I overheard a girl in a bar once. Her voice was full of that sweet, pulpy sarcasm that her gender tend to trend. She was upset because a potential beau blew her off earlier that afternoon and that kind of injustice, in her eyes, could not go without retaliation. Her solution, she so proudly proclaimed like a mad scientist would with a plan to obliterate the planet, was to pick some “poor bastard” at the bar and entice him to buy her drinks all night. Once she had her fill, she explained emphatically to her curled cohort in the deviled-down sun dress, she’d sneak out the bar’s back.
I remember this story because of how it made me feel; hearing the scheming narration of a stranger in a bar. With all my heart I had hoped she wouldn’t scan the stock in the room and set her sights on me as an easy, squeezable target. Then, when she charmed the ginger headed coed with the tattered lacrosse hat five seats from me, I began to panic that I wasn't even noticeable enough to be some poor bastard in a bar. I wasn’t noticeable enough to be a venting point or an eavesdropping weirdo or even a potential suitor had seeing me altered her perspective on fate and destiny. I wasn’t anything at all to this girl.
It’s silly how we come around the clock-wheel of our reasoning. How some strange situations stumbled upon can often make you feel more than the ones you may engage in. And then I worry that had she asked me for a drink, I wouldn’t have called her out or told her to ‘fuck off’, but instead spend the night letting her use my wallet for well drinks just for a few fake smiles and some manipulative shoulder play.
Holy shit, how pathetic would that have been?
(This post is an the opening dialogue for an untitled screenplay I won't get a chance to write for another year. My cousin told me to post it on the internet because he enjoyed it. I feel I'm ready to share it for now.)
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