Maybe I was still pissed about the Bears looking like crap this season or maybe it was the Anti-Cruelty Association turning me down to adopt another cat, again. I dunno. Nevertheless, I still went over to the Oasis for a few drinks tonight (solo). And since it’s about 8 degrees outside (without factoring in the lake wind), I wasn’t in the mood for cold beer, so I settled into my barstool and ordered Tequila.
Big Paul lives above the bar, in what is known around here as “Wife Beater Inn”. The cops are there so often for domestic disputes that they might as well have a booking station in the lobby. It’s not that it’s an eyesore or a slum, they just always seem to have trouble brewing 24/7. Maybe there’s a poltergeist or something.
So maybe twenty-five people were in the bar when I got there, with Big Paul was sitting by himself, and me, being the cool guy that I am, I pulled up the stool next to him, ordered a shot and gave him the “Sup, dude”. We talked a few minutes about the Bears, Notre Dame’s coach search, etc, then the evenings main attraction shows up. In walks these a cackle of girls from Loyola University. A good mix if I can say so myself: Tall, short, blonde, brunette, redhead (real or a great dye job), emo, GND, flirty, demure, drunk, truly drunk, ice queen, and one girl definitely the whore of the group. They were representing at least one preference or fantasy, maybe two, for each guy tonight.
Now I can’t say I know the Big Paul very well, but I do know that he moved here from Downstate a few years ago and enjoys a good Absolut Mixer. Unfortunately, you can take one look and know the guy is not a ladies man. He’s maybe 6’ 4”, 300lbs, with a head that looks like a loaf of Irish Soda Bread. On the plus side, he is smart and a good conversationalist. However, being current on 90201 or Gossip Girl will only get you so far if you don’t sport a Lexus, six figures or a nightstick, if you know what I mean. Evidently, Big Paul has none of those qualities. I say this because I always see him leave by himself or see him just staring at the talent as I’m leaving. But hey, the Giants weren’t supposed to win the Super Bowl last January either, right?
No matter the odds, you have to play to win the game, and the game tonight was wide open. Of the twenty-five people in the bar when I got there, twenty-one were guys, without counting Ruby, the man-hating-dyke. So, I was doing the math in my head as Big Paul was mumbling something to himself and I kinda figured it was something along the lines of not having a shot with these ladies. I hate to see anyone down on themselves, so I asked Big Paul which of the ladies he preferred and he said the Blonde or the whore. Hmmmm, they had all taken off their hats now and I couldn’t tell if his blonde was the ice queen blonde or the demure blonde that had just walked in. The whore was going to look like a whore no matter what color her hair was.
My plan was simple. I was going to be Big Paul’s Wing Man tonight and we were at least get him a number. It might be fake, but it wouldn’t matter. Tonight Big Paul was going to walk out of the Oasis with his chest out and seven digits in his hand.
(I have to hit the sack now, as I have to get up early to meet the bosses at work. I will have part 2 posted by lunch)