Sitting at the bar for lunch yesterday at Twin Peaks (you know the type of place: cute girls in small uniforms, lots of cleavage, lots of ass, lots of bare, flat stomachs…but the foods pretty damned good here).
In walks this couple who sits down next to me at the bar — old guy, unkempt grey-hair and about a week’s worth of unshaved grey beard stubble, faded-maroon sweatshirt. If he was holding a cardboard sign and standing on a street corner, you wouldn’t think him out of place.
Had to be knocking on 70s door, if he hadn’t already been let in. Though living hard can make a man age faster than the actual years he’s lived on this rock.
The young lady with him looked more like an employee of this place, or at least of the nearest strip club. Petite, but even under her grey sweatshirt you can tell she’s blessed with the kind of firm rack that only youth and really good plastic surgeons can take credit for. Straight, long brown hair. No makeup. There’s still a stamp on her left hand from whichever club she was at the night before.
If I had to guess, she hasn’t been home or showered yet from whatever adventure she was on last night.
Didn’t seem like they knew each other too well, but were definitely having lunch together. But I couldn’t help notice — and laugh to myself — as the obvious age differences started revealing themselves in humorous little ways.
Like when she ordered a bloody mary, extra spicy. When the bartender asked her for her ID (yeah, she looked that young), the old guy said, “I’m her I.D.” The bartender still insisted on seeing it. Old guy says he’ll have the same, but asked the bartender to make it “a little bit less spicy because of my ulcers.” As his perky friend sucked long and deep from the plastic straw, gramps nursed a few sips before asking the bartender for a bit more tomato juice. “Too spicy.”
I nearly spit iced tea through my nose when I heard him ask her, “Have I shown you the picture of my new toilet?”
Now, that’s the kind of question I’d expect him to ask his old buddies while they’re sitting around playing dominoes and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbons from an igloo ice chest. Not something I’d guess a 21-year old girl is all that interested in. Unless it’s made of pure gold. But even then…just maybe.
And then he had to have his Lolita lunch partner find the picture for him on his new iPhone because, “I still don’t know how to find stuff on here.”
Well…can’t blame the old guy for trying, I guess.