Date: Actually Miles and I had this conversation
more than once. I guess he has a poor
memory.
Miles
is asking me about my hobbies. I tell
him that I play soccer.
“That’s really cool! I bet you score a lotta goals!”
“Actually, I stop the goals, because
I’m a keeper.” That’s right boys; line
forms to the left.
He looks at me very seriously. “Now . . . why are you doin’ that? Goalie is for the ugly girls.”
Date: Unknown
Miles is taking a break, sitting in
front of the water cooler. I excuse
myself to get by him so I can get a drink.
“Sure, baby, sure; you can have
whatever you want.”
“Um . . . thanks.” I just want some water.
“Fine as you are, the world is
yours.”
“Don’t I fuckin’ know it.” I’d never dream of saying something that
arrogant to anyone at my day job. Conversely,
no one at my day job would dream of making as slimy a comment as Miles just did. In the
workplace.
* * *
Luke
Johnson
March
1: Mardi Gras
Grace and Burt’s eldest son has finally graduated from college. Now that he’s home all the time, his parents
are putting him to good use. I’ve seen
him at the shop a lot lately. As usual,
he doesn’t acknowledge me until I say good morning (or afternoon) to him.
“So I joined a gym.”
I look around, wondering who he’s
talking to. Nobody else up front . . . I
guess I’m the chosen one. . . .
“Yeah?”
“Yeah Club Fitness. Had my first session with a personal trainer
yesterday, she was totally hitting on me.”
“Really.”
“Totally.”
I joined Club Fitness for a month
once—because I was going to be on vacation a lot over the holidays and it’s
closer to my house than the gym at work.
I remember them “assigning” me a handsome, buff, bronzed, clean-shaven
guy as a trainer. (I guess I look like
the type of girl who goes after pretty boys?)
It’s all part of the racket.
“I told some girls about it at the
bar last night.”
“And I bet they all took their
panties off right then and there, didn’t they?”
He scoffs, “I wish. It was at Field’s.”
Blank stare.
“It’s a bar in Clayton.”
Is this supposed to mean something
to me?
“I’m like a regular there.”
I . . . still . . . can someone
please explain what is happening here?
Later
on that same day
Break time. Relaxing in back; resting my feet on a chair,
checking my phone.
Luke wanders along. “Do you rage?”
“Do I ‘rage’?”
“Yeah do you go clubbin’?”
“H—do you have any clue who you’re
talking to?” Child I am six years older
than you.
“I dunno I mean you look like you
do. You look like you grind all up on
big black dudes’ dicks all night.”
Here is a picture of what my brain
looks like at this particular moment:
“Yup, that’s me! Every night.”
Back to work I guess.
“Ugh
so many girls texting me!”
I glance over and raise an eyebrow,
but continue my work.
“I’m supposed to be down at the
parade right now but I’m working instead.”
Today is the big Mardi Gras parade downtown; I
couldn’t care less. Large crowds of
shitfaced suburbanites is not my idea of a good time. But Luke huffs and puffs and hems and haws
until
Grace decides she’s had enough and tells him to leave.
He throws off his apron and says, “L-John
out.”
* * *
March
6
Cory
“He did not say that.”
“He did! He even had a hand gesture to go with it.”
Cory laughs.
“Is he for real?” I ask. “I feel like he is a caricature of a real
person.”
“Oh he’s for real.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well you’re not . . . the typical girl he’s used to hanging
around.”
At that we cheers. He drinks red wine from a rocks glass; I drink
beer. From a beer glass. We talk about our respective love of meat,
and our respective disenchantment with the opposite sex. I beat him in a game of pool. He tells me about his various butchering
experiences around the city, and how he got to where he is: Pit Master at a restaurant that was voted
Best BBQ in St. Louis—over two restaurants that have already been voted Best
BBQ in the Country. This guy is going places.
As
the business grows, he plans to grow with it:
“I’ve still got a couple tricks up my sleeve. You’re one of them.”
What?!? I’m a trick!
Up the sleeve of the greatest Pit Master in St. Louis?? Total meat-nerd moment. I’m more flattered than I can express in this
moment, but I think I manage to stammer out, “Well that’s just . . . what? Awesome, dude!”
Felt
like being fancy. Made crab-stuffed
peppers and spicy couscous.
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