What Are They Doing In There?

There's a Chinese restaurant up at the corner. They have great food... when you can get it.

We've called and been told we can only order if we can be there in ten minutes to pick it up. We've been told we can order, but it will take an hour. We've been allowed to order only after undergoing a quiz as to what exactly we might be ordering.

The best was, we called and were told they would love to take our order, but they were out of rice. Rice!

Does McDonald's run out of french fries? Does Starbucks run out of coffee? (And, they're a block or so away from a grocery store. Apparently buying more rice was not an option.)

We can't help but wonder what they do back in the kitchen, since it apparently does not involve running a restaurant.

On a similar note: next door to one of the places where I work is an accountant's office. Ah, but it's not just an accountant's office. It's also a notary public. Well, sure: I get that.

And, they've got a licensed realtor in there. Sure. Do your taxes, sell your house, one place. Cool. Oh -- there's also an ad agency in there. It's not much of an ad agency, since it's not advertised. But it's there.

But wait! Do you need promotional items packaged? They can do that for you. Hold on! Do you need a passport photo taken? They're there for you.

What especially fascinates me about this place is, with all these businesses going on, no one's going in. Not a lot of traffic there.

The Night I Got Picked Up

First let me tell you, there was this fellow I worked with. Let's call him Tommy. Nice fellow with a distinctive mid-Atlantic accent.

Okay then. So I was at this party one night and, at this party, was a fellow who looked very much like Tommy. Very much. As the evening progressed, eye contact was made, glances exchanged, smiles traded.

Finally he walks up. "Hi," he says, in a very distinctive mid-Atlantic accent, "I'm Tommy."

I had enough to drink to find myself suddenly in a panic, afraid that I had, in fact, spent part of the evening cruising the fellow I worked with. But no; a few moments conversation made it clear it was just a coincedence.

Suddenly, and completely out of the blue as regards the conversation we were having, the Party-Tommy picked me up. I mean physically. I mean in his arms. I am not a small fellow. I am not a light fellow. I was rather taken by surprise.

He then carried me from one side of the kitchen to the other, where he deposited me on the counter and began to explain, in explicit detail, what acts he would like to perform upon my private parts. He had, I must say, quite an imagination. Sadly, he never hit on one that caught my fancy.

Working On Sunday Morning

Several Sundays ago, as I was riding my bike to work, I saw a man.

He was very well dressed. Stylish, obviously expensive jeans. A sharp-looking sport coat. A professionally-pressed shirt, pink, with a white collar.

He was walking south on Clark Street, a cigarette in one hand, held, I would say, with a jaunty air.

Well, perhaps walking is a bit too kind. Staggering, if only slightly, would be more accurate.

He caught sight of me as I passed by. He called out to me: "Hey! How do I look?!"

I didn't respond.

At work, I related this anecdote to co-workers which led to a delightful discussion of The Things One Sees When One Goes To Work On Sunday Morning. Folks making the Walk of Shame, out and about on Sunday morning in clothes so well suited to a Saturday night at the bar.

I couldn't help but wonder, where was this guy coming from at 10 in the morning on a sunny Sunday morning? A bar? A party?

The Tale Of The Evanston Matron

Several years ago, I had a part time job up in Evanston (a suburb, just north of Chicago). One fine day, feeling thirsty, I hung my "Back in a few minutes" sign in the window and went down to the drugstore on the corner.

With my soda pop in hand, I got in line behind a woman, very nicely dressed, well-groomed, perhaps around 50 or so. She had her ATM card in hand, staring at Alma, the cashier. Alma was staring down aisle five. Alma... it was my opinion that Alma kept her job solely through inertia. She was rarely helpful and never efficient.

I noticed that the ATM keypad was blinking "Re-enter PIN." Since Matron was staring at Alma and Alma was staring down the aisle, neither noticed the message. Trying to be helpful, I pointed it out to Matron.

At some point, a man had gotten in line behind me, and was jumping around, muttering "Come on! Hurry up! Geez!" This will be significant in a moment, trust me.

Finally, Matron and Alma get it all straightened out. Matron looks back and says "I only took so long to annoy the man behind me." Not realizing she had thought the man behind me was me, I took offense. I had tried to help! "Well," I said, "I'm sorry you're too stupid to know how to use an ATM card."

Her eyes narrowed. "Fuck you!" said Matron.

"Honey, I'm gay. I wouldn't fuck you if you were the last thing alive on the earth."

She turned and left. I made my purchase. I walked out of the store.

To find Matron on the sidewalk, waiting for me. "And another thing," she says, "don't you ever call me honey again!" (As if she thought we would be meeting up again in the future?)

By this point, I was very amused by the absurdity of standing on a street corner in downtown Evanston trading insults with an impeccably-dressed matron with a potty mouth. So we stood there for a few minutes having our fun (or, at least, I was having fun).

Finally she pulls her herself up, breathes in, leans in and hisses "You..... have a tiny dick!"

As much fun as it was, I had to go back to work, so I left her there. Not with the last word, mind you. I returned her "compliment" with a comment about the state of her private parts.