It's Friday night, and we're making our way to our favorite bar. Walking up the sidewalk, we see a line outside about 20 people long.
We hear shouting as we get closer. "We can only take 2 more people," the guy checking IDs yells to the people waiting. A loud groan from the line. "Who's up for Eddie's?" my friend Events Coordinator asks.
We all squeal. "Let's do it!" I chime in. News Anchor and Social Worker agree, and the girls and I pile back into the car.
Eddies is a famous bar in town. It's run by a man who is probably 60 years old, and he still bartends the place. I've never been before, but I've heard stories. The girls are regulars there, and besides, who doesn't need to make a few memories? I'm tired of the same ol', same ol' anyway.
Upon arrival, we see the same thing: a line out the door. However, this time we were willing to wait because the bouncer was making room for everyone. IDs in hand, we breeze past the door and inside the building.
Pushing past the shoulder-to-shoulder people, I notice the place is extremely dark, except for the glow of a huge, ghetto jukebox in the corner. Plastered over every square inch of the walls and ceiling are dollar bills that people have autographed. The place smells like an ashtray. Interesting.
Squinting and looking around, I was expecting a nasty crowd of people, considering we were in a shady part of town. However, it was quite the opposite. Everything from boots and belt buckles to metrosexuals. While the atmosphere left something to be desired, I was impressed nonetheless.
We waddle up to the bar and order Eddie's signature drink, The Dirty Lemonade -- beer, orange juice and amaretto -- and grab a tiny table in the back. As we slug down our Dirty Lemonades, my girl friend Social Worker and I decide we're not waiting -- we're getting another beer before it gets any more crowded.
"I can't believe the crowd here!" I exclaim. "You wouldn't expect these types of people at a little whole-in-the-wall place."
"You'd be surprised at who you'd meet here," Social Worker said.
Pushing through to the front, we bump into a group of really drunk dudes. I politely say "excuse me" as the tallest one whips around. During his about-face, he accidentally spills his beer on my chest, right between my breasts. "I'm so sorry!" he apologizes. His friends laugh hysterically. "Let me help you dry that off," he said grinning. He reaches for my boobs, going for the kill.
I gasp, push his hand away and say, "I will knock you to next Tuesday if try that shit with me." He seemed mildly amused by my reaction, and his friend makes an inaudible comment. They laugh again. Glaring at them, I whip around, order my beer, and make my way back to my seat. I couldn't wait to tell the group what had happened.
"The nerve!" I said, telling them the story. "What's happened to all the romantic and polite gentlemen?!" I ask. "That was pretty nervy," Social Worker adds. "Men!" News Anchor exclaims. "Can't live with 'em. Can't kill 'em!" We laugh.
If that incident had happened any where else besides Oklahoma, I might have been worried. Good thing it was probably just a couple of good ol' boys looking for a laugh. Trying to shake it off, I finish my beer. As I look around, I wonder if I can brave the druken perverts for one more trip to the bar. My love for beer overrides my common sense, and I get up to push through one more time.
By this point, it is so packed, I'm practically shoving people out of my way. I get near the front, and a tall, very handsome gentleman with a gotee turns to the side to let me past him. I smile, we lock eyes for a second, and I say a polite "thank you." He smiles. The bar appears through the wall of people. I push money into the bartender's hand while he passes me a Bud Light.
The final challenging walk to the table is ended as I plop down. At least I escaped the perverts, I think. More of our guy friends have joined us at this point, and we're chatting with them about the earlier incident. They're naturally appalled.
Just then, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I am hesitant to turn around. While my first reaction was it was proabaly the Boob Grabber, I was pleasantly surprised.
"Are you here with anyone?"
"Me? Oh goodness, no," I reply, smiling. He extends his hand.
It was the goteed gentleman from a few mintues ago. He is much better looking up closer. "My name is Ned, and I would be very interested in getting to know you outside of this setting."
I blush and cover my face in my hands. Laughing sheepishly, I take his outstretched hand. "Well thank you, Ned. My name is Sandra Dee." He cups my hand with his other hand. I am still blushing. Dammit, I'm never good with this. Thank goodness this bar is dark.
"I don't have my cell phone with me, or I would ask for your phone number. Do you have a business card?" he asks.
I rumage around for my card holder and pull it out. As I write my cell phone number on the back of it, I ask for his card in return. He smiles and hands one to me.
"I look forward to talking with you again and getting to know you better, Sandra Dee," Ned said. "Have a wonderful evening." And with that, he left.
Who said all of the gentlemen were gone?
