising from the ashes.”
“Oh my god. Really?”
“Yes, she says its bubbling and hurts and she needs someone to rub ointment on it.”
“And that ointment rubber is you?”
He hangs his head.
I look at a pretty black woman beside me who is eaves dropping.
I smile and mouth the word OINTMENT.
She smiles acknowledging the absurdity of our conversation. She goes back to her friends who surely will not be sticking their fingers in a jar of ointment tonight. OR WILL THEY?
“I gotta go,” he says.
The wind tickles my hair. I feel alive.
I am drinking a delicious beer out of a mason jar. I have talked to a pretty girl. And hopefully I am going to be ointment free for the rest of the evening.
My dear friend?, I cannot say the same.
To Ointment? Not to Ointment? That is the question.
And that is why life’s crazy.™