DC Moment

This is the full version of the shortened story I submitted to Hototoki DC. For the first time in my scholarly career, I ignored the assignment my writing teacher passed out (write a review of spas in D.C., wtf?), and wrote my own thing. Chronicled here is the story of the weirdest person I ever met in a bar. Enjoy!

On Pick Up Artists and Ice Cream

It was a breezy summer night in 2002 when my friend Avè and I strolled through the door of The Raven, a dingy little bar in Mount Pleasant, DC. I was pleased with the look of the place; the owner’s clearly laissez-faire attitude towards upkeep signaled that I would be able to afford more than one drink that evening, even on my pitiful salary. I asked at the bar about drink specials and was delighted to learn that the $5 bill in my pocket would allow me to buy two import beers. Avè and I got some drinks and slid into a red vinyl bench accentuated with rips—some fresh and some which were poorly patched over with grimy duct tape.

“So what did Chuck do this week?” she asked me regarding my vicious boss who generally made me want to fling myself into the Potomac but also provided me with some pretty great happy hour stories. I launched into my current tale of injustice. “Dude, that’s why I’m still in school,” she teased. We continued to catch up on our respective weeks and were permitted about 15 full minutes to enjoy each other’s company before a man sitting at the bar decided to improve our evening with his presence.

He was a tall black man in his late twenties and carried a slightly battered briefcase as approached our booth. He set his case down on the floor and put his hands flat on the table. “Well, well, well, look what we have here,” he smarmed. “A black girl and a white girl having some good times.” His tone was salacious, as if he expected that at some point later that evening we would be engaging in some hot interracial lesbian action. His sly expression read that if he played his cards right, he might be witness to, or perhaps even a participant in, such an event. Oddly enough, we had heard this astoundingly bad pick-up routine before—most recently from a white man in a sports bar in Brookland.

I pulled a face as he slid into the seat next to Avè but knew that he would be allowed to stay, at least for a while. It typically takes both women to reject a would-be pick up artist, and I knew from experience that Avè, sensing some good material for future drinking stories, would give this jackass enough rope to hang himself. He did not disappoint.

After telling us how fine we were, he asked Avè what her ancestery was. When she answered that her parents were from Guyana, he proclaimed his love for Africans in general and Ghanaian people in particular. I cringed, knowing that few things annoy Avè more than when people mix up Ghana and Guyana. Her eyes narrowed, and she set him straight. Eager to shift focus away from his error, he turned to ask me the same question. I told him that no one in my family could really remember far back enough to know what country we emigrated from, but that I guessed I was probably at least part German, based on my last name.

“Oooooo, a German, huh?” he said with a slowly spreading grin. “I know all about you Germans. Y’all are freaky.”

Avè’s lip started to twitch, but she composed herself and, while looking at me with wide eyes, asked in her most innocent tone of voice, “Oh really, I was not aware of that fact.”
“Yeah,” he said. “They’re all into that S&M shit. I bet you like that stuff, huh,” he asked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Avè silently bowling over with laughter barricaded back by her hands tightly pressed over her mouth as I replied coldly, “No. Maybe I’m not German then, I guess I’m pretty vanilla.”

“Shit, girl, I bet your vanilla is like other people’s Rocky Road.” The barricade broke, and Avè roared with laughter. He looked at her, and asked, “What, what did I say?”

She laughed for a few seconds more, grabbed hold of herself, and began digging her in purse. She came up with a pen and told him, “Only the best thing that I’ve ever ever heard.” Then she used the pen to write on the bar napkin, “Your vanilla is like other people’s Rocky Road.” When she was finished, she slid him the pen and napkin and demanded that he sign and date it, so she that she could properly commemorate this moment. He did so.

Sensing that at least his romantic pursuits were futile, the man pulled up his briefcase from the floor and opened it on the table to reveal an array of homemade feather and bead necklaces and inquired whether we would be interested in purchasing any. We declined—strike three for him. As he walked out the bar and Avè continued to wipe away tears of laughter, I took a swig of my beer and resigned myself to the fact that, at least for a couple of weeks, I would be known as “Rocky Road.”