We made our way up to the bar and squeezed in… I exposed a bitta cleavage, hoping to quench my thirst faster than the other 30 patrons who also had their hands waving money at the overworked and underpaid bar staff.
He was a few feet away from me. He kept looking at me in an intrusive and blatant manner. A manner I was not familiar with. I pretended not to notice. After 10 minutes of him doing this, I couldn’t pretend anymore.
“I’m Selina” I said as I extended my hand.
His face turned Red
“Connor” he said as he looked down at the floor
His accent was thicker than expired molasses. He wasn’t from around here, not even from this corner of the world. At first guess I thought “Scottish”, but his face and furrowed brows told me otherwise.
“Are you Irish?” I asked
“Yes. I’m here on a work permit…”
“Interesting… I’m Welsh.”
I nodded at the bartender “I’ll have a double rye and ginger”
His look was that of frustration, his mannerisms awkward at best, he didn’t feel comfortable with himself or me. He was as out of place as a meth-head in a Buddhist temple.
My friend and I decided to make the general vicinity we were standing in our permanent drinking area… Nice and close to the bar, that way we could maximize our consumption and not lose any valuable drinking time traveling.
We turned our attention away from Connor and his two friends and began catching up… Talking about our lives, laughing at the trainwreck beside us who had the fashion sense of a blind amish-turned-new-wave woman from 1984.
Out of the corner of my eye I watched Connor. He was talking to himself and pacing… His friends oblivious. He kept looking over with an angry frustrated face, as if I had done something to him… “He’s a weird one” I thought to myself. Angry and and fucked up and ready to brawl.
I was curious though.
I took a few steps toward him “Are you okay?”
“What the fuck do you care… Go back to your drink… Don’t worry about me” he said.
My eyes widened… My jaw dropped. I indeed went back to my drink, threw it back harshly and quickly and put on my game face.
Eventually he was in front of me again…
We proceeded to argue intensely about a variety of things. I must have said “fuck you” a hundred times. He was obsessively argumentative, overly aggressive, and god damn strange… He had his gloves off, wasn’t holding back… Neither was I.
He knocked me down once or twice. I put him in his place several times, before growing tired of the game. I wasn’t out to fight… I just wanted to get pissed.
“You are a miserable jaded fuck… Have a nice evening!” I smiled and was about to walk away.
He grabbed my face and kissed me.
True story… Happened about 4 years ago. Still puzzles me to this day.
Speaking of the Irish… I created a few kick-ass St. Patrick’s Day t-shirts. Click here to visit the Lingo Slinger Apparel shop. C’mon, where else are you gonna find a “Fuck Me I’m Irish” shirt?!