Wingman T-ball

Jesus sat on the other side of the table starring at the waitresses’ tits.

She walked away. He leered at the rest of us letting us know his intent to commit a number of sins with that girl.

We were drinking in a strange bar (we got kicked out of the 3rd world racquet club). Jesus (not his real name) is the FNG on the tennis team. I don’t know much about Jesus. I know he’s single, north of 40, he brews beer and his first attempt at writing a funny email sucked balls.

The rest of us are older or married or both.

The waitress was 20-something, and working her “personality” for the highest tips possible.

I believe the last time I actually tried to be a “wingman,” Top Gun was still in the theaters.

My kid claims he is the fucking wingman of the decade. He tells me tales of walking up to pretty women in bars and directing them to his friends like a maitre’d showing them to the best table. Most of his friends are former college swimmers at University of Arizona or Hawaii with tight abs, broad shoulders and big, white, shark teeth. My niece described them best: “They are pretty, but they are dumb.”

Let’s just say fake Jesus isn’t the “best table”. He would be the high-top with 3 rickety stools in between the swinging kitchen door and the shitter.

He’s got the glasses and the nervous half-grin that could mean “big nerd” or “narcissistic psychopath.”

But each pass by the table, we kept the waitress talking. We pointed out that Jesus is the only single guy at the table. She lingered.

“You have a nice wingspan,” Jesus said.

We can only hope this girl went to school on the short bus.

We said “Jesus brews his own beer”.

She was happy to explain her love of beer to us, and what good choices we made.

“I love that beer,” she said. She sighs. “I’m going to have one tonight as soon as I get off.”

She waited… and then… walked away slowly. Jesus said nothing.

“Are we playing fucking T-ball here… Jesus,” I said. “Goddamnit, we put the fucking ball on the Tee — take a fucking swing.”

The other’s joined in.

“Grunt,” one said.

“Try to smile.”

“Say any-fucking-thing…” And we all threw in suggestions:

“I’d like a beer too. “

“I’ll buy you a beer after work. “

“What time do you want to get off?”

OK, the last one is a little creepy — but hey fuck you, that was acceptable in 1982… which is the last time I tried this shit.

Jesus sulked and slowly sauntered out to his Prius.

I’m not even a decent wingman. I don’t think we got that waitresses’ name or asked her about anything other than beer.

Ohh, that night with Jesus, I asked her “can you read this bill for me” (I left my readers in the car).

I might as well have asked that 20-something girl to change my diaper.

Maybe Jesus did the right thing not to swing. With these fuckers for wingmen, you are just going to end up stewing in your own brew of shame and remorse.

May 31, 2018 Update:

We got kicked out of the third-world club again, so Jesus, Larry and me ended up at the strange bar. Got the same waitress.

Apparently, Jesus has been secretly sneaking back into this bar to see his “girl” again and again.

“Her name is Susie,” he said. “But she spells it: S-U-S-Y.”

Well, then she spells it fucking wrong, but who am I to say shit about anyone else’s name.

Second round was worst than the first.

We ordered pizza. Jesus just wanted mushrooms and peppers. Larry just mushrooms.

I get two flavors of pig. “Am I the only one at this table who eats meat? Isn’t there anyone else?”

“I like meat,” the waitress said raising her right had like the biggest kiss ass in class.

Jesus was silent. She walked away. Larry and I giggled like the 7th grade boys we really are.

T-ball, fucking T-ball. And Jesus didn’t even swing the bat the second time up.