Velvet Underground, a slightly gothy alt-rock dance bar.
Drunk Guy 1: Duuuuuuuude!
Drunk Guy 1: I love you, man! You play accordion!
Me: Hey, thanks!
Drunk Guy 1: Can I borrow it? I just want to try it out.
I don’t really have any trouble with letting people try on the “street” accordion. It’s tough and it’s already taken a fair beating; there’s not too much harm that even a drunk person can do to it. With the “stage” accordion, it’s a different story.
Drunk Guy 1: Here. Take my cell phone as collateral.
He hands me his cell phone. It’s the top-of-the-line Samsung, probably worth 5 times the resale value of the street accordion. he fumbles his way through Stairway to Heaven.
Guy at Bar: Hey, Accordion Guy. Been meaning to say “hi” to you.
Me: Hey there.
Guy at Bar: I dated [New Girl] a little while before you did.
Me: Whoa. Glad to see you came out of it alive.
Guy at Bar: Yeah, got out of it early. Good to see you’re in one piece. Hey, she’s been hanging around again — people have seen her around. Looks like she’s not hiding anymore.
Me: Who wants to hang around with her anymore? Isn’t she on everyone’s shitlist yet?
The story about me and the New Girl travelled quickly around the local goth grapevine, and after that, a lot of people stepped forward with their own stories of how they’d either been burned by her or seen her con someone. Accordion City’s black-clad are a pretty tight community; you’d be hard-pressed to find an local goth who hasn’t heard of her.
Drunk Guy 1: Thanks for loaning me the accordion! Dude, you rock!
Sam: Ooh, you’re such a celebrity, can I touch you?
Me: (Using my Strong Bad voice) “Ladies, line up to my left for make-outs! Dudes, line up to my right for high-fives!”
Any locals seen New Girl around?
The Rivoli, on Kickass Karaoke night.
Punk Rock Girl, a skinny pleather-clad blonde with librarian glasses, the sides of her head clean-shaven and the rest of her hair done up in a single top-of-the-head “Pebbles” ponytail, walked right up to my chair and looked straight at me. I took a final swig of my rye and Coke and stood up to dirty dance with her.
All was going swimmingly (and somewhat cheesily, what with that knee-between-your-partner’s-legs dance) until I felt a tug at the belt loop at the back of my pants. Why is it that someone always attempts to interrupt me from behind when I’m trying to get my flirt on?
It was her girlfriend, a tank-top wearing blonde with enough tattoos to qualify her for the Japanese mob, a mess of piercings and a very annoyed frown that said “Mister Y-chromosome Breeder, you have three seconds to save your nuts.”
I put one arm around Punk Rock Girl’s waist, took her hand with my other hand, and executed a passable tango dip. I spun around her so that she was now beside Angry Girlfriend, and after spinning her around once, twirled her free into Angry Girlfriend’s arms.
The whole exchange felt like a deleted scene from a Fred Astaire / Ginger Rogers movie directed by Tarantino or Kevin Smith.
“Easy come, easy go,” I said, as I returned to my seat.
“Oh, Joe, you could’ve have gone home with both of them!” exclaimed Eldon, momentarily forgetting the definition of the word lesbian.
Sam was still laughing and clapping. “That just made my night. She would’ve totally kicked your ass.”
Thanks for the vote of confidence in my battle prowess, Sam.
Who’s the cat who won’t freak out, when there’s angry dykes about? JOE! Daaaaaamn right.