Yes Mam

We walk out of the apartment. It’s a warm day for October. A little humid.

“You think it’s going to rain?” I ask. I hate asking weather questions. It means you have nothing to talk about.

She sticks out her tongue. Takes a deep breath.

I don’t remember her exhaling.

“Yep.”

That was exactly how that conversation needed to go, I figure.

I look down at my “Life and Times of Tim” shirt. It’s the one that says “Don’t squeeze and old woman’s boobs.” I dig it.

“Maybe I shouldn’t wear this to a restaurant,” I say.

“No one’s gonna notice it, ya moron,” she replies.

Quick and to the point. Got’s to like that. We jump in her car. It’s old. There’s a cat cage in the backseat. A row of Homies line the dashboard. A window shield reflector thing is in passenger seat. I grab it and throw it in the back.

“Make yourself at home!”

“I did.”

We’re driving. I mention the shirt again. It’s the third time so far today.

“You certainly are proud of your shirt there young man,” she says. “Next time, you should wear it to show and tell. Cause right now, I don’t want to hear about it.”

Ha.

We cross the nickel bridge. It costs 35 cents.

At the restaurant, I get out, put on my flip flops and look at my mesh shorts. I think I bought these in 1998 or so. They don’t look so good anymore. I hold the door for the lady.

We go inside. An older lady is the hostess. She looks straight at my shirt and stares a bit long.

“Awkward,” I whisper. She snorts. Always a good sign.

At the table, we sit.

“Told ya,” I say with a smirk.

“Yeah, yeah. Blah. Blah. Blah. But that is funny.”

After eating, we head straight to the bar. It’s the same old crowd. Literally, an old one. This place is always full of old white men. At least in the afternoon.

“I’m glad I skipped work,” she says.

“Me too.” I didn’t skip work. But I’m glad she did.

We drink awhile. Make small talk. Make fun of people. Probably get made fun of.

Then a gaggle of women come in. One is in a wheelchair. She comes toward us with a couple of others.

“Excuse me. Excuse me,” she says over and over to other barstoolers.

One by one they stand, scoot their chairs in and let her pass. Then sit back down and resume drinking, talking or staring.

She gets to me and her. She gets up. Then I get up.

“Excuse me,” the lady says. Then she looks at me.

“Get out of my way,” she says to me.

All I can think is “huh? What the fuck did I do?”

We sit back down. In the back of the bar, now there are at least 50 blue hairs. A gathering.

Then it dawns on me. I turn to her and point at the shirt.

“Psychic about un-important things,” we both say in unison.

“Time to drink,” I continue.

We look at each other and laugh.

“One day, you should write all of this stuff down,” she says. “I’m not going to do it for you.”

I have to pee. The bathroom is behind the area where all the old ladies are. I decide to hold it. Better safe than sorry.

Of course, the chance to be accosted by 50 of the Greatest Generation seems to be something that could make for good fodder later on in life. After another beer and a half, I make my move. I scoot out my stool just loud enough to be noticed.

I sashay over to the back. It seems like a long walk after six beers and no peeing.

I reach the area where all the women are. The one in the wheelchair is right in front.

“Excuse me,” I say as I step by her.

No response. I keep walking. I get to the bathroom. I pee. I wash my hands. I look at my shirt in the mirror. And as always, when I hear the word mirror, even in my head, I start to say “mirror, father. Mirror, father.”, from Ghost World. I. Am. Idiot.

I walk out of the bathroom. Two ladies are standing there. I feel their glare.

“’Scuse me, ladies!” I say, a little too happily.

“You should try it sometime,” the older of the two says after I’ve passed.

I do a quick turn. I smile. And do my best gentlemanly bow.

“One day, ‘mam. One day.”

I get back to the bar.

“Whiskey please.”

“Make it a double,” she says.

I knew I liked this girl.