Hot Tamale

It was a rowdy night, long ago. Well, a few weeks ago.

The evening begins with shots and shots. It's someone's birthday. The evening continues with tequila and G&Ts and military boys and cowboy boots and whiskey and dancing and memory loss...

When I am finally sitting on the curb with a bottle of water, surrounded by 500 cigarette butts, approximately 1 am, Birthday Boy and company want to go to the karaoke bar. Away we go.

I have lots of friends who enjoy this particular karaoke establishment, but I'm a little snobby. (Sorry, friends.) Sitting at the bar with my posse, I am approached. He wants to buy me a beer. Do they have Purple Haze? No. How about Blue Moon? What's that? Well, damn. Budweiser, it is.

I don't remember what we talked about for the first several minutes, but I remember his glimmering gold chain (yikes!) and the gap between his teeth (which I liked, I must admit). He said he is Cuban or Puerto Rican or some such. He just moved here from Texas, only been in town for two months or so. He works for the "government."

At some point, he asks me a question that prompts from me the inspired response: "Get married and have babies." I don't remember the question. What are your plans for November? How do you intend to pay your rent? What do you do in your spare time? What would you like to do later tonight? There's no telling.

He wants to sing with me. "Picture," he says. I am not a karaoke singer, mainly because I think I'm going to choose something that's out of my range and not perform as spectacularly as I know I can. (Haha.) I tell him that I don't sing karaoke because I'm a "trained singer." He tells me he was in a band. Psh. I don't think he's really understanding me, so I slide off my stool a little when I lean closer to his ear and shout, "I'm a TRAINED SINGER."

So he leans closer to my ear and shouts, "I was IN A BAND."

Bar-scream lean. "I'm a TRAINED SINGER."

Bar-scream lean. "I was IN A BAND."

This goes on for several minutes. I think he's ignorant and wearing a gold chain. He thinks I'm arrogant and irresistibly sweaty; he's not backing down. We're singing "Picture" if it kills him. I resist as much as a drunk Lucy can, but of course, I give in. My wing-lady a few stools down is shouting in protest, but it's too late. Our little paper ticket is turned in and we are officially in the line-up.

I will say these things:

• During my lady-lines, he leans back to the DJ to shout, "SHE'S A TRAINED SINGER," (obviously making fun of me) which provokes me to swat him repeatedly. 
• If indeed he has been in a band, it was not a good band.
• Clearly, this is his not his first time singing "Picture" with a drunk stranger-girl. I feel pretty confident he is constantly scouting for his next 'Picture' partner. (As I type, the theme song to Picture Pages is officially stuck in my head.)

After our duet disaster, we dance. He's calling it The Two Step. It is not. It's The Seventeen Step that drunk people should not attempt when donning pointy-toed, leather-soled shoes. But he spins me around and dips me and dunks me and it's all good fun. And at this point, I'm kinda liking my Guatemalan.

We sit back down, he pulls out his wallet, and I see it. And holler. "IS THAT A BADGE?!" Indeed it is. "Shhh, shhh," he tells me. "I don't want everyone in here knowing..." So I begin to whisper in that patented Lucy-whisper-scream. "WHY DO YOU HAVE A BADGE?! WHAT DO YOU DO?! ARE YOU A NARC?!" Oh, this guy is smooth. He says, "I'd love to tell you all about what I do. But I don't want to tell you in a bar. I want to tell you at dinner." Well. You can tell me all about your crime-fighting adventures over some Seafood Au Gratin, yes sir. So we trade numbers and he promises to call me for a date. And he hands me a business card.

I butterfly off for a few minutes to consort with my friends. I don't know how much time passed here, but when I looked up, less than ten feet away, my new Hot Tamale boyfriend is standing behind another woman with his arms around her and giving her the ol' what-for. That is, he is feeling her up.

Oh, my heart shatters into a million pieces right there in that dirty barroom.

Then Sarah said,"Wanna go to Pitt Grill?" Hot Tamale who?

He sees us leaving and comes to tell me good bye. Yes, tries to kiss me. No, didn't let him. Sarah says sternly, "Do NOT invite him." So I don't. And we're outta there.

Once we're settled at our Greasy Spoon, ring ring. Calling already, Tamale? "Do you miss me," he asks.

"Hahaha. Hahaha. Hahaha. I just met you, stupid." I think that hurt his feelings, poor thing. And I don't think I called him stupid, but it's funnier to believe that I did. He is very sad that we can't talk for hours like a junior high bf/gf, but my undercooked scrambled eggs are on their way. I'm busy.

Over our  breakfast for drunk-dinner, I remember the business card and whip it out. It's glossy and has a nice badge graphic on it. It also says "DEPTARTMETN OF blah blah blah..." !!! DEPTARTMETN?! On your "government" business card?! Oh dear. We really don't know what to make of this clown now. 

For the next several days, innocent text flirting ensues. During this stretch, I ask who makes his business cards.

Him: Oh, you like them?
Me: There are typos.
Him: You got one of the bad ones.

Yeah, I got a bad one.

A few days later, we agree it's time for dinner. He asks me what I'll be preparing for our meal. Psh, again. I kindly inform him that I will not be preparing our meal on our first date. Maybe the second, but definitely not the first. After I explain this, he replies: "Hmmm. We'll have to see."

Haven't heard from him since. Really?