Troubadour 8-11-05
So you're at the Troubadour, with a Wednesday night crowd of wannabees, girls-night-out types, guys hoping to get lucky and lesbians. You're in the bathroom, waiting for a stall, checking out the vending machine, Tylenol, Advil and two types of condoms. Chocolate fudge and "fruity." Tasty.On the way out you run into the girl who you've seen so often that you're allowing the possibility that she may be stalking you. Though she's in the bathroom, she's busy whining about how yucky it is. She's shallow-faced, too much make-up, too much time on her hands. She hasn't yet picked up her drink boy, a guy who's wearing a Banana Republic shirt his gay friend made him buy, who closes out his tab after he buys their drinks and then reopens it two minutes later when her shrill friend shows up. Do they even know who's playing tonight?
You suck down a beer. Time passes. The chanteuse comes on. She's like that girl you know in high school who was so cool and talked so dirty. She seemed to know things no one else did. The sound of acoustic guitars crystalize everything, like soft late afternoons of the past.
A couple in the corner, sit quietly touching. Sometimes the girl leans in, whispers and they giggle. At one point, she takes her boy's glasses off and cleans them. It takes awhile.
You're working on your second beer, eyeing people around the bar. One guy has an eyepatch. Ploy to get girls? Nah. Girls don't like possible deformities. Pirate in his spare time? Too heavy. Who wears eyepatches anyway?
[pirate] Arrr! [/pirate]
When the show ends (as denoted by big ugly guys hitting the stage) you make your exit, the shallow faced girl still trailing behind her, vetting the options for the rest of the evening.
posted by kuaptic. @ 11:32 AM
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