After I closed the seasonal store tonight, I ask to grab a quick smoke and head outside the Galleria to sit on the benches outside the fancy steakhouse to ponder the stars (and lament the Red Sox loss to the Rays) when a man comes upon me. He appears to be in his late 40's/early 50's with short cropped grey hair, a flamboyant green flowered shirt with a bone white sport coat and brilliantly shined fancy loafers (hey, the Dead Kennedy has upped my knowledge on style). He stares at me for a few moments before saying, "I just saw a sillohuete here and low and behold there's a person!" His speech is slightly slurred and I let him know that I do, in fact exist (in some corporeal form, at least) and he starts his rap.
"I was just at Gigi's and I guess I must be some real V.I.P. cause I got my tab comped.EVERYTHING! Food, drinks...vodka, by the way. The whole enchilada!"
Immediately, I realise, this guy is smitten with me. Don't think I'm being egotistical here. I've been hit on by a bunch of guys but have never seen the sparkle and immense look of hopefull coital copulance that protruded from this man's glazzies. And hey, the story ain't over yet so I can still prove to you this guy wanted a piece of my pasty Mick ass.
I tell him how awesome it is that he gets to dine fancy and get loaded for free and compliment the cuisine at Gigi's (it's pretty meh, in truth). He continues to boast his meal and service and then begins to tell me he might be a little to drunk to drive home. Baiting.
I continue to pull long drags off my Camel Light, just wanting to get out of the situation. Like I said, I don't give a fuck who hits on me or what baggage their packing, I just wanted to build cancer in peace and clear my head. He didn't get the hint via my silence.
"It would be a shame if I got into a wreck and died," is how he laboriously continued our tepid verbal exchange. I nodded and peered at the valets. They know me, we're cool and I was hoping one of them would break up this sad, desperate courting.
"See, I own my own company and if I go it all goes!" He began to get more animated and I continued my sulk. Hoping just to be left alone.
"You must be an IT guy, huh?" was his next query.
"No," I replied, "I'm retail."
This didn't register. He continued on about his amazing freedom as the head honcho of a freewheeling furniture company off of Kirby and then handed me his card. The company was called Ligne Roset and his name is Bruce Wolfe.
I politely thanked him for the card and he went on about how he wanted people to buy new modern "shit" instead of old "shit" and wanted people to have fresh, contemporary and stylish looks for their homes instead of wallowing in old "shit" styled decoration. I nodded, took another drag and stared off into the night. He still didn't get the hint and went for his Hail Mary.
"Shit, I hope I can drive home. I mean, I only live in River Oaks and it's not too far but I don't wanna get pulled over. Just jump in my Roadster and head out down Westheimer and just get home to my bed. Wait...is Westheimer gonna have more cops now or is Richmond? I only have to get to Weslayen but, my company goes down if I get pulled over."
At this point Bruce asked if he could take a seat next to me and I obliged. He crossed his legs with his right pointed towards me and made sure his arm was behind my back on the bench. He continued to boast about all the free food and booze he got just for being an important furniture salesmen. It was almost like he was bragging about being the gay man's Matress Mac.
Another long silence came about and then my smoke burned furiously down to the tar. I thanked Bruce for the conversation and told him I had to get back to work. He started to inquire about my personal life but broke his sentence mid-way and just said, "Ciao. Use the card," as I got up to head back to the store.