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Post by Chuck Shurley on Sept 27, 2013 9:01:05 GMT -5
He’d gotten there about 45 minutes earlier, at 6.15pm. Call him a worrier if you will, but he had this horrid idea in the back of his mind that something would go wrong on the trip there and he’d wind up being held back in traffic. Then he’d be late, and she’d be standing there outside, waiting for him and THEN it would rain on her and he’d get there about 5 minutes after she’d left, and he’d never see her again. That’s how he envisioned this going if he didn’t leave at 5.45pm to take a 25 minute drive for a 7pm date. The very fact he HAD a date in the first place was good enough reason to take every precaution he could to make sure this went…well, smoothly.
He’d also made some significant effort today. Chuck wasn’t disgusting but he was just like any other man as far as personal grooming went, and he didn’t make a whole lot of effort all the time. Tonight, he’d trimmed his facial hair, he’d tamed his curls AND styled his hair (as best as he could, his hair was difficult and rebellious since it was natural ringlets). He’d showered, he’d pressed what little smart clothes he had and he’d even worn cologne and filed his nails. He’d had to go around to the motel reception lady to ask her if she had a nail file to do it, but thankfully she took pity on him and lent him hers. One thing Chuck didn’t do was ‘downstairs’ grooming, because no matter how excited he was about this, Chuck really wasn’t ‘expecting’ anything out of this either. Why groom himself if he wasn’t looking to fall into bed on the first date? Jolene didn’t seem like that kind of girl, and despite Chuck’s history of call girls, when it came down to the possibility of a serious relationship, Chuck wasn’t that kind of boy either.
So here he was, Saddles Peak Bar and Grill. It was nice, tasteful, not horrendously up market but it was an endearing, quite private little establishment. He pulled up into one of the parking bays and checked himself in his rear view mirror. Good enough, Chuck. He then checked his breathe, checked his pockets, and got out the car. Wandering in, he stuttered to the reception staff about ‘knowing he’s a bit early’ for his table (which he did actually call and book, JUST to make sure), and excused himself to the bar. He was starving, he really hadn’t eaten all day for worrying about how this was going to go since his encounter in the grocery store, and it had taken him 2 hours to get comfortable with his appearance tonight. He checked his watch, noted he had a 45 minute wait assuming she arrived on time, or at all, and then ordered a large glass of Whiskey and a small basket of Nachos and sour cream, just to munch on to pass the time. If he was focusing on food then he wouldn’t be thinking about everything that could go wrong tonight, starting with being stood up.
He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t, he downed his Whiskey and ordered another as he silently munched through the Nachos, thinking about what he should or shouldn’t do. Chuck didn’t really date, so he didn’t really know the rules. He guessed he should leave out the whole ‘being in a mental home’ and his dependence on drink out, at least for the first date, but maybe how much he was going to drink tonight would hint at that anyway. Then he wondered what exactly he DID have to talk about, that was normal. Obviously the whole ‘ex prophet’ thing was completely off the cards. He had no idea she was a hunter, and therefore might understand his past, but he wasn’t going to bring it up. He could maybe talk about his books, but that was only one subject. He came the conclusion he had very little to work with here, so he was going to try his hardest to talk more about her than himself.
He worried about all this for about 30 minutes, and that’s when the first thing that COULD go wrong tonight did. He’d absently raised a Nacho chip to his mouth, without paying that much attention to it since he’d gone from over worrying to watching the door now, and that’s when it happened. He’d caught the glimpse of the damming white substance as it left the Nacho as he bit into it, and watched in slow motion horror as the sour cream blob hurtled downwards and crashed right into the crotch line of his black trousers. His whole world froze and for a second he did nothing, not even breathe as he stared in total disbelief at the glaring white splat on his outfit.
Why me?
He came to his senses quickly, realizing that he had mere minutes to fix this and he grabbed at a few bar Napkins, and wiped up what he could of the sour cream off his trouser groin and screwed them up on the bar. Looking back down he noted there was STILL a mark, so he grabbed another and dampened the tissue in his whiskey glass, and started scrubbing. Sure, he’d smell a bit more like Whiskey but ANYTHING was better than having a white mark on his groin while meeting a lady friend. He scrubbed as hard as he could to remove it, getting a few looks from the bar staff and a few others around him, because nothing was normal about a man rubbing his groin with napkins in a bar, but they left him too it with how panic stricken he looked about this.
He checked the mark again after a moment of rubbing, and to his slight comfort noted the stain to be significantly reduced. It wasn’t COMPLETELY gone but so long as she didn’t look directly at his crotch it may go un-noticed. He groaned to himself about his own stupidity and downed his second whiskey, or what of it wasn’t rubbed into his trousers, and then ordered his 3rd drink, pushing the Nacho basket down the bar away from him, blaming it for everything.
She’d be here soon, he just needed to calm his nerves.
He’d also made some significant effort today. Chuck wasn’t disgusting but he was just like any other man as far as personal grooming went, and he didn’t make a whole lot of effort all the time. Tonight, he’d trimmed his facial hair, he’d tamed his curls AND styled his hair (as best as he could, his hair was difficult and rebellious since it was natural ringlets). He’d showered, he’d pressed what little smart clothes he had and he’d even worn cologne and filed his nails. He’d had to go around to the motel reception lady to ask her if she had a nail file to do it, but thankfully she took pity on him and lent him hers. One thing Chuck didn’t do was ‘downstairs’ grooming, because no matter how excited he was about this, Chuck really wasn’t ‘expecting’ anything out of this either. Why groom himself if he wasn’t looking to fall into bed on the first date? Jolene didn’t seem like that kind of girl, and despite Chuck’s history of call girls, when it came down to the possibility of a serious relationship, Chuck wasn’t that kind of boy either.
So here he was, Saddles Peak Bar and Grill. It was nice, tasteful, not horrendously up market but it was an endearing, quite private little establishment. He pulled up into one of the parking bays and checked himself in his rear view mirror. Good enough, Chuck. He then checked his breathe, checked his pockets, and got out the car. Wandering in, he stuttered to the reception staff about ‘knowing he’s a bit early’ for his table (which he did actually call and book, JUST to make sure), and excused himself to the bar. He was starving, he really hadn’t eaten all day for worrying about how this was going to go since his encounter in the grocery store, and it had taken him 2 hours to get comfortable with his appearance tonight. He checked his watch, noted he had a 45 minute wait assuming she arrived on time, or at all, and then ordered a large glass of Whiskey and a small basket of Nachos and sour cream, just to munch on to pass the time. If he was focusing on food then he wouldn’t be thinking about everything that could go wrong tonight, starting with being stood up.
He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t, he downed his Whiskey and ordered another as he silently munched through the Nachos, thinking about what he should or shouldn’t do. Chuck didn’t really date, so he didn’t really know the rules. He guessed he should leave out the whole ‘being in a mental home’ and his dependence on drink out, at least for the first date, but maybe how much he was going to drink tonight would hint at that anyway. Then he wondered what exactly he DID have to talk about, that was normal. Obviously the whole ‘ex prophet’ thing was completely off the cards. He had no idea she was a hunter, and therefore might understand his past, but he wasn’t going to bring it up. He could maybe talk about his books, but that was only one subject. He came the conclusion he had very little to work with here, so he was going to try his hardest to talk more about her than himself.
He worried about all this for about 30 minutes, and that’s when the first thing that COULD go wrong tonight did. He’d absently raised a Nacho chip to his mouth, without paying that much attention to it since he’d gone from over worrying to watching the door now, and that’s when it happened. He’d caught the glimpse of the damming white substance as it left the Nacho as he bit into it, and watched in slow motion horror as the sour cream blob hurtled downwards and crashed right into the crotch line of his black trousers. His whole world froze and for a second he did nothing, not even breathe as he stared in total disbelief at the glaring white splat on his outfit.
Why me?
He came to his senses quickly, realizing that he had mere minutes to fix this and he grabbed at a few bar Napkins, and wiped up what he could of the sour cream off his trouser groin and screwed them up on the bar. Looking back down he noted there was STILL a mark, so he grabbed another and dampened the tissue in his whiskey glass, and started scrubbing. Sure, he’d smell a bit more like Whiskey but ANYTHING was better than having a white mark on his groin while meeting a lady friend. He scrubbed as hard as he could to remove it, getting a few looks from the bar staff and a few others around him, because nothing was normal about a man rubbing his groin with napkins in a bar, but they left him too it with how panic stricken he looked about this.
He checked the mark again after a moment of rubbing, and to his slight comfort noted the stain to be significantly reduced. It wasn’t COMPLETELY gone but so long as she didn’t look directly at his crotch it may go un-noticed. He groaned to himself about his own stupidity and downed his second whiskey, or what of it wasn’t rubbed into his trousers, and then ordered his 3rd drink, pushing the Nacho basket down the bar away from him, blaming it for everything.
She’d be here soon, he just needed to calm his nerves.
