CrabShack Blues

Hi Folks,

It’s 'happy hour' at the ‘Crab Shack’ and I’ve made a gallant effort to arrive early enough to grab a good seat and ‘tip a beer’ before the ‘regulars’ converge on the scene.

The previous week I met four or five of the regulars and it turned out to be a pretty good evening. I introduced myself to the group and while we didn’t have all that much in common, a few jokes and witticisms were exchanged and that was enough to meet the initial threshold of acceptance. For the most part these folks are self-indulgent boors with only one solitary interest, yachts and the bikinis clad women that accompany them. So why am I hanging with these folks? For one, the bikinis clad women aspect may be something to explore! At any rate, we exchanged e-mails and phone numbers with promises that ‘they’ would contact me and let me know what was on the agenda for ‘this Friday’ and that we’d all meet at the Crab Shack and go from there. Regretfully, I never received an e-mail, so was hoping they’d be here tonight.

Okay, I’m here…..where are they? Not to be folks, I’ve been stood up. I felt like Charlie Brown when things go wrong, grab the blanket. Only, I had no blanket to grab. Another ‘wasted’ Friday night I’m thinking. Fortunately, there was a new female bartender working this night. She served me promptly without any fanfare or even a ‘howdy’. Peculiar for a bartender since most are arguably quite social. At least you should be sociable if you want to make a buck. That observation aside, I decided to ‘hang around’ rather than make an early exit. Maybe a bit of ‘small talk’ with her might cheer me up and salvage something of my ‘only night out’ of the week.

Physically, she was ‘okay’, somewhere in the neighborhood of 5’6”, 120 lbs in what looks like a well ‘toned’ body. Admiringly, in a pejorative way, her demeanor and body language suggests ‘body obsession’ rules her life. I’m sure her physique would probably be the envy of many sweaty bodies at the gym. For me, I have a more cognitive approach, a more realistic view of my appearance. ‘Body morphing/sculpting’ and for that matter any ‘highly disciplined’ physical activity that requires an inordinate amount of time and commitment isn’t for me. Let me have my well-earned ‘paunch’ and gravity-displaced pecks, I earned them! God knows, to keep ‘svelte’ and ‘lean’ like she is she probably suffers from some form of dysmorphic disorder. Laugh all you want, there are more women than you think who suffer eating disorders just to get the kind of look she has managed to acquire.

Denigrating comments aside, she does have great eyes. You know, those eyes that communicate that ‘who me?’ look. They were deep-brown in color and exposed a kind of softness about her, a disempowering quality that would indicate she’s ‘approachable’. I hope so. I’m about ready for my next beer, so now is as good a time as any to introduce myself.

She saunters by as I interrupt a request by a ‘waiting’ and ‘wanton’ hostess for a ‘Manhatten’. A rare request, haven’t heard of that drink since the early 60s. “Excuse me, ma’am, I blurt out as she whisks by, may I have another Ultra draft?” I quickly follow with, “Don’t rush, I’m still working on this one.” She acknowledges with a nod of the head. Waiting, I scan the bar area for anybody that may have passed by me without my knowing. Nada…not one person has come into the bar area since my arrival more than 30 minutes ago. I’m still at a loss as to where any of the ‘yacht club’ members might be. The weather is exceptionally nice today so I’m betting there was some ‘last minute’ planning to ‘bar-hop’ by boat in lieu of the regular routine of coming to this bar. What the hey….don’t blame them, right?

“Excuse me, here’s your beer, sir”, the bartender quietly advertises to me. She follows with “I apologize for the delay, it’s just kind of busy on the restaurant side tonight”. Awoken out of my mental malaise, I said, “no problem”. By the way, my name is Rick, what’s yours?” “I’m Jennifer. Are you new here?” she asks. “Pretty much so”, I replied. “I was expecting to see some of the folks I met here last week, the ‘yacht clubers’ as I like to refer to them. Kinda disappointed none of them showed up.” She responds, “I know who you’re talking about and I believe they’ve all gone to Pensacola over the weekend, the weather is so nice and all.”

I’m thinking now the ice is broken. One question leads to another until we got to a point where I had a pretty good picture of her status and goals in life. Hey, once on a roll I’m quick to the point. And here I thought I would be intimidated by her. I can say with honesty, women this attractive can be intimidating. Especially, for an old goat like me that looks ‘the part’ yet still has the ‘howl at the moon’ yearning to copulate with someone half my age. In any case, the last thing I want is to be too forward, especially not knowing her very well, nor she of me. I’m still thinking, even with all our conversing, she may still have some kind of dysmorphic disorder. It would be my luck I should piss her off and she engages in some sort of trichotillomanic contest with me. As if I don’t have enough problems in my crummy life! Fortunately, none of the above occurred, nor do I believe she’s so afflicted.

“Jennifer, can I ask you something personal?”. She responds, “No, go ahead”. “Do you have a boyfriend”, I brazenly ask. I couldn’t believe the words came out of my mouth, that I asked her this question; not after only knowing her for 30 minutes! How crude of me, I thought. How desperate it must sound. I’m thinking, I’d probably be offended if someone I hardly knew asked me such a question. But I did. “Yes, I do Rick”, she responds. No note of hostility from her, thank god. I really felt dumb at this moment. Anyway, she continues, “His name is Joe Smith, he’s a biker and a lot of fun. I’ve dated otherwise ‘nice guys’ but they just don’t have the ‘risk/reward’ attitude I like in the men I date. He’s been to jail a couple of times but I think he’s straightened out.” “Oh, I say”, rather condescending. She doesn’t seem to notice the deferential response. She bends over to fill the ice-bin and I notice a ‘skull ‘n’ bones’ tattoo on her lower back, just above the crack in her ass. All the while I’m thinking, “what in the hell is she thinking going out with an ex-con?” Then again, I’m looking at the crack of her ass; question answered. She finishes filling the ice-bin, then asks me the same question. Not only the same question but compliments me on being a seemingly “nice” guy with “nice” manners that would make someone a ‘nice’ boyfriend. I responded that, “I’m divorced and looking, thanks for the compliments”. I’m not sure why I replied to her this way because I’m “not” looking. Maybe my answer was a shield to protect my ever-ebbing desire to find a partner. To admit ‘not looking’ would be an affront to my masculinity, whatever the hell all that means. I’m sure there’s some neuro-linguistic programming theory at work in all this. Whatever, I certainly don’t have enough time in my life to figure it all out.

So what we have here folks is a dismal attempt to make ‘something’ from ‘nothing’ in terms of establishing a potential relationship. Let’s face it, old man time is taking it’s toll on me. I’m just becoming an anachronistic artifact with only a limited amount of redeeming value to the breeding stock of the human species. My ‘y’ chromosome pairs are becoming fragmented and diluted with ever diminishing levels of active DNA strands. It’s just so depressing, getting old. That, and being ‘nice’, it’s all a plot against me.

Even a ‘nice’ guy can’t help but think Jennifer would certainly be fun to be with on occasion. But, in her words ‘nice’ guys finish last. I often feel like womankind has a perverse craving for jerks, while nice men are handled best with six-foot poles and sterilized gloves. And I know that in the treacherous World of Dating, I suffer from a frightful natural disadvantage.

I think I must have been born nice; I certainly don't recall choosing to be this way. Half the time I can't even explain what being nice means. I understand it is related to politeness, empathy, honesty, and other such calamitous behaviors. How did I ever inherit these mediocre traits? An evolutionary regression is my best guess, a defiant recessive gene disinclined to remain hidden in my chromosomes. Or perhaps I was corrupted during my excruciatingly long and happy childhood. Whatever the case, I fear pursuing the question is futile.
What I do grasp with utter clarity is that nice guys must fight a bleak battle to stay off the endangered species list. To be nice can be a man's ruin. Few things can damage one's reputation as thoroughly as the indictment, 'Oh, he's so nice.' Other women besides Jennifer have been callous enough to say this to my face (they meant it as a compliment, of course), consigning me with those miserable words to the dreaded friend bucket-a fate akin to involuntary early retirement. Being good enough for friendship, and endowed with endearing niceness, apparently disqualify me from romantic considerations.

Wherefore this cruel paradox? I've frequently toyed with perfunctory explanations. The ingenuous answer is to blame the misguided stereotype that all nice guys are boring geeks who have to be agreeable if they want to meet women-as well as its corollary: men who are witty and audacious aren't nice because they don't have to be. But I like to think most women don't fall for this fallacy. Perhaps, instead, they assume nice guys are too good to be true; surely some evil secret is lurking beneath that tranquil surface.

And why do women tolerate the stellar treatment they receive from jerks? I just know by conversing with Jennifer that ‘her’ ‘Joe Smith’ doesn’t give crappola about her in any way, shape or form. Maybe, like Jennifer, they believe it’s too compelling a tradeoff to resist? Good sex, witty conversation, fancy dinners followed by thrilling nightclubs, biker orgies, all this and more in exchange for a barrage of lousy manners, thoughtless insults, and daily arguments about nothing. Not a shabby arrangement. Not when one adds other incentives, like the ecstatic thrill of his inconstancy. Or the delightful suspicion of being on the receiving end of his crafty deception. Maybe they think the jerks are going to change. Women, like Jennifer, will play a waiting game, wagering their jerks will turn nice before they turn eighty. Even with all the ‘negatives’ I conjure up being a ‘jerk’, the profile remains somewhat alluring.

I think after tonight’s conversation with Jennifer becoming a jerk may be a sound strategy to save me from a lonely middle age. The beer is kicking in now. Self-absorption is giving in to the ‘Walter Mitty’ world of make believe. I love it. I’m going to make a pledge: no more mister Nice Guy. No denying, it will be a daunting task. I have been hindered from the outset by a string of innate defects. I find it difficult to lie; I generally prefer to be forthright. I'm protective and caring. I tend to anticipate needs and fulfill them. I have the annoying habit of listening well. Chivalry is my mother’s tongue. I have concluded, grudgingly, that to be a jerk may be unachievable. The competition I will be facing is formidable. I'd be a feather-weight learning to fight in a land of three-hundred pound giants. Jerks have been training to be jerks since they were toddlers. They looked up girls' skirts in grade school. In junior high they had one girlfriend at school, one in the neighborhood, and they were playing home-physician with their cousin in her parents' walk-in closet. At twenty, they had managed every trick in the portfolio. Lying, cheating, scheming, seducing. By the time they reached thirty they had refined their skills to a cruel art. I knew a guy who broke up with his girlfriend because she developed a nasty rash on her forearm. How am I ever going to top that?

How best can I convert from ‘Mr. Nice’ to ‘Mr. Jerk’? I’ve got a Books a Million discount card, I’ll devour self-help books on the subject. I’ll watch countless French films to bring out the colder, more cynical me. I’ll start a Nice Guy Association (NGA). I’ll be the first to sign up. My introductory speech will be brief and to the point. ”Hello”, my head bowed and my eyes on my matching socks, “My name is Rick and I have been a nice guy since 1946.” I could also pursue more desperate measures. I will avidly follow the progress of the Human Genome Project, praying they'll soon discover a cure for the filthy gene accountable for my wretched state.

Who am I kidding? I know this retransformation from ‘Mr. Nice’ to ‘Mr. Jerk’ is just an irrational pursuit of unobtainable results. Walter Mitty sucks! An inner voice tells me I must accept who I am and be content. Pursuing any noble crusade to find my egocentric, brutish side is pure folly. I am who I am. I’m ‘hardwired’ to be Mr. Nice til my last breath.

Better pay my bar bill, time to go. “Jennifer, it was nice meeting you, here’s a ten-spot, keep the change…see you next Friday”. I’m thinking on my way to the car that Jennifer is really pretty nice but now that I know her a bit better, I just can't seem to get too excited about her anymore. I don't know...if only she weren't so damned nice.

C’ya later folks.