THE PURPLE FLOWERED THONG

Exactly what is the etiquette when you see a woman openly sporting a purple flowered thong? Do you stare at it? Do you offer her a compliment and a quick wink? (Given the upscale nature of the establishment in which the young woman and her openly sported thong were currently residing, the “nudge, nudge” was totally out of the question.) Or so you cast furtive glances around the bar to catch a passing glimpse now and again? It’s a conundrum.

I once again find myself drinking beer in the center of midtown Manhattan, the self-appointed center of the universe, in a certain upscale establishment, that will remain unnamed, waiting for my brother Richie (or Richard as he is known in business circles) and also waiting for the inevitable beer buzz to kick in.

My most recent slew of furtive glances no longer revealed a purple flowered tong, but the bottom of a gray sweater modestly pulled down over the woman’s lower back depriving all those within the bar of a provocative view of her colorful choice of undergarment. I’m tempted to ask her if I can see her socks. You know what they say about a well-turned ankle. Anyway . . .

I’m ready to order my second beer that will, without fail, tip me past sobriety and into foolishness. My brother has not yet arrived and if he continues to tarry, he will no doubt find me in a wonderful state of inebriation. I am sitting at the rail facing the window and as I got up to get my Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #2, I once again spotted the purple flowered thong. As the beer slowly pushes my brain back to grammar school, I make a vow to walk over and snap her thong if my brother does not show up by the time I am ready for my third beer.

Things may also get complicated if my son by my first marriage shows up. We communicate via text messaging and I am not even sure it is my son with whom I am trading electrical impulses. It could be a terrorist cell I infiltrated by accident or a rogue Conservative Republican hell bent (is there any other way to bend a Conservative Republican) on besmirching the good name and historical record of President-for-Life Obama.

The thong is gone once again. This is troubling as I am halfway through Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #2 and will soon be returning to the bar for Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #3. What of my vow? If the thong is no longer openly sported and thereby easily snapped, what action can be reasonably taken? Do I ignore the lightly-made, drunken promise to myself to perform a juvenile prank that, at my age, will cause me to become a convicted sex offender, or do I “man-up” to my convictions, lift the bottom of her sweater and take those fateful steps to becoming a convicted sex offender? Life does present us with some difficult choices.

I kind of forgot where I was so I will just confine my comments to the patrons of the establishment where I am slowly becoming inebriated. To my right are three German tourists jabbering away in their horrible, hard to listen to, guttural language. Beyond Heidi, Hans, and Feet are Thong Woman and her friend, Hint-of-Cleavage. Continuing around the packed bar are Curly Red and Blond Betty, both females and both clad in black. They are having an intense conversation with Middle Aged Woman who is also clad in black. I missed the memo on black. I am wearing tan pants and a red shirt and feel like a complete wardrobe geek.

(Note: Heidi and Company left and have been replaced by Blondie #2 and Mr. Red-Hair obnoxiously yapping on the phone. They are both alone.)

Past Middle Aged Woman are the Boring Businessmen Buddies and an indescribable group of people thoroughly enjoying themselves at my expense, no doubt. (Most people don’t realize that paranoia can be comforting.) The good news for Charlie, the owner of this saloon, is that the bar is packed with people buying expensive drinks and that there is a bunch of people sitting down to dinner.

ALERT – ALERT: The thong is back in all of its Technicolor glory. It is obvious that Thong Woman has a bit of plumber in her genes.

Blondie #2 (green top) had been joined by a female friend, Blackie, sporting a gray sweater. The death grip that black had on the Manhattan wardrobe scene seems to have had its moment in the sun (or at least its dull fluorescent replica).

Life is amazing. I was finished with Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #2 and getting ready to get Sierra Nevada Pale Ale #3 with all the danger associated with the thong-snapping vow I promised to myself when wonder of wonders, a blonde waitress/hostess came to my rescue and took my order thereby relieving me from having to make a decision on the thong-snapping. I’m happy because being a convicted sex offender can’t be any fun.

There are too many people at the bar for me to comment on, so I will just make some stuff up. Fortunately, my brother showed up shortly after my reservoir of ideas ran low. I was almost giddy when he told me that he knew Thong Woman’s friend, Hint-of-Cleavage. He did not want to make eye contact with her because although they were employed by the same organization, they moved in different hierarchical circles, and, as my brother pointed out, you don’t socialize with the help. Plus, he owed her $135.

Before leaving the bar, we both stopped to use the men’s room. I used it to return some of the beer, but had no idea for what use my brother used it. This whole beer-returning cycle comes into play again shortly and involves an Asian (assumed Korean) nail salon.

We decided to walk the two miles through the people-clogged and snow-narrowed streets at rush our to meet up with two of my brother’s friends at a small, 100-year old neighborhood Italian restaurant that not only had excellent and moderately-priced food, but also contained an indoor bocce court. The one friend was a certain Ms. Fields (no relation to Abbott and Costello’s landlord). The other friend will be left undescribed and unnamed for reasons that are best left undiscussed.

Before meeting up with the Dining Duo, my brother and I wandered around the East Side of Manhattan in the near vicinity of the 59th Street Bridge (or the Queensborough Bridge as it is known to the residents of Queens) not knowing exactly where this wonderful little restaurant was located. Anyone reading this and who knows my brother will not be the least bit surprised that we were lost. It was, however, a pleasant evening and we passed the time chatting amiably. Under different circumstances this carefree amble would not have presented the least bit of a problem. Unfortunately, my recent beer rental came due and I was having a problem finding a beer-recycling center.

I tried two small eating establishments with no luck and then saw a large, well-lit nail salon stocked with several well-fed Asian manicurists and pedicurists. There under the glaring lights were two doors cleverly marked “Men” and “Woman”. (I was a bit more than curious as to why they would use the male plural and the female singular. The only obvious explanation is that they have many male customers and only one female customer. Continuing this logic, I deduced that this might not be a nail salon, but a cleverly disguised front for a different type of business whose customers enjoyed the companionship of well-fed Asian women posing as manicurists and pedicurists. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Say no more squire.)

I entered the salon with misguided optimism and asked the woman at the front desk in my most pathetic and vulnerable voice, tinged with just the right amount of urgency, if I could use the men’s room. A simple “No”, or, “It is for customers only”, would have been disappointing, but acceptable. Instead, Ms. DLB (Dragon Lady Bitch) told me that they didn’t have one. I usually don’t argue with Asian women, but circumstances dictated bolder action.

“Yes, you do. It’s right there.”
“No men’s room”
“Please, I’ll give you $10.”
“No.”
“I will give you $20.”
“No.”

Almost blind with anger and at the end of my bladder control, I made the astounding offer of $50 to urinate in their men’s room not more than twenty feet away instead of standing between two cars which in times past would have been socially acceptable and only resulted in a small fine if caught by the local constable, but today would result in a conviction as a sex offender. Having dodged that bullet earlier in the evening, I did not intend to once again put myself in harms way.

Amazingly, Ms. DLB just turned away dismissively leaving me angry, bitter, and growing more desperate by the second. Across the street from the nail salon and its corpulent, but compassionless hostesses was another small eatery. Inside were two drably dressed and partially clean individuals standing on either side of the counter. I asked the apron-clad counterman about using his rest room and he quickly obliged with a knowing look as if to say, “I’ve been there bro”. After completing the task at hand, I thanked my benefactor and left feeling fit and ready for further inebriation as my recent panic had destroyed my mellow buzz.

I felt somewhat guilty about not leaving him a tip for the use of his restroom seeing as I had just offered Ms. DLB $50, but my guilt was assuaged as I left the eatery. There were forty whole chickens roasting on the grill (yes, forty and that is no exaggeration) and nary a customer in sight. Given that it was already seven o’clock in the evening, I couldn’t imagine that he would sell all those roasted chickens and most, if not all would go to waste. (Can you really roast a chicken on a grill?) Any money I left in appreciation would most likely be wasted on more unsold roasted chickens.

I tired of wandering around so I called 411 and got the address of the restaurant. It was down the block from Ms. DLB and soon we were comfortably ensconced at the bar of the lovely 100-year old restaurant. Not wanting to disturb the other patrons with our potentially inappropriate behavior, we ate at the bar and had were thoroughly entertained by an old-time bartender who loved to talk and told some excellent stories, some of which may be true.

The food was great and after a while, Ms. Fields and her unnamed friend arrived. We chit-chatted for a while and in the course of the conversation I was informed that Ms. Fields knew Purple Thong’s friend, Hint-of-Cleavage. It’s a small world. Unfortunately, Ms. Fields was not a great fan of Hint-of-Cleavage and this sent her on a bit of a tirade especially when I mentioned that she looked like a nice person even though her friend appeared to be a bit of a tart. Whattaya gonna do?

My brother and I left our friends and then headed in our respective directions. I will see him again in a few weeks in Las Vegas when I fly out to see my nephew and also to look for more material. I mean Las Vegas; five minutes in the airport should keep me in stories for at least a week.

Well goodbye for now. Take care and hope that you enjoyed sharing my evening with me.

Connor Fleming III