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The Good Old Days

The end of the shift, for most of them. I was informed shortly after my arrival at this job that I would be the "cross-shift supervisor". That means that my days off aren't until next weekend, so I get to stay. On the bright side, there are three less people in the office with me (the one left behind doesn't talk unless you talk to her first :D ) and my "roommates" are gone for the weekend, so I get the house to myself. I'm ecstatic about having some privacy. Oh, and I told our buyer (the guy who hired me) to price me out and pick me up an iBook. Patience, she said.

I'm feeling "better", for lack of a better word. I'm still a little off emotionally/ hormonally/ spiritually/ mentally, but I can feel the balance returning. I indulged my more emotional side alot last night, the details of which I will not print. It seems to have made me more rational, left me with more control. I'm stoic again; keen. Over the past couple of days, my body and my brain have been at odds. I would decide not to do something, and then found myself going to do that very thing. I didn't want to have a cigarette, and ten minutes later I was going for a walk, pulling out my cigarettes, for example; I wasn't going to have a beer last night, and the next thing I have an open beer in my hand. I have a stronger will than that. It's the same feeling I had when she was in control. So I released her, let her have some time. I'm skeptical.

I decided not to listen to the stripper's ghost story. Past experience has taught me that strange women find me either an easy target or irresistible. Either way, it tends to get me in more trouble than I am up for at the present. I'm not trying to sound conceited when I say this. It's merely observation. There are certain people who are misunderstood or desperate for affection, and when I listen to them, interact with them, they latch on to me. And they tend to bring with them trouble. Once, I gave a girl a cigarette, and ended up with a bleeding nose when six hooligans wanted to beat her up....

Brant walked out into the cool night air, Trynn directly behind him. "See," he said to the elf, "that wasn't so bad. Admit it, you had a good time."
"It was crowded, too loud and now we stink like stale smoke and cheap alcohol," he scowled. "And I have a headache."
"Smoke," Brant said, patting his pockets. "Damn." Lifting his head, squinting in the blazing blur of fluorescent and neon, the man put his hands into his pockets and strode through the crowd standing outside. He was inebriated, but not drunk. The swollen buzz of beer was clouding his motor skills, but Trynn kept him awake. The two crossed the street, neither speaking to the other; Trynn watched the people moving around the late city night, Brant guided them with purpose.
"Do you have a smoke?" The mousy voice came from their left. Trynn turned.
"No," he said.
"I'm just buying some if you want to hang on for a second, Brant added quickly. He smiled at Trynn and walked to the double doors of the convenience store. "You don't always have to be rude," Brant chided goodnaturedly.
"I wasn't being rude, I was stating a fact. Besides, we can barely afford to smoke as it is."
"Exactly," Brant retorted, smiling at Trynn. The elf cocked an eyebrow at the man and remained silent. Trynn didn't understand Brant's logic, but was afraid of an impending lesson on goodwill and perfect society. Brant felt that sharing would bring richer rewards.
After making the purchase, the two moved back out side and Brant opened the cigarettes, offered on to the girl. She was about seventeen or eighteen, he figured; not conventionally attractive, but pretty, he thought. She was short and slim, with shoulder length brown hair. He handed her a couple of cigarettes out of the fresh pack. "Have a good night," was all he said to her and smiled, walking away.
"That was unnecessary," Trynn said. Brant didn't respond.
The pair were not far away, Brant having just lit a cigarette himself, when a group of young men walked passed him. Trynn scowled inwardly, but Brant didn't seem to notice them. "Hey, there's that little bitch," one of the boys said as they walked passed.
"Kick her ass, man," another egged him on. Brant stopped and watched the group rush the girl he'd just talked to.
"Hey!" Brant's voice boomed, but they still went to the girl. He rushed across the lot to the group that now circled the girl. One of them was pushing the girl and yelling at her, but Trynn's blood throbbed in his head as he growled low, drowning out the voices. Brant, however, was more collected. He but his hand on the leaders arm, getting his attention. "It takes seven of you to beat up a skinny girl?" he asked. "Where's the chivalry in that?"
"You defending her?" the boy asked, turning on Brant. The circle was slowly growing around him.
"I guess I am," he replied, looking the shorter, squat faced boy in the eye. "Just leave her alone." Trynn scanned the crowd. None of them were older than sixteen, he thought. Reason pushed through the rage that was swelling in him; he beat back the anger with logic, as always. He would be charged with assault if he touched any of them. He swore silently. Before he could think further, the boy's fist crashed into Brant's nose. Brant stared, stunned not with pain, but that he didn't see it coming. The boy punched again and Brant took it.
"Don't hit him," Trynn warned.
Blood ran over the man's lips and done his chin. He looked the boy in the face and said, "are you done?" The boys were either sated or scared as they started to move away.
"I'll see you later, you little bitch," the boy said, pointing at the girl. Brant spit blood on the ground and turned away.
"Oh my god, are you ok?" she asked, walking beside him, clasping his arm.
"No," Trynn said, still angry. "I'm drunk and tired and I'm going to bed."
"Maybe we should walk you home," Brant offered to the girl. "Where do you live?"
"Oh my god, a few blocks from here. Wow, that was intense."

For some reason after that, I gave her my phone number to make sure she got home alright, because we separated shortly after that. She called me everyday for a week, and towards the end, I had to be quite blunt that I wasn't interested in a relationship with her. I found out later that she wasn't eighteen, she was fifteen.

Hmmm, after writing that story, thinking about how terrible it was at the time to have to let some young bastard punch me in the face, I can laugh at myself, chalk up a lesson learned and enjoy the telling of it. Perhaps there is adventure to be had in listening to the ghost stories of strippers...

posted by September @ 3:02 PM