Friday, July 08, 2011

Bench Warmer

On my 21st birthday my friends took me out to Applebee’s and treated me to chicken fingers and raspberry sweet tea. This was all washed down with the stereotypical song and dance of the restaurant employees wishing me a “happy, happy birthday”.


“Welcome to adulthood.” I thought.

After blowing out the candle on my Cool Whip cake I excused myself to the bathroom. Instead of taking my talents to South Beach I decided to stalk the giggly blond whose tits were bouncing in my face to the rhythm of the hand claps during my personal praise and worship song. Her name tag said “Kacee”.

Tall and limber, tan and glowing, empty blues eyes complimented her layered-platinum bob. She looked like she was fresh out of high school. Everything about her was typical to Lexington. Maybe she was a University of Kentucky cheerleader. I didn’t even make the JV basketball team at my high school, but all the girls thought I was cute sitting at the end of the bench trying to keep up with points, assists and rebounds(on paper) and the measurements of all the girls on the dance team(in my head).

Sometimes, I would accidentally transpose the stats and not realize it until the next day when I read the school paper. The sports section headline would inform us that “Brian Long lit up the score board in last nights win with 36 points along with 24 monstrous rebounds in only 36 minutes of explosive play!” No one ever seemed to notice, at least not in the way that I noticed Kacee.

When I approached her at the server station I had all of these back handed compliments in my head from reading The Game. I was thinking how I would say that I don’t usually date blonds, but I would make an exception for her or tell her that I like her name, but that she spelled it wrong. It all sounded so juvenile, but Mystery made it look easy. By the time she turned around the only thing that came to mind was “I need something to dip my fingers in.”

She smiled and ran down the list. “Well, we have ketchup, honey mustard, barbecue, ranch and we can even mix the barbecue with the ranch, which is my personal favorite.” And then she grinned and tilted her head to the side. I felt like an asshole. Not because she was nice though, but because she didn’t get my pick-up line. Maybe if I was wearing a ridiculous looking top hat I would’ve gotten my point across.

Shaking my head I started to walk away. I mumbled to myself “That’s not what I meant.” In a “mother saying your full name” kind of tone she replied. “Well, maybe you should say what you mean then.” All I could think about was the fact that I was 21,still a virgin and wouldn’t mind becoming a man in the parking lot of a family-friendly chain restaurant. Maybe my friends had even hired Kacee to make my fantasy come true. I wanted to watch Return of the Street Fighter with her.

Kacee was leaning up against the server station staring at me. She was twirling her hair with two fingers behind her ear and the only thing that came to mind was “I’ll take the barbecue ranch sauce.”