22 April 2011


I’m sitting here thinking about what to do this weekend and thinking that I hate that I have to avoid one of my favorite bars because my friend accidentally fucked the owner’s son who works there and I refused to fuck the other bartender despite his overzealous attempts with 4 a.m. weekday text messages.

I guess I should hit rewind and establish the unfortunate timeline. A few years back, my partner in crime was out running amok and ran into Dave – he is a bartender at one of the best Irish bars in the city – a very popular hangout for happy hour and such. When she met him, he was off duty throwing back the hooch at a different bar than where he worked. They get to exchanging generic banter and a few days later they’re out on a date. Typical first date in the city, dinner at a trendy but not too expensive or loud place and it was here that my partner in crime learns that Dave is a pilot for a corporate jet that he has 24/7 access to and the son of the owner of the aforementioned Irish bar. On the surface, this seems like a good idea to pursue – it’s always nice to have bartender connections but therein lies the rookie misconception – it’s a good idea to have bartender connections that you’re not sleeping with because when that booty call train derails, you have to find a new watering hole and build up the bartender/patron relationship from scratch, and that is exactly what happened. Dave was a decent enough guy, but he was a youngin in comparison to us and wanted to focus more on building his sexual resume than finding a steady rotation of a few diamonds in the rough on 800 thread count sheets. The real travesty of it all was that she never made it to the mile high club with him.

After what we deem is ‘enough time’ in avoidance mode his bar, we find ourselves there for a friend’s birthday happy hour and my friend was now dating someone else so he is in tow. Thankfully Dave wasn’t working, not that it really mattered, there was no real falling out or anything just a mutual wandering eye at the same time for all things not each other.
Fast forward about a year and a half and I’m out at one of my favorite Saturday night center city establishments and am set up in the ‘corner of debauchery’ – we call it this because without fail, every time my friends and I go there, someone always ends up steaming up the mirror on the wall like a juvenile game of 7 minutes of heaven and usually end up leaving with our lip locking partner. It’s approaching midnight which is about the time someone in the group finds their respective hot second love biscuit. I am sitting there unassuming chugging libations and over walks ‘Moran’ which I later learn is his last name. We start exchanging generic pleasantries, and by that I mean ‘hi’ and we’re full on making out like we’re being taped for some mr. skin coming attraction.

We come up for air eventually and start the chit chat and I find out he went to one of the local state colleges and had a degree in business – was 30 years old and a bartender at that same Irish bar Dave worked at. Moran had no intentions of ever not working as a bartender because it allowed him time to focus on his true passion, his ability to acoustically rock the open mic night. He then went on for way to long making empty promises of serenading me with his rendition Iris – this didn’t exactly make me want to take my pants off but I’ve heard worse which has resulted in me doing more. My partner in crime was BEYOND irritated by his wing man and it was getting painful to watch so I figured I had had enough play time and wasn’t really feeling this potential part time lover but Moran was in the bathroom and my friend had gone to get our coats so I was stuck talking to wing man about my job when everyone else rejoins the group. Moran asks me what we’re talking about and I said his friend asked me about my day job to which Moran responds ‘oh who the fuck cares about that, you got nice curves.’ The one thing that will crush my libido more than a beached whale on muscle relaxers is someone assuming I’m stupid – I didn’t go to grad school to put myself in debt forever so I could work in cancer research to have someone assume I answer phones saying ‘Dunder Mifflin, this is Pam’ or ‘Corporate Accounts Payable Nina speaking, just a mooooment’– no offense to those whose job that is, I have done that and paid my dues and it’s an important job someone has to do, but I am not that someone. I revert into my alter ego of HOW THE FUCK DARE YOU and get ready to storm out before my buzz is totally gone – Moran grabs my arm (I am regretting giving him my digits at this point but whatever) and he goes, calm down baby, let’s just go back to my place and fuck and you’ll feel better. I pulled the rarely used standard card and went home alone still rather fired up and drunk – I took my aggressions out on a pizza and passed out.

A few days later, Moran started texting me – not only is he a bartender where I was finally able to go back to but now can’t, he lives in my neighborhood around the corner from my best friend. For having never slept with him, I sure felt like I was having to undertake a lot of avoidance. He texted me for a few months – always when he was getting off of work during the week around 3-3:30 a.m. always douchy and trying to get the booty call – I get up for work at 4:45 a.m. so this was clearly not a welcomed cell phone assault. Finally, Superbowl Sunday he texted me asking where I was watching the game because his 900 roommates weren’t home and I should go over and ‘ya know…’ I informed him that I was an entire coast away in California and perhaps he should find someone else to throw his touchdown special pass to because I was not going to be his wide receiver. He texted a few more times but I never responded.

I do see him from time to time bolting out into oncoming traffic on his bike or crossing the street in front of my car when clearly he does not have the right away in that direction. In fact, just last week there was a sighting of his car on a curb, a manhole cover off far from the hole it was covering and a series of police cars surrounding him – lord only knows what that was all about, but I was quite happy I was not a part of it. Until next Moran sighting, I’ll continue to walk with my eyes peeled, my brain sharp as a tack, my self out of his bar and refrain from inching my car a little further into traffic as he’s crossing against the grain of pedestrian traffic.

Point of conversation: Think before you drink & fuck the bar staff– is this going to get you ostracized from your favorite bar? If the answer is no – fuck away (which will never be the true scenario btw) otherwise save the pants off dance off for someone who won’t take the apple out of your tini and replace it with shame, regret and a twist on the rockiest of rocks.

- Scarlett

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