The Ballad of Jake

It had been almost a month since we hit the Lava Lounge, and consequently a month since we had seen our friend Greg. He was overjoyed at our return. As we entered the bar he began to mock us loudly, in faux irritation. He’s wonderful. We explained our hiatus. It’s remarkable that we’re there so frequently that our absence requires explanation. His ex-girlfriend was there too. She’s always there, and I can never remember her name. She’s cool. They have the most amazing relationship. I understand they were an item for quite a length of time. They broke up, and she hated him for quite a while. Now they hang out at this bar every Saturday night. They’re best friends. The dynamic is odd but cool. There was also a very drunk older-looking fellow named Jake sitting on the other side of her. He was quite drunk, and loud, and flirting with anything female that will listen to him. Unfortunately, this included my wife. He was trying to talk to her through, over, and around Greg’s girlfriend, whom he’d given up on. My wife is occasionally struck dumb with inexplicable politeness. This night was one of those occasions. I kept suggesting that if she would quit looking down that way and obliging him, he might leave her alone. Instead, she just suffered though it, and complained to me sideways. Eventually he learned that she was a teacher, and he blurted out, “I wish I had a teacher that looked as nice as you.” Immediately afterwards, feigning embarrassment, he said, “I’m sorry! That wasn’t right. Let me buy you a drink.” Greg wasn’t helping. These sorts of bizarre situations amuse him. He likes to fuel them. Jake is basically harmless, and just seems to like talking about himself. He’s got an endless love for the sound of his own voice. It’s kind of touching, in a strange way. He talked about his service in Vietnam, the strange white streak that he’s developed in his mustache, volunteering at the animal shelter, how he knows all the Pittsburgh Steelers, and how the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette wants him to write some sort of column, or book, or essay, or something on some subject that only he is qualified to write…but he won’t because he’s too busy, or it’s below him or something. He’s endearing, irritating, charming, and annoying, all at once. He claimed to be 47 years old. It’s 2007. If he’s 47, then he was born in 1960. The Vietnam War took place from 1965 to 1975. That means that he would've had to have entered the service before he was 15. That seems difficult to swallow. My guess is that he’s not really 47. Eventually, my wife and I decided that we needed to eat something. So we walked to a Thai place down the street to get some take-out to bring back to the bar and eat there. We hoped that he would be drunk off his stool or would have left by the time of our return. This was not the case. We sat down at the other end of the bar with our fried rice, chicken, and tofu. It was incredible. Eating in bars is wonderful. Jake was aware that we’d returned and he was still shouting inane stories down to my wife and laughing at his own jokes. A new girl walked into the bar. She was cute and young. Greg said her name is Claire. She plopped down right beside Jake, and we all cringed. He started back at the beginning. All the same stories. It was punishing. His bullshit was difficult enough to endure the first time. The second time around it was even worse, though kind of amusing now that we could anticipate the punchlines before they come. At one point, my wife turned to Claire and asked if she’d like to escape down to our end of the bar, to come sit with us. She smiled, and said that she was doing all right. The unexpected turn came when he announced that he was a libertine, and Claire asked if he really meant that he was a libertarian. It was genuinely funny, and we all laughed hard. And Jake said, “I’m sure the teacher can tell us all the difference between a libertine and a libertarian!”

A Strange Thing Happened While Leaving the Bar

A strange thing happened while leaving the bar. We left the Lava Lounge and headed down East Carson for the Moose. To our left, out of some deep shadows, emerged a woman looking to be about 45 years old. Blond perm, nondescript clothing. She was clutching a purse. She was drunk, at minimum, if not also high on something. Her eyes were glassy, and she was semi-coherent. There was a pack of frat boys in front of us. As soon as she emerged, they fled, as I’m sure they could tell that she didn’t bring good news. So she latched onto my wife, and said, “He’s going to beat me.” There was nobody around. She pointed down the street in the direction that we were walking, at a fat-looking Italian guy, average height, also about 45 to 50-ish. He was almost a full block ahead of us. My immediate thought was, “If she’s concerned that he’s going to beat her, why is she following him?” She was very nearly in hysterics. I positioned myself between the two of them, and my wife began to coach the woman. She suggested that she simply walk the other way, or dart into a bar and ask the bartender to call the police. She wouldn’t do that. My wife offered her use of her cell phone to call police. She wouldn’t do that. She said she lived in Ohio, and needed him to give her a ride home. As we approached a very busy, well-lit intersection in the middle of the Southside, he had stopped, turned around and was waiting. As we got closer, he said curtly, “We’re parked over here.” He gestured into a parking lot. She went over to him, looked back at us, and said, “Call 911.” They walked over to a car I assume was theirs and started quarreling. We made no phone calls, and just kept walking. I wondered if I was supposed to insert myself into that situation, and find myself getting mugged at gun- or knife-point. I wondered if she was out of her mind on a very bad trip. I wondered if this was her way of trying to get back at him for something. I wondered if she was sincere. If I called the police, I would sound ridiculous telling them the story. I never saw him do anything violent, or even heard him say anything violent. I really had no reason to suspect that he was a hostile or abusive guy except for the ramblings of this semi-coherent drunk woman. I felt badly, but absolutely unsure of what I should do or should have done. I just don’t understand why she would have been following him, if she was scared of him. Any time I’ve ever been that sincerely scared of something in my life, I’ve always gone the other way.

Vernon

Vernon is, by far, the strongest guy at the gym. He’s about 6’ tall, no less than 350 pounds, very black, and very quiet. It’s not that he’s shy. He just doesn’t do a lot of talking. He doesn’t waste time. He’s all business, and he lifts substantially heavier than everybody else at the gym. I’ve seen him leg press 1200 pounds for eight reps, shoulder press 315 for six, and bench press 315 for 15. He’s a very friendly guy with a warm personality. Recently he’s taken to having me spot him on his lifts. I appreciate that sort of confidence. He must trust me to know what I’m doing. It always makes me nervous, though, because I generally doubt my ability to pull that kind of weight off him if the need arises.

Get a Mop!

We were walking through Squirrel Hill. My wife wanted to have a look around a particular used clothing store, and I wanted a look around a used record store just a few stores down on the same street. About a block away from our destination, we noticed a large fire truck parked in front. We got closer. There was no fire, only disappointment. I did notice, though, that there was a great deal of water flowing out through the door of the storefront onto the street. No people rushing about. Whatever it was, it must not have been too urgent or dangerous. Nothing was sectioned off. No cops. We walked right between the fire truck and the store front. It’s a store that sells sexy womens’ undergarments. The image of racks of lacy womens’ panties standing above substantial flooding was quite funny. It reminded me of an old boss for whom I used to work, “T.” When he’d see a woman act excited in ordinary situations, he’d blurt out, “Get a mop!” When I saw the flooded store, I laughed out loud, because I imagined how happy that sight would have made him, and I could hear his catchphrase all over again in my head.

New People

We met some new people last night. First-timers. They were very nice. They looked good and had decent taste in beer. They were also quite visibly nervous. First-timers always are. She was tenser than he was. My wife and I have done this many times. We’re quite accustomed to it, and we did our best to help ease their tension. She’s 22, and he’s 27. If I understand correctly, they have been together off-and-on for a few years, though this time around, they’ve only been together for about a month. That’s sort of a red flag, but I don’t care. By the end of our dinner and beers, they had reversed roles. She seemed more at ease than he did, and we parted with the honest intent of pursuing it further. I doubt that we’ll ever hear from them again.