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Rejection by Peroni

My corner bar, Jones, is nirvana.  If my bank account could support frivolous spending, I would be there every day of the week.  Whether it be for “The Groupie” cocktail made with muddled lemons, Kettle One and ginger beer, or for the prosciutto arugula pizza followed by the succulent apple pie ala mode that arrives to the table gooey  and bubbling. It doesn’t matter! I want to be there, eat there, drink there.  I would also frequent Jones every day of the week if people wouldn’t judge me for being there every day of the week.  Either way, I can’t spend my life at Jones, but the days I am so privileged to waltz in, I am bound to witness something…well…interesting.

 A few nights ago, my friends Meredith (lets call her Mere) and Danielle (lets call her D2) and I drove to Yogurtland for a sweet fix.  While there we discussed our plans for the evening. 

 “Since we don’t want to do anything extravagant maybe we can walk to Jones,” I suggested while crossing my fingers under the table and looking down so no one could catch the embarrassing excitement in my eyes.

 “Or we can take a gander at the Pleasure Chest down the street. There are always some interesting things to see,” D2 said while ignoring my obvious request.

 I complied with the idea knowing it would be but a mere portion of the night, while keeping my fingers intertwined in hopes that Jones could be the next stop.  At the sex shop I saw a muzzle with ears in a display (for bestiality fetishes), a glove with spikes (for masochists), a plastic arm with a hand shaped into a fist (for???)…I don’t judge, but I do wonder. 

 On the way home, I slyly asked, “Now what?  Maybe we can change and walk to Jones? Ummm…Or that bbq place, Zeke’s, across the way for a pitcher of beer.”  I added Zeke’s to sound diverse.

 “I’m not really in the mood for beer.  But sitting outside at Zeke’s sounds nice,” D2 said with hope for Jones.

 “I’ll do whatever,” Mere murmured.

 One of my favorite books, The Alchemist says “When a person really desires something, all the universe conspires to help that person realize that dream.”  With that notion in mind, I had an idea.

 “How about we flip a coin and let fate decide?”  Everyone seemed complacent about the scheme and agreed that one toss would lead us to our destiny.  Heads: Jones.  Tails: Zeke’s. 

 Mere flipped the quarter high up in the air, it landed and spun forever like Leonardo DiCaprio’s totem in Inception.  The anticipation killed me and I wondered if in fact I was living in a dream (nightmare if it landed on tails).  Finally, it settled down and heads faced up! I swore I saw George Washington wink at me at that moment.  I changed into a pink blouse tucked neatly into a high-wasted skirt, brown strappy heels and a white hat that lays low and angles to the left, leaving me a mystery to people on that side.

Mystery Woman

 After arriving, we sat on “The Perch” where sits four chairs facing the rest of the bar, perched higher than everyone else.  D2 and I ordered Pacifico (after all that, yes, we ordered beer) and Meredith pulled out a card game she purchased at the x-rated house–a “would you rather” game but with “raunchier” questions.  “Would you rather have puss coming out of your eye or your butt.”  Ummm…that’s not raunchy, but I answered “eye” reasoning that puss from the butt usually means an STD of sorts, and that’s bad bad news.  I’d rather contract pink eye, thanks.  The game did not last long so we made an effort to positively judge everyone we saw sitting across the way.  Another girl, Shannon, occupied the forth seat so together we judged. 

“Aww…that couple is so enthralled in their conversation. How cute.” 

 “I like that girl’s hat, she seems lovely.”

 “That girl’s top that reveals her back is so skimpy…but, what a nice back!”

 “Wait, there’s a sausage fest over there… the bar is split into two: guys over there, couples and single women over here,” D2 observed.

 I sighed deeply and wondered why fate brought us to Jones.

 “Wait!!! Tobey Maguire just walked in,” I noticed but pretended not to care. “Look, he’s with the couple we love.”

 Tobey Maguire is a vegan, I am a vegan chef.   DESTINY!! I thought this would be a perfect opportunity to acquire a new client.  We whispered about how cute he is in person and judged, positively why he’s with them and not us.  D2 demanded that I make googly eyes at him, sit up straight and act like a lady.  I couldn’t figure out why she wanted this for me because Mr. Maguire is married with kids (all vegans).  Overwhelmed by the pressure and two quick moments of eye contact, I exited to utilize the ladies’ room.  After returning, I noticed Maguire and friends left their spot to dine at a table.

 “Darn. Tobey Maguire isn’t in ear OR eye shot anymore,” I said to D2. “He’s married anyway, so whatever.”

 “Tobey who?!!? That’s Topher Grace, you idiot!!!!!!!!!!!!  Great. Now what?!” D2 frantically exclaimed.

 I failed D2…I failed myself…I failed the perch.

 “You should send him a drink to the table,” D2 said.

 Send him a drink!?!?  Send a guy a drink!? Send a famous guy a drink?! I don’t buy drinks for the opposite gender, EVER, they buy them for me.  My heart pounded, I started sweating, my mind spun into a tizzy.  It sounded like a ridiculous plan, but it also sounded kind of fun.  I agreed, under the terms that I didn’t actually have to order the drink myself.  They had to verbalize the order and send it from me, “The Girl in the White Hat.”  Now the real problem:  What drink should we send?

 The girls said a Washington Apple Shot.  Ummm, no thanks. He’s not gay.

 Facebook status repliers concurred on a Lindsey Lohan aka Red Headed Slut with a splash of Coke.  Funny, but no.

 A friend of Shannon’s, who had just arrived, suggested Pabst Blue Ribbon (PBR).  Oh, I liked this idea- cheap, and if he had any sense of humor at all, funny.  Jones doesn’t carry PBR, however, duh.  But they do sell Peroni, the Italian equivalent.  “Peroni Azzurro Nostra” —if my Italian memory serves me correctly, that means Peroni Blue Ribbon.  SOLD!  One cheap beer to the one celebrity at the table, please.  Send it. Check it. Sign it. Go! Hurry!!

 Off it went……

 We waited…..

No response…No gaze our way. 

I felt silly…

…and the rest of the perch noticed…

To ease my painful rejection, they each picked a person to send a drink to.  Challenge: Whoever’s recipient physically walked over to thank the sender, wins!  We embarrassingly roared in laughter while picking and choosing victims, calling attention to our section (from everyone but MY RECIPIENT).  

Three Washington Apple shots and three victims later, Shannon’s heir to the apple approached her.  Winner!!!  He seemed nice enough and actually joined the game.  He sent a shot to a tall blonde directly across from us.  She and her friends whispered and shyly tried figuring out who sent it to her.  I caught her eye and yelled, “BLUE SHIRT DID! RIGHT HERE!”  She simply smiled and saluted, taking a measly sip of the liquid apple as if it were sent by Queen Grimhilde from Snow White… 

 The rest of the victim’s either ignored the drink completely or sent a quick thank you nod our way.  The responses were everything and nothing I anticipated.

 I sent D2 to walk by Topher’s (yes! first name basis! I bought him a drink for Christ’s sake!) table to make sure he received the beer.  He did.  It sat next to his MARTINI untouched!!!  Jerk! At least look around for the girl in the white hat who so generously provided you with a fine Italian beer.  Maybe I should’ve sent the sissy Washington Apple shot?!  After all, Washington sent us to Jones in the first place…

 Following his departure, I walked down the bar and noticed the shot the blonde dismissed.  I looked up to the perch and said, “Well, what a nice thing to do!”  I saluted the group and swallowed it whole.  It didn’t burn like shots normally do, because a Washington Apple is sweet, like the gesture of sending a person a drink. 

 Hmmm…perhaps a cheap beer is just too bitter, TOPHER?!

"I prefer lady drinks. Thanks for nothing, white hat"

 I walked by Zeke’s yesterday and noticed a sign declaring that the establishment had succumb to the economy.  Poor guys…and poor us, we shall never indulge in outdoor beer.  I guess that means Jones from here on out…aw, shucks. Peroni, anyone?

Published inDanielle