My Job, Part III

My Mexican table partner never returned. It now only me and the girl who starts conversations, "Let's talk about RELATIONSHIPS." It turns out she's writing a book about why men cheat. I told her to refer to Chris Rock for all the wisdom on the matter, which he can sum up in two words: New Pussy.

"So, Greg, what do you think about women who ask men out?"

My body's red light warning signals are going off. Overweight girl on the prowl. I've been dodging these kinds of incidents since middle school dances, as my friends and I would dodge L---- and A----, when they went on aggressive campaigns, intent on dancing with us. We had plans on how to evade the attacks, which involved working together to avoid capture. But when the time came, and L----- snuck around the corner of a couple dancing, with her eyes locked on you, our battle plans always broke down and it became every man for himself, like 'Nam. I'd take evasive measures, bobbing and weaving between dancing couples, trying to lead her towards the paths of my buddies, who she might grab instead.

"I don't know. Ask Sid."

She turns to Sid, behind me.

"Sid, what do you think of women who ask men out."

"It's fucking awesome!"

Sid is no help. There are no evasive measures to be taken. It's 11am and I'm stuck at this table, alone, with a girl who somewhere along the line decided in her head, that she was going to ask me out. It was to be a long day.

"So, you didn't answer my question - what do you think of a woman who asks a man out?"

"To be honest, I think I like to be the pursuer." (I lied)

"What's your favorite food?"

"What?"

"What's your favorite kind of food?"

"I don't know. What kind of question is that? It depends what kind of mood I'm in."

"What are your pet peeves?"

"Huh? What's with all these questions? What's your pet peeve?"

"I don't like men who lie and cheat."

"Oh." My phone rings. Thank God.

A few minutes later....

"So what were your pet peeves?"

"When people takes themselves too seriously."

"OHHHH, that's really interesting. Wow. I haven't heard that before. I like that."

Oh man.

"So, do you think that you would know if someone liked you?"

Can a brother get some help here? I'm dying. It's noon. I pretend like I don't hear/understand the question. I am a pussy. I should have dropped the, I happen to be seeing someone bit somewhere in the conversation, it is what a normal person would do. But for some reason, I find it tacky when people do such things, so I refrain from some weird sense of integrity.

I need a way out. I look towards the group. Guys talk about sports. I jump in. Thank the lord for sports talk.

Later in day, I'm in the breakroom, finishing up my book. The lady in love with Johnnie Cochran comes down.

"They crazy up there."

"I know it."

"Ersay think he in charge."

I laugh. This lady, who I found irritating at the beginning, has become one of my favorites. Earlier in the day, she tried to get a group together to jump Ersay (the "lead" in the parking lot during a cigarette break). She decided against the plan when Ersay revealed he might be coming back next week. She begged to be on board.

"I need a job where I don't got to think. Just mindless work. I ain't trying to take work home with me."

When her table partner makes her laugh, she yelps, "He crazy. He crazy!" She may be a genius.

I dread leaving the break room and my book, but it's been 35 minutes (20 minutes too long) and I must return. She is there. She hands me a blank card, with spaces for name and address and phone number.

"Fill this out."

"Why?"

"So I can have your contact info."

"You want my home address?"

"No, just name and email."

I fill it out with my hotmail address, one I rarely use. I don't know why that would make any difference. It's what I give to potential spammers. She hands me the other half of card, which is her info. She is a beauty consultant for Mary Kay.

"What blog software do you use?"

I regret mentioning blogging earlier in the week. Dammit.