So last night, I'm bartending. Just like I always do on Saturday night, because my life is predictable like that.
Anyhow, this man comes in alone, and stays for a very long time. But, he doesn't drink that much, so it's not a problem.
He seems very friendly--talking to random people that come up to get drinks, and what-not. Over the course of the evening, I find out that he is visiting from Chicago.
The only time that I had any notion--any remote inkling of feeling--that there was something weird about him was relatively early in the night...
I was talking to another guest, and in the process I set my right hand on the bar and was tapping my fingers. This man in question reaches out and puts his hand over mine--when I automatically look over at him, he asks me "are you nervous? you're tapping your fingers..."
I respond that I am not nervous, though I did get a little creeped out by the hand touching.
Because, as stated in a previous post--
It. Is. Not. Okay. To. Touch. Your. Waitperson. Ever.
Anyway, that was the only weird thing that happened. And, really? It wasn't that weird. People definitely touch the waitperson more than they ought to.
So, later on--way later on--it's about 2:25am and we're kicking everyone out of the bar.
The man in question happens to be the last person in the bar, sitting right across from where I'm standing and wiping down miscellaneous bar items.
And then this conversation happens...
Man I have never seen before in my life: So, what are you doing when you get off work?
Me: (still not figuring out that this man is up to no good) Oh, I'm going to straight to bed. I have to take my nieces out to breakfast tomorrow.
--remember, this conversation is taking place at 2:25am--
Man I have never seen before in my life: Well, I have a hotel room around the corner, if you want to stop by.
ok, I didn't say anything. Instead, I sort of ran away and pretended to be busy. And I'm not proud of that, at all. Because here's what I should have said...
Me, in retrospect: Are you fucking kidding me? Please say that you're kidding me, because I find it completely disenchanting to think that I live in a world where someone who I've never met before would think that there is even a small chance that I would get off of work at 3am and go to the Nasty Stanky Hotel down the street to do God Knows What, and Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?
It should also be noted that on this particular Saturday night, I wore a hooded sweatshirt and baggy jeans to work.
Not exactly a come-and-get-me outfit, to say the least.
Beat that, Pete.