Dinner Alone

My squeeze is out of town, which is fairly common in our relationship. So last night I went to a favorite New Orleans style eatery here in Tulsa. I sat at the bar. This was not a very good idea. First, the bar was really crowded, probably because this was the only place in the restaurant that allowed smoking - of course everyone who sat at the bar, myself excluded, was smoking. Second, everyone who sat at the bar, myself included, was old, or fat, or old and fat. The gray haired grizzled old fellow who was talking about his glory days playing football for the University of Oklahoma bragged of being 58 years old. Crap! I’m 58 years old.

The being invisible thing was working for me last night too (see blog below). The man who came in after me and also sat at the bar not only was waited on before I was, but actually had his drink in front of him before anyone asked me what I wanted.

There were two women behind the bar. One was a regular who called everyone “Sweetie,” and “Baby Dolly,” and “Sugar.” The other was a newbie apprentice who was being shown all the ropes, but seemed hopelessly confused.

When I initially sat down, there were two seats to my right, and none to my left. Shortly two very, very fat women sat on those poor stools, their butts draping over the sides. Both ordered frou-frou drinks like “Sex With Your Uncle on the Beach,” and “Mother’s Fuzzy Navel”; the kinda crap women who don’t like to drink order because it has a lot of whipped cream on it (not that either of these two needed any more whipped cream in their diets). Both smoked. A lot.

Soon other fat women began to arrive and greet the two already seated. When someone new showed up, she would step between the two already seated there, and those two would move further apart to accommodate her. That meant that big Wilma kept moving closer and closer to sitting in my lap. By the time the third or fourth newcomer had showed up, Wilma and I were beginning to look like Siamese twins.

Wilma had quite the butt on her. It stuck out like the busted lip on a prize fighter. The problem was, every time she turned toward her buds, that big butt, like a lobe on a cam, whacked up against me. Soon I was holding on to the bar with both hands so that I wouldn’t be tossed off my stool.

I had ordered oysters on the half-shell. Historically, oysters have been half-priced at that restaurant before 6 p.m., but last night, even though I had ordered at 5:15 I got charged full bill. My two $2 beers cost me six bucks too. See blog below.

The oysters last night were tiny, smaller than my girlfriend’s titties, and not quite as salty. When I had finished, the apprentice barkeep came and cleared away my silverware, even though I still had dinner coming. I wasn’t able to stop her because my hands were occupied keeping me from hitting the floor. Behind me, a drunk woman sitting at a bar table was going off obscenely about her lousy boss.

It was an evening to remember.