By Albert Paris
Every Thursday, Menjo's hosts college night. It's the one night out of the week where hundreds of 20-somethings come together to dance and blow off the steam of the collegiate life. It's also the night when the older, "creeper" crowd unite to ogle the younger twinks.
I don't usually mind this crowd. They know their boundaries, they always tip generously, and flattery just pours out of them and onto me. I often grow frustrated with them, however, when they endlessly beg for my number, or for a chance to take me on a date. Rule No. 1: Never give your number out to a person you meet while working as a shot boy. That is a rule I have followed for a while. Until last Thursday.
Meet Rick. Rick is a 21-year-old bartender and, due to a sexually confusing history, father to an adorable 3-year-old boy. Never does he leave the house without a baseball cap, on account of his receding hairline. Rick is also the boy I've been crushing on for the last three weeks. When Rick asked me for my number, I gave it to him without a second thought. By the end of the night, he was promising me that he would call the next day, and that we would be hanging out without a doubt. I really thought it was the start of something good.
The next day, I woke up at 10 a.m. and checked my cell phone for any missed calls. Of course he hadn't called; it wasn't even noon yet. But then it was lunch, then sunset, and then it was midnight. Still no call. I thought maybe he was just keeping me in suspense.
I spent the next two days waiting for his phone call, but it never came. I let everyone make excuses for him: "Maybe he was busy?" "Maybe he lost your number?" and my personal favorite, "Maybe he follows the three-day rule? You know that when a guy says he'll call Monday, he really means Wednesday."
To me, the three-day rule seems like the biggest coping mechanism ever created; used only by individuals to disguise the real no-call reason: They're not interested. And that's how Rick felt toward me: Not interested.
That's when I realized how much more I enjoy the company of the older men at Menjo's. If they say that they're going to call you on Monday, you better believe they will call, wishing you a good morning, good afternoon, good evening, and goodnight.
Maybe he did lose my number, or maybe it was all just a ploy to get a free shot out of me. Either way, I'm glad that Rick never called me. If he had, I would still be mistaking the straightforwardness of the older crowd for creepiness. Now, I'd pick the honest geriatric over the game-playing kid any day.
{TAGLINE Albert Paris is an intern for Between The Lines. To reach him, send an e-mail to [email protected].}
