Wednesday, February 27, 2013

A Portent of Things To Come

Nope, I'm not writing a state-of-the-blog post promising all sorts of exciting things I have in store for the next few posts (I have a few ideas, but I'm not making any promises). Rather, this is a story I've told some people in the past; a story that came up in conversation with my roommate tonight, and I figured putting it down in print would be a fun way to re-live it a little bit.

As I recall, this all took place in the glorious sumer between my senior year of high school and my freshman year of college. I was a precocious eighteen year old, completely immersed in the retro revival of the late nineties and early aughts. It was the Fourth of July, and my best friend and I were going to see The Reverend Horton Heat at The Great American Music Hall here in San Francisco. I feel like maybe this was even the first time I ever saw him live, but that is inconsequential to the story at hand.

So there I was, a retro-tastic teen, in black slacks, Chuck Taylors, and a bowling-type shirt in black and red with buttons that looked like dice. So in other words, I thought I looked like a million bucks. My friend and I had experienced a change of plans and ended up with hours to kill before the show, so we spent it as all broke teenagers would when stranded in the Geary and Van Ness area -- we spent like two hours drinking coffee at Mel's Diner. Needless to say, this did not ingratiate us to the waitstaff, who was out two counter spots on a combined $2.00 tab. Regardless, we sat and drank coffees until we just couldn't drink coffee anymore.

We got to the show, took in the opening band (maybe Southern Culture on the Skids?) and pressed the flesh with other locals that we knew from the rockabilly and swing scene. At some point, the coffee kicked in and we both had to run to the bathroom to empty our caffeine-addled bladders.

I made my way out of the bathroom before my friend, and stood there in the balcony of the venue, probably posturing to show off how well put together I was. In under a minute, and older woman walked up to me. Remember, I was eighteen, so "older" probably meant something like mid-to-late twenties, but regardless, I saw her look me up and down and make her way over. Naturally, I straightened up and played it all cool and casual.

I asked "Hey.. how's it going?"

"Pretty good -hey, I just had to tell you something."

Naturally, I figured she was going to tell me I was the best looking guy in the room, or that I was everything she could dream of in a man. Because how could she not? So, with sultry gaze in tow, I cooly lifted my eyebrows and said

"Really.... what is it you have to..... tell me?"

"You have toilet paper stuck to the heel of your shoe. I figured you'd want to know before you went downstairs."

And with that, my cool, calm collected facade shattered like a cheap mirror, I blushed redder than my shirt, and thanked her profusely for the heads up.

Lesson Learned: Nope, she's not interested. 

Alas, that lesson has been the most consistently applicable one I've learned in pretty much my entire dating life. Oh, and to always check your shoes when you make that first step out of the bathroom.