[The overdue conclusion to Dinner: The Birth of Squirrelly-J]
Still reeling from the gift of breakdance poetry, I flip through the book as Natasha and Farnsworth lead me into our favorite bar. Having recently discovered that this bar has a secret list of “off-the-menu” drinks, Farnsworth is on a mission to become an insider.
This week, it is some pomegranate martini that looks and tastes exactly like Robitussin. My mouth waters a bit, and not in the good way, as I take a sip from Farnsworth’s glass, but he seems to enjoy it. Natasha and I are feeling like scotch, so we order a Glen of some sort.
Three seats open up at the corner of the bar, and we quickly move in. As I stir my scotch, waiting for the ice to melt a bit, I can hear two men having a loud conversation behind Natasha.
“Who’s that woman – she was in that movie…? Thelma and Louise. Who’s that woman?”
His eyes were barely half open as he leaned into his friend at the bar.
“Uh, oh wait. I can totally picture her. Davis. Geena Davis.”
“No, no. The other one. That other woman in Thelma and Louise.”
“Uh… I can’t-“
“SUSAN SARANDON!”
He yells this loudly, but the bar is noisy so it doesn’t quite make a scene.
“SUSAN SARANDON! That’s who you look like! You. You look just like Susan Sarandon.”
I suddenly realize that he’s talking to me. He is pointing at me with his martini glass, its contents sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
I glance over at Natasha, who is holding back a laugh, then back to the man and say, “You’re very kind – thank you.”
“No really. You look just like her.”
“Maybe it’s the hair,” Natasha offers, clearly questioning any true resemblance.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you look like Susan Sarandon?”
I suspect that this conversation could continue all night, so I agree with him. “Yes, someone once told me I looked like her.”
“Really?” Farnsworth asks, equally incredulous.
This isn’t a lie. I know that someone did tell me that, but can’t remember who it was. For a moment, I think it was Vivian, but then recall that she used to tell me I looked like Lesley Ann Warren, who we both agreed was the poor man’s Susan Sarandon. So I suppose this would make me the poor man’s Lesley Ann Warren.
The two men go back to their side of the bar and focus their attention on getting another round of chocolate martinis. This bar works in cycles, we always note. There will suddenly be a mad rush of customers, smiling people arriving in groups of four and five, and then just as quickly, we will look around to see open tables and available bar stools.
The tide flows, and suddenly Natasha is being shoved off her seat, unintentionally, by a crowd of noisy men who have just arrived. She leans in to whisper something to me.
“I don’t even have half a cheek on the stool anymore. I think both those guys are sitting on my seat!”
I laugh as I see her carefully trying to balance herself with one foot on the ground, the other one hooked under the stool so as not to entirely relinquish her claim on that seat. Suddenly, Natasha’s eyes widen and her back arches. The man behind her touches her shoulder and starts to say something.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you arright?”
I see Nat grabbing a stack of cocktail napkins, and realize that this man has just spilled his drink down her back. Or more precisely, due to the way she was perched on the stool, down her ass. She takes it remarkably well, considering.
“Please just tell me that wasn’t a chocolate martini you dumped down my back.”
“Wha-? No, iss just a vahka gimlet. Iss all alcohol.”
“Nothing to worry about Nat, that’s really just an antiseptic,” I say reassuringly.
As she works to pat dry the bottom of her jacket and top of her jeans, the man walks over between us. I turn to Farnsworth who is sitting next to me, hoping he will come to our aid. He has now ordered a cherry martini that smells like Luden’s cough drops, and I note that the evening has taken on a distinctly medicinal theme.
It becomes apparent that I am on my own, as the man begins asking me random questions.
“D’you live in this neighborhood? My friends over there are always trying to get me to move up here. Do you own or rent?”
“Rent.”
“Yeah, iss so fuggin’ esspensive.”
“No kidding.”
“’Specially if you’re single. Fuggin’ married tax credit.”
I nod my head yes, as though I have some idea what he is talking about. He rambles off a few more thoughts on married people, and then launches into a discussion about the Log Cabin Republicans. I can’t tell if he’s for or against, partly because I am singularly focused on preventing him from spilling the remainder of his drink on me.
As he sways back and forth, getting more and more passionate about rising property taxes, I have to steady his hand at least twice. In the end, I am unsuccessful, and grab another stack of napkins to sop up the spillage on my jeans.
“I think it’s time for you to switch to water,” I say, rolling my eyes at Natasha.
“Yeah, I’m really pretty drunk. I sh’go talk to my friends over there before they get pissed.”
I watch as he stumbles over to the other side of the bar, ping-ponging his way through the crowd, to join the movie buffs from earlier in the evening.
Nat, Farnsworth and I finish up our drinks, and then decide it’s time to head out, as this latest wave of bargoers doesn’t seem to be dissipating anytime soon. Just as we are leaving, I hear, “Susan Sarandon!”
I grab my jacket, look up and give an acknowledging nod to the man at the end of the bar. He lifts his glass to me and says, softer, “Susan Sarandon.”

Filed under: General on June 26th, 2006