It was 4:00 p.m. on my second day of graduate school, and I was already in need of a beer. So, like most grad students, I spent three of my last five dollars buying a cold beer on a crappy afternoon. The bar I chose turned into an undergraduate hangout on weekends -- famous for bartenders who didn't card and sorority girls who dressed to be laid. But on a Tuesday at four o' clock, it was a few fellas and me.
I grabbed a beer and a bar stool next to the man who seemed the least busy. He was staring through the flashing colors of one of those pay-a-quarter-play-a-poker-game machine thingies, and his mind was obviously on other things. I'd no sooner started talking to him than he admitted that he was already late for work. I legitimately felt bad for him -- the statement: "Sorry I'm late for work, I was staring at one of those pay-a-quarter-play-a-poker-game machine thingies," is no way to start a shift.
Even so, my introduction had caught the attention of the bartender. Could I follow him to his office? This seemed like a reasonable request, and so I went. He was funnier than I first perceived because this "office" was the filthy, straw-strewn table that had the best view of the television. "Can't ask me anything without watching Springer," he said.
Rocco the bartender seemed like your average guy. He had a medium build obscured under a mottled, threadbare, cotton t-shirt. His hairstyle suggested that he hadn't changed it since high school graduation in the early 90s. And as I soon found out, this thirty-year-old-bartender loves vodka and orange juice, has no opinion on the California governor recall, and is currently experiencing a stagnated love life.
"How do you meet women?" I asked.
"Being myself," he replied confidently.
"Does it work?"
"Not in a while," he said chuckling.
Here in our conversation Rocco became engrossed in a Springer battle. Was I getting snubbed or was he just bored? Talking over shrieks of "you don't know me you don't know me" I asked him about injuries -- everyone has that one childhood war story. As it turns out, our fair hero is no different. A cyst in the back of his throat laid him out for a week. Worse than the hospital stay, it rendered him incapable of swallowing.
"That sounds terrible!" I practically spewed pity.
"I wasn't worried about it," he said in a nonchalant, macho way.
I don't know if it was Rocco, Jerry Springer, or me that brought him to our table, but a fellow with a Jethro Bodine quality and an enormous chicken sandwich found himself a nesting spot in the chair next to mine. His rowdy interruptions, abhorrent table manners, and ceaseless fidgeting practically pleaded, "Pay attention to me." He finally got the better of me. I turned my questions toward this rambunctious good ol' boy who responded with a liberal dose of his life philosophy.
Johnny-come-lately's name isn't actually Johnny, but Rob. He's 30. And single ladies, he's a smooth talker. His favorite pickup line? "Do you like cats? I know this great Korean place and I've never been able to eat whole one." He said it somewhat facetiously but I bristled at this new level of vulgarity.
Apparently a pickup line or two has succeeded for him because Rob talked a bit about an ex-girlfriend -- an ex-girlfriend who may have tried to cheat on him with Rocco. To this Rocco said solemnly, "Anyone who's ever had a girlfriend has been cheated on." Rob clarified this statement for me by stating that everyone in their early 20s, cheats. The fundamental difference, however, is that men are smarter about it. The men, you see, find one night stands. But the women, "will like sleep with the guy's roommate. As if he's not going to find that one out."
"What is your biggest regret?" I had begun asking my questions of both of them. Quiet, bartending Rocco nodded sadly and said "selling my house." Not quiet, not bartending Rob said, "I don't have any regrets. Except, awww, sleepin' with that two-hundred-pound woman. Just an estimate. I didn't put her on a scale." An eavesdropper from the bar added, "As big as John Goodman but not as good looking."
By now all of my senses were offended. I was feeling the onset of serious anger over how society treats women who aren't built like super models when Rob blurted out, "She wasn't that big!" He was referencing a Springer guest whose knees, when sitting, were wholly obscured by her impressively-sized breasts. I laughed in spite of myself.
Rob is a veteran of Desert Storm. It was apparent to me that the Gulf War was one thing he didn't want to talk about. He offered me a few logistical details about being deployed from Japan and serving on two aircraft carriers -- the U.S.S. Midway and the U.S.S. Independent. Beyond this he seemed to be searching for something to say about the war. Instead, he avoided the topic and steered our discussion toward old war movies -- a conversation topic that restored him to the buoyant personality he had when he entered the bar. He loved Midway, Tora Tora Tora, and The Longest Day. "That was great!" he said about The Longest Day. I secretly contemplated his attitude change and wondered for the millionth time if it was true that all the glorious heroics of war were confined to Hollywood reproductions.
I didn't ask the question but it was important to Rob that I know that he hated racism. I was impressed for a quarter of a second until I remembered his pickup line and the fact that Midway is hardly PC. Couldn't he see the contradiction? Or was there a qualifier I was missing? Did he think racism was bad only when it was directed at certain peoples?
With my interview done, Rob insisted that it was time for them to interview me. I still had some beer left so what the hell. What did they want to know? I waited for probing, personal questions. All I got was a weird silence. And then the eavesdropper: "He wants to know if you ever slept with someone you interviewed." Sorry, boys.
As I downed the last, warm drops of my beer, Rob observed that perhaps this couldn't become a "talking to strangers" article. After all, we weren't strangers anymore. We were, as Rob said, "like Forrest Gump and the bus driver."
