You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
The guy sitting next to me.
What the F dude?
What are you on?
Why you rocking back and forth on your bar stool like that?
Are you having a seizure?
Are you having convulsions?
Why is your hand up in the air, waving like the queen?
I’m staring at the guy, and his arm is extended, his hand cupped, and I swear he’s waving like the damn Queen of England.
“Waiter, can I get a seat belt for this dude?”
Friday night just got weird.
The white dude with the bling and tattoos approaches me and my son.
We are at Chicago Pizza, a family pizza place that has sports on every screen.
The bar stool beside me is empty. So is the bar stool beside the empty bar stool.
Why does he choose to sit beside me?
Doesn’t he understand the rules of proximity.
It’s like a urinal. You don’t walk past a neutral urinal to set up shop next to a guy peeing. It’s uncomfortable, it’s an invasion of personal space.
“Can you say stage fright?”
I must have a flashing neon sign on my head that says “Weirdos sit here.”
“anyone sitting here?,” he says.
I stare at the guy and size him up.
He’s wearing white pants and a tight-fitting shirt.
I see arms covered with tattoos and a stud in his nose.
His hair is bleached blonde, almost white, with strands of darkness.
He looks like 1990’s Sugar Ray had sex with 1985 Billy Idol.
In my head I say “Go get F***ed.
Out loud I say “It’s all you.”
He sits down.
I feel him poking into my personal space, my personal aura.
I’m thinking ugly thoughts.
Why you gotta sit so close, Homey?
“This is a nice place?” he says with a half question.
I look at Sugar Ray Idol.
I stare at a face full of deception and unnecessary eye blinks.
I wonder if he’s got Tourette’s syndrome or some other neurological disorder.
He is gyrating on his stool, wobbling like a weeble with a whiskey drink.
“Yes. It’s a good pizza place. Has tv screens. Good beer. What more do you need?”
“Yeah right. And maybe some hot women?”
I look around. There’s a table of kids behind me with their parents and older couple at the bar.
“I guess it’s possible,” I say with a straight face. “But this is more a pizza place than meat market, you know what I mean?”
“We have one of these in Florida,” he will say.
I look at the guy. He seems hopped up on amphetamines. He is antsy like a crack whore at a DUI check point.
He is itchy like a guy coming off a heroin drip.
He seems like a meth head. He looks wired. He is agitated. I bet he’s slept less than a sniper on an Afghanistan hillside.
This guy is so full of S**t.
I don’t know why, but I actually checked out his story. Maybe it’s the journalist in me. There is no Old Chicago Pizza in Florida. Well, there may have been one in Brandon once, but according to Yelp, it closed.
“No ladies come in here?” he asks, again ruining my night with my son who is glued to his iPhone, unaware of the bank robbery demeanor I am dealing with.
“You want ladies, this is probably the wrong place dude.”
“You got a Tilted Kilt around here?”
“I’ve been to one in S.D.,” I say.
“Girls are so hot,” he interjects, picking up his whiskey and sucking it down.
His hand is jittering. His head is twitching. He puts his glass down without shattering it.
I smile inside.
The Tilted Kilt is a British themed Pub. The girls are fit, wearing push up tops and sexy kilts.
“nope, no kilts around here.”
He undulates on his bar stool like a lava lamp plugged into the wrong electrical socket.
I turn to my son and try and engage him in conversation.
“So you think it will rain for the Bama game Saturday?”
“Who you guys rooting for?” he interjects, his question blaring across my personal space.
“He’s a Bama grad, so we’re rolling tide,” I say.
“I’m Florida State,” he volunteers, his words choppy like a storm front at the beach.
I doubt this guy has a diploma from Burger King.
“What brings you here?”
“A job. I worked for a douche. Now I’m…”
His words pause. He’s hard to hear. His head jerks and he twitches.
“My boss is a douche,” he says. “Who says that in a bar to a guy you don’t even know.”
I pull my wallet out and hold it up in the air for the bartender to see.
“Bill please.”
My son looks at me with a sly smile, putting his phone in his pocket.
“Time to go,” I say.
Sugar Ray rocks on his bar stool, his hand extends from his body and waves to no one in particular. He grabs his empty glass and puts it to his lips. He tips back his glass and chews on a chunk of whiskey ice.
I push away from the bar.
“Take care dude,” I say.
“you too, man.”
We walk away from the gyrating dervish of lies and I am relieved.
Life’s Crazy™