Men, I’d enough of them, they are a complete waste of time and I wanted them out of my life, for now. I’ve picked quite a few “winners”, and had a lot of rough patches, but then I go right back to them. I am the type of woman who just can’t seem to choose the right kind of guy. I keep reminding myself that I have sworn off men. My last relationship ended two years ago, Patrick, he was quite a catch too. Irish with wavy auburn locks, freckles across his cheeks and a quick temper added to complete the package. We managed to last six months, my longest relationship on record. It probably would have lasted a lot longer if Patrick, in a drunken stupor hadn’t tried to use me as a punching bag. After we went our separate ways, that is, after I threw his belonging out to the curb and had the locks changed, I fell into a deep depression. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I find a man who loved me for me, who didn’t expect me to be their meal ticket or their “old bag”? Where are these guys that my girl friends manage to find and marry? That’s another thing, I was quickly becoming the single girl – you know the one that gets invited to the party and she’s the only single person there. I was finding that the crowd I hang out with is getting younger and younger – just so I wouldn’t have to talk about weddings, babies and husbands.

I spent many depressing days in my dingy cramped apartment, sitting on my sofa cradling a gallon of ice cream and flipping the channels on my old TV. I learned why I should enroll in truck driving school, and, I found a device for lamps that I couldn’t live without – with a single clap of your hands you can turn your lights on. I almost signed up for a correspondence class where I would receive an art degree. I thought about becoming a dental hygienist, the girls in the commercials looked so happy. But the thought of sticking my hands in someone else’s dirty mouth, I just couldn’t stoop to that level, no matter how much happiness it could bring me. Then I saw it Bartending School; it was as if the clouds had parted and angels were singing to me, bartender extraordinaire flashed before my eyes. I dropped the ice cream container and dialed the number scrolling across the bottom of the TV screen. I hadn’t realized it was 2:00 a.m., and was amazed when a live person answered the phone. Before my digital clock flipped over to 3:00 a.m., I was officially enrolled in the world famous Bart’s School of Bartending. I couldn’t believe that I had been accepted.

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of events. I found that bartending came naturally to me. I quickly memorized a wide variety of alcoholic drinks, created my own tasty beverage concoctions, and learned how to pull a draft beer without too much foam. I passed my final exam, creating a signature drink and competing in The Battle of the Bartenders. Classmates yelled obscure drink names at me while I attempted to keep up with mixing and serving drinks, collecting payments and keeping the beer flowing. I passed with flying colors. With my high passing grades I was quickly hired at a chain restaurant. Working the bar scene – who could ask for more. My customers loved me! The tips were great, the nightlife was wonderful, not to mention I received free meals from the restaurant. The only drawback was that I was surrounded continually by men, men who wanted to take me out, men who wanted to date me. So I made a rule – don’t date the customers. This seemed to keep them at bay.


Part of working for a chain restaurant required wearing a flashy uniform, which consisted of a black and white striped blouse made out of highly flammable polyester, a pair of black pants in the same fabric, and a cute little bar apron which I wore cinched at my waist. I was also required to wear pins, pieces of flash the higher ups called them. I was more concerned with keeping all of my body inside of the uniform, as the fit was quite tight. It was a good thing I was tall and lean. Poor Donna, the head waitress, her uniform seemed to gather in the folds of her back and thighs, creating quite a picture from the rear. When she bent over there was a bright flash, many a times I wish I had averted my eyes in time.

I was flourishing at this job, loving what I was doing, when suddenly it all changed. It was a Friday afternoon; the slow start to a busy Friday night, and in walked Derek. I must admit he turned my head, a few times. He was the cliché tall, dark and handsome. He had the dark hair, dark features, brilliant blue eyes and a five o’clock shadow (even though it was only 3 o’clock). He wore a white T-shirt that hugged his chest and showed off his biceps and chest. I could only imagine that he had a flat stomach and thick strong thighs. He strolled right into the bar, waving the hostess away as if she were a fly. He sat in the prime seat for watching the bartender, the big screen TV and the front door. In his deep gravelly voice he asked for the house draft. In my bumbling state I managed to overfill the beer which spilled all over my pants and shoes. I managed a weak smile and placed his mug in front him. I proceeded on with my work, ignoring him, refilling the peanut bowls, which I knocked off of the bar, into the beer spill. The mixture of peanuts and beer on the floor caused me to slip a few times while I tried to remain cool and calm. We did a little chit chatting before the bar got busy with Happy Hour. I found out he was a bouncer at the local A-lister club, the place I could never get into because I wasn’t on the list. I was very impressed with him; to get a job there you had to know certain people who knew certain people. Before he left, we exchanged phone numbers. I was elated. I hoped he would call, but didn’t want to jinx it, so I tried not to think about it, chanting to myself over and over “stay away, stay away”.

He called me a few days later and we began a whirlwind romance. He wined and dined me, took me to fancy dinners, bought me flowers we spent a long weekend on Catalina Island. Before long he was spending almost every night at my little studio apartment. I thought it was love and that we were on the verge of something big, moving in together.

My girlfriends talked me into visiting Derek’s club on our next girl’s night out. I felt certain that we could all get in – I was definitely on the A-list since I was practically living with the bouncer. We spent hours getting ready: bustiers, black bras under transparent tops, mini- skirts, torn leggings. We sprayed our hair up into stiff sculpted creations, outlined our eyes with thick dark eyeliner, our eyes also thick with eye shadow. The beads, earrings and bracelets were methodically placed for the best effect. We looked like a famous girl band by the time we were ready. We stood in line at the club; I was looking for Derek, knowing that he was working that night. I made my way up to the front of the line, pushing a few girls out of the way with my elbows. The heavyset bouncer was not Derek. When I told him who I was and why my friends and I should be let in, his head fell back and he let out a deep belly laugh. Derek had been let go about a month ago, he had been caught going through the coats and purses of the guests. It was also quite possible that Derek had been the one to break into the club after hours and make off with about $2,000.00 that had been left in the cash register, but there was no proof of that. “Umm, oh, thanks,” I mumbled as I and backed up with a fake smile. I stomped back through the crowed, this time pushing the crowd out of my way. I didn’t tell the girls what I found out; just that I had to go, I was suddenly feeling sick. They didn’t seem to mind, because in the short time that I had been gone, they had hooked up with a group of guys that resembled a famous 80’s band.

I wasn’t exactly sure where Derek called home, but I did have a general idea. I drove around in what I thought was his neighborhood, hoping I wouldn’t run out of gas before I found him. Then I saw his car, the shiny black two door BMW with the vanity plates, DEREK1, it was parked in front of a tiny square pink stucco house. There were a few garden gnomes interspersed throughout the dead flowers in the front yard and a truck tire lying on its side filled with dirt, and more dead flowers. I would have to get the name of this guy’s landscaper. Through the open kitchen window I could hear a woman yelling. I could hear a man’s voice answering back in a soft whimper. Hidden by the overgrown hedge I crept down the driveway toward the side of the house. I stood on my tiptoes and peeked into the kitchen window.

Sitting at the Formica topped kitchen table was a man that closely resembled Derek. The man was balding except for a little hair around the edges of his scalp and brown eyes; it could be Derek’s older brother. He sat at the table a red cloth napkin tied around his neck, an empty plate in front of him. His head was tilted down and his shoulders hunched as the woman yelled at him. The tiny woman paced back and forth yelling and waving a big wooden spoon. Her hair in rows of tiny curlers, worn out slippers and a threadbare house dress completed her ensemble. She stopped yelling for a moment to fill up a plate of pasta. When he began eating, I realized the man was Derek, I recognized the way he shoveled the pasta into his mouth and I could smell his cologne from where I stood on the other side of the kitchen wall. The woman yelling at him must have been his mother.

His looks only cemented in my mind the depths of his trickery, I decided to go ahead and confront him, at least I could let him know I found out about him, break up with him first. I feebly knocked on the front door, the voices stopped but no one came to the door. So I knocked again, this time a little harder. Through the opaque glass on the front I could see a bulky figure walking toward the door. The door opened with a quick jerk and Derek was saying, “Connie, I told you stop coming around…” His jaw dropped and his hand flew up to his baldhead when he saw it wasn’t Connie but his sweetness June. A wave of red began to creep up his neck and face, he couldn’t manage any words, and he just stood there looking at me.

His mother peered from around his arm; she didn’t even come up to his shoulder. She waved her spoon at me and in a thick Italian accent asked, “Are you one of his girlfriends?” “I used to be,” I responded back to her with a smile. “My son is a thief and a lazy no good for nothing. If I was you missy, I would pretend you never met him.” She had something in her hand; that I thought was a rat or small cat. She tossed it at me and it landed at my feet. I realized it was Derek’s hair. Before he could pick it up I managed to grab it in two hands. “Derek, where did you get this? Did you rummage through someone’s purses to buy this? Or, did you get Connie to buy it for you?” He mumbled back to me that Connie had bought it for him. “And, who is Connie anyway?” I demanded to know. “She’s my wife.” His head hung down lower. “Well, I just want you to know, that I am breaking up with you, lose my number, and lose my name! And, stay away from my bar!” With my head held high and my spine erect, I turned and walked back toward my car twirling Derek’s hair on my forefinger and whistling. Even though he had used me I held in my hands his ego. As I was opening my car door a flashy red corvette sped down the street, screeched to a stop blocking the BMW. The woman who got out wore black stiletto heels, she had shoulder pads that made her look like a linebacker and her hair was slicked back into a tight tiny little bun. She made me shudder. Upon closer inspection she was at least 60, her bun was so tight, it pulled her face up and got rid of her sagging face. “Are you Connie?” I asked safely from the other side of her car. “Yes, who wants to know?” she snapped back at me. “No one important, I just thought you might want to have some property back.” I tossed Derek’s hair over to her and she caught it with her blood red talons.

I drove home, this time I wasn’t depressed, mad or upset. I turned the radio up loud, rolled down my windows and let the wind tousle my hair. I laughed all the way home thinking of Derek rubbing his baldhead, hiding from Connie and living with his mother. I had made a step in the right direction. This time I had found out what a loser he was and I had the upper hand, now if I could just get rid of the loser part I would be all set!

Impressum

Texte: No part of this book may be copied or used on any web-site without permission from the author.
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 10.04.2010

Alle Rechte vorbehalten