En Fuego Con Las Mujeres

SUBTITLE: On Fire With The Ladies
Based on actual events. In fact, nothing has been changed, and no one has been protected.

It was 1988 or ’89, I don’t remember which, but I know I was close to donning flannel shirts, baggy shorts, and socks with my sandals. But not yet. As it was, I was wearing my ’80′s uniform, which consisted of a pair of black Z. Cavaricci pantaloons (pegged at the ankle of course), and a fuzzy Cosby sweater, all ensconced in a juniper scented cloud of Drakkar Noir. I had replaced the pair of black Chucks that normally rounded out my ensemble with a pair of Asian slippers, my ninja shoes as I called them (and I was the ninja of love. Eighties Love). The only thing missing were leg warmers.

The bar was a “target rich environment” and I made my way to one of the few empty stools quickly and stealthily, thanks to my footwear. I got into a little flirtatious back-and-forth with the bartender, good practice for the upcoming hunt.

BARTENDER: What’ll you have?
ME: Bacardi and Coke. No fruit.
BARTENDER: Is Pepsi okay?
ME: Is the rum still gonna be in it?
BARTENDER: Uh, yea.
ME: Yea, then fuck it sweetheart, Pepsi’s fine.

I sipped my drink and checked my fly (my Z. Cavaricci’s had a white tag over the fly flap that in my periphery always made it appear my zipper was down). A group of ladies, a bachelorette party perhaps, got up and left just before I decided to go talk to them. I winked at the bartender, downed the rest of my drink, and ordered another.

ME: Can I get another Bacardi and Coke? Excuse me, Pepsi. *smile*

She delivered my rum, I pushed some bills from the pile in front of me toward her. A guy to my left was talking about the upcoming Eagles game, I turned to listen and that’s when I saw her. Let’s call her Jane, because that was her name. She was a waitress at the restaurant across the street from where I worked, and she was standing at the jukebox. Her back was to me, but that was definitely Jane, if you know what I mean. I snuck up beside her (thanks again to my shoes), and pulled a cigarette from a full pack (Parliament Lights: A gentler cigarette for a gentler time).

ME: Need some help?
JANE: Can I get one of those ? *she motions toward my cigarette*
ME: You can have this one. *I take the cigarette from between my lips and give it to her, and get a fresh one for myself*
JANE: You have a light?

I fished a pack of matches out of my pocket, lit it and proceeded to light her smoke, then mine.

JANE: Thanks.

I took a long drag on my cigarette, closing my eyes. That’s when I felt Jane’s hands all over my chest. My eyes shot open, my first reaction was to check my fly again, but when I looked down I saw that my sweater was on fire. Somehow, a piece of the match must has flown off and ignited the fuzz all over the front of my sweater (perhaps the Drakkar had acted as an accelerant). Either Jane’s efforts extinguished the flames, or it simply died out when the fuzz was burnt up.  I’m not sure which, but I was no longer on fire.  So that was good.

Apparently that was all the excitement Jane was up for that evening. She retreated to her friends’ table. I heard them all share a pretty loud laugh when I walked by, but hey it was funny.

When I got back to my seat, a couple of my friends had arrived.

CHRIS: Smooth, brother.
ME: Hey, she put me out, didn’t she?

© copyright 2009  

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9 Responses to “En Fuego Con Las Mujeres”

  1. ugh, Z. Cavaricci’s… Welcome home Theo!

    http://www.everywearstore.com

  2. Win some lose some.

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