10 February 2015

​So I’m sitting at the bar (having dinner), three stools over from a happy hour talker. A cop between shifts, married awhile (to wife number take-your-best-guess), railing about his mother-in-law and her tendency to “just walk the hell right in.  What if I’m doin’ my damn wife on the effin’ piano?!?!”

“Do I have a choice in this… going to Florida next week…the sleeping arrangements or watching the stock market while you girls go traipsing off to the flower show?” His sidekick is an older fellow, roughly bearded wearing an weathered beret and thick wool bomber.  A nodder.

I think the sound of an unhappy partnered man is interesting; that he chooses to amplify his grudges and wounds with alcohol, and pour himself into any ear who will listen.  It feels sad and comedic, odd and familiar. Women do this in groups, bashing and shredding people to ribbons, commiserating over whine [sic]. A singular male publicly meowing is like a statue in the center of town. Can’t miss it but not everyone stops to read the plaque. 

He’s on to the virtues of green vegetables — spinach, Brussels sprouts, broccoli — how he was “different” for liking things other kids couldn’t stand; that pleased his mother greatly. Gave her something to boast.

They pay the tab and exit zipping jackets to chin and head out to cook for their women.


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