Creepy Uncle-Type encroached on my personal space the other night. He brought with him a pocketful of misdemeanors, twitching mustache, and drug store aftershave aroma.
“When you gonna come have a beer with us?” he asked.
“I don’t drink beer,” I replied. I notice that I always use a snotty tone when conversing with him. I think he likes that, so I should stop that.
This gave him invitation to attempt to entice me with hard liquor. I smiled and said, “Wow, that sounds great” a few times, you know, to humor him.
“Yeah, you should come party with me,” he reiterated, and I noted that he had dropped the “group-hang” pretenses. “I got keys to the club.” He began rummaging in his pocket, for what I could only imagine was the lollipop he was about to use to lure me out to his truck.
He seemed to be waiting for me to deepen my inquiry on the matter, so I obliged by asking what kind of club he meant.
“The Yacht Club!” he exclaimed, his predatory eyes gleaming like he was about to go in for the kill. I found myself scooting back a little in my seat.
“Oh cool, and can we listen to yacht rock?” I asked with faux-enthusiasm. If he picked up on that, he chose to ignore it.
By now, he had found the object he was fishing for and pulled out a barrel key from his coat pocket. “See that? The key to the YACHT CLUB. I can go in there ANY TIME I WANT.”
“Yes, I imagine with a key, you could,” I said, letting him have his moment in the spotlight.
“You should come party at the yacht club, with me at the yacht club, me and you, partying at the yacht club, I have a key to the yacht club so we can party at the yacht club. Wait, you ARE 21, ain’t you?”
I think he was asking me out?
I guess he doesn’t know that in order to be my work boyfriend, he has to call me The Lovely Erin, cutie pie, and doll; notice that I’m wearing a headband; and ask with utmost sincerity if I need anything from the store. And sorry Creepy Uncle-Type, but that role is filled from approximately 6pm-9pm, three days a week, by my music friend Bill.