So I’m sitting at the bar donning my Doc Martins and all of a sudden I hear the woman at the bar stool next to me chatting up this guy who’s on his way out but this woman is trying to keep him there. She is asking him to explain his writing career.
“Basically I write for newspapers,” he says. I’m interested in getting paid for my writing. But the stuff I get paid for, I don’t like to write. The stuff I like to write, I do freelance.”
Woman Next to Me: “So who do you write about?”
Guy: “I write about interesting people. Like people who wear Doc Martin boots halfway up the knee, even though it’s twenty years too late.”
I feel a tap on my shoulder, I feel him looking at me, I turn his direction. I reply,
“Bukowski said there’s nothing worse than too late. I can’t believe you just said that to me.”
Guy: “She just used my favorite author’s words against me. And I don’t even know her name. Um…excuse me, miss?”
I sigh. I turn around. Again. He’s ignoring the woman that woman next to me who he was originally talking to at this point. Now he’s being rude to her and for that, she hates me.
I say, “It’s Mz. My name is Ashley.”
Guy: “The next time I’m here I’m bringing you my narrative on Bukowski.”
Open on the bar in front of me is Juan Thompson’s book, ‘Stories I Tell Myself.’ I pick it up and shove it in his face.
“Do you know this exists?”
Guy: “Uhh, no, but ya, you like Bukowski?”
Me: “I like his quotes, haven’t yet read his books. Have a good night.”
Guy: “…………………Well, that was an interesting conversation.”
