So the other night I happened to catch a concert featuring Ralph Stanley and his band, of whom I had not previously heard. For those of you who, like me, are too young or too far north of the Mason-Dixon line to be familiar with these musicians, they play bluegrass and gospel music, and they are the real deal. Ralph Stanley has been performing and recording since the 1950s and has the tuneful and gravelly soul of the South for a voice (and you may have heard him on the O Brother Where Art Thou soundtrack). As for his band, they are a motley crew of highly skilled instrumentalists (fiddle, mandolin, string bass, guitar, banjo, and I am not kidding, spoons) with plenty of heartfelt candor to augment their middling talent on vocals. I'm not at all a fan of this type of music usually, but I was taken aback by this group's sound and commitment to tradition and performativity, and it put me in a very uniquely appreciative mindset. And so it was that after being served up a heaping helping of this slice of Americana, I decided to honor their memory by heading out to a nearby bar and wetting my whistle with a few glasses of bourbon.
Well, the place I chose, the Lotus, was perfect for my purposes. It is a very old-timey establishment with original 1890s-style wood paneling and a floor that would be very much at home in your grandfather's barbershop. But it also hides a checkered past: historically, it has served as a front for a cardhouse and a brothel, and was a noted speakeasy during the Prohibition. The ghosts of a long-dead America swirl in every dim corner - wonderful ambiance for a solitary journey to the bottom of a glass. But there was one thing I had not counted on.
Taking up an entire wing of the bar was a group of twentysomething women who were talking animatedly. A quick glance confirmed my ultimate fear. The table was littered with empty shot glasses. Little soggy umbrellas were abandoned in sticky puddles by the wreckage of cocktails made exclusively of outrageously colored liquids. One girl, bleary-eyed, wearing a tiara. Joy and jealousy in equal measure on her friends' faces. A big bowl of blue punch with eight straws in it. Oh God no, I thought, it can't be . . .
But it was, of course, a bachelorette party. I set my jaw and continued on my way to the back of the room, unwilling to give up the field so easily. For a time, my strategy of laying low and concentrating on the drink in front of me worked. I was into my second Wild Turkey before there was any sign of trouble. But when it came, it was as sudden as a prairie dust storm. One of the revelers broke off from the pack and sashayed over to me. Her name was Michelle, from Bellingham WA, and she had already imbibed enough to become a little handsy (an affectionate slap on the back, occasional pats on the arm). All the classic signs of flirtation were there, but people really have been more outgoing and friendly on the left side of the country, so I didn't want immediately to read too much into her behavior. Still, I wasn't taking any chances (and I genuinely did not want to be bothered), so I stayed as uninteresting and monosyllabic as possible during our conversation, hoping that she would catch the hint and move on. It took a long time, because she was inordinately focused on engaging me, but sure enough, when her party moved into a back room, she joined them. I breathed a sigh of relief, having successfully fended off the unwelcome advance.
My victory was short-lived. I had just gotten into Wild Turkey number three when Michelle emerged from the back again and made another overture to me. This time, she stood uncomfortably close and leaned in as she teased me about being a slow sipper. She asked what I was drinking anyway, then playfully grabbed my glass off the counter and sniffed at it. Continuing my former policy of polite distance, I indicated that it was bourbon, hoping that the mention of such a serious liquor would alert her to the fact that I had not come to the Lotus to socialize. "Yuck, I can tell. I've have my share of rough nights with this stuff." But she did not release the drink, and for a moment she looked as if she was about to walk off with it as a hostage, hoping thereby to coerce me into following.
It was, in my judgment, time for a change in tack. The potential hookup was almost surely the reason for her continued presence next to me. I had to get the message through that I was not interested, firmly but politely. But how? She was not responding as I had hoped to my stony near-silence, if she even noticed it at all. I thought wildly that I might even have made the situation worse if she was usually attracted to silent loner types. Her continued possession of my drink offered me a pretext: if she was interested in me because I was playing hard-to-get, I would execute an abrupt volte-face and scare her off with a show of aggression. "I hope you're not planning on keeping that," I said, gesturing at her ill-gotten gain, "because if you try to run off I'll tackle you."
Instantly I knew it had been the wrong thing to say. But I did not have the opportunity to finish kicking myself, because Michelle came back to the bar, set the glass down, focused her eyes on my face (this took a second to accomplish), and squared her shoulders. "You," came her hoarsely whispered reply, "can tackle me any time you want."
I let out a short bark of a laugh before my strength deserted me and, in a total panic, called out to the bartender for the check.
As I walked out the door and back onto the street, I reflected that there are still some significant holes in my education. Brushing women off with grace and tact is not a skill that they taught at my fancy East Coast school, and this glaring curricular omission I believe I shall have to take up with the Board of Overseers the next time they ask for alumni contributions.
P.S. As if I hadn't been humiliated enough as I practically ran out of the Lotus, within five minutes I was feeling guilty about being rude to Michelle (she was pretty nice, after all, and didn't deserve any disrespect), so I swallowed the remainder of my pride and returned to apologize for my behavior and wish her a good night. She just looked confused when I ducked back in, and one of her friends came over in about ten seconds to rescue her from the creep who had cornered her (yours truly). Now that's humiliation. I'll never listen to bluegrass again.
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