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Luis the Busboy
Jan. 31st, 2008 04:09 pmSo someone at the Irish pub just tried to pick me up.
A Hispanic busboy, to be precise, whose entire grasp of English--far as I could tell--was a heavily accented, "I like you."
It actually would have been pretty cute and flattering, to be perfectly honest, if he hadn't chosen to do so while I was at the urinal.
Because the urinal is a sacred space. A stranger who tries to strike up a conversation at the urinal is instantly deemed a douchebag, and possibly a creep as well. It's hard enough to get the flow going when you're distracted, but to be interrupted mid-stream is just... well, it's like trying to touch someone daemon, it just doesn't happen!
And so there I am, peeing away and settling down before heading back to my cheeseburger and pint of Harp, editing my latest Hefner Monologue about the trip to Seattle and about Nicola... when the guy hands me a little slip of paper with his name and number on it.
"I like you." As if I were getting hit on by Manuel from FAWLTY TOWERS or something.
I stuck around for another hour, because damn it, I was getting into the flow (har-har) of the editing, and was buzzing nicely from the beer, and was more or less able to forget about it and concentrate. Still, he'd come back every ten minutes like a good busboy to refresh my water (I drink like a fish, and thus have the bladder of an old man) and see if I was done picking at my burger. Once the writing was done and I paid the waiter, I slipped out undetected.
Once again, I thought about how much easier it might be for me if I really were gay, instead of just the gayest straight guy most of my friends know. But even if a sexy girl hit me up mid-pee, that'd still just be wrong, man. Not cool.
I told this to Mom ten minutes ago. She's still howling with cackles.
A Hispanic busboy, to be precise, whose entire grasp of English--far as I could tell--was a heavily accented, "I like you."
It actually would have been pretty cute and flattering, to be perfectly honest, if he hadn't chosen to do so while I was at the urinal.
Because the urinal is a sacred space. A stranger who tries to strike up a conversation at the urinal is instantly deemed a douchebag, and possibly a creep as well. It's hard enough to get the flow going when you're distracted, but to be interrupted mid-stream is just... well, it's like trying to touch someone daemon, it just doesn't happen!
And so there I am, peeing away and settling down before heading back to my cheeseburger and pint of Harp, editing my latest Hefner Monologue about the trip to Seattle and about Nicola... when the guy hands me a little slip of paper with his name and number on it.
"I like you." As if I were getting hit on by Manuel from FAWLTY TOWERS or something.
I stuck around for another hour, because damn it, I was getting into the flow (har-har) of the editing, and was buzzing nicely from the beer, and was more or less able to forget about it and concentrate. Still, he'd come back every ten minutes like a good busboy to refresh my water (I drink like a fish, and thus have the bladder of an old man) and see if I was done picking at my burger. Once the writing was done and I paid the waiter, I slipped out undetected.
Once again, I thought about how much easier it might be for me if I really were gay, instead of just the gayest straight guy most of my friends know. But even if a sexy girl hit me up mid-pee, that'd still just be wrong, man. Not cool.
I told this to Mom ten minutes ago. She's still howling with cackles.
