One Night at Starbucks

So I finally did it!

I was bombing around the local Starbucks, inside an area Barnes and Noble, slurping down their acidically burnt coffee while putting ice on my wallet's balls after it had re-allocated funds for four new tires on the Truckzilla. I enjoy these cups of coffee with the headphones on, oversized numbers, of course, to ultimately discourage any conversation from members of adjacent tables that errantly float in my air space. It should have been good times, but as though life doesn't suck enough, this jones looks over at me, and starts walking in my direction.

A brief aside as ways of explanation to the ensuing events: high-school, my dear coitusers, was some time ago, and by and large a four year point that I have tried, through creative cocktails of alcohol, minor drugs and nicotine, to block out. But my existence with high-school and really college and, well, really life itself is this: They are best times left to themselves. When my ten year reunion rolled around I let the invitation fall stillborn from the letter carrier. It's not that I'm a snob... Well, yes, it is actually that I'm a snob, but in my defense I see all of the people from high school that I would want to see, so why do I need to see any more?

So this jones is approaching, and distant memories come un-compressed: a date at the Science Museum where my special lady friend ditched me for a romp in the wig-wam with some hockey player; my pants pulled down while looking through a telescope in science class, and the ensuing "action/reaction" of the slippery fart passing loudly between my buttocks; thousands of hours spent debating the merits of Xena: Warrior Princes over the Adventures of Hercules-- one show you're staring at the same chick every episode, the other you're staring at dudes, but they give you a different hotty almost ever week (I think there is some correlation between single life and marriage in there somewhere).

So jones goes [in a typical son of a bitch sort of way]: "Do I know you?"

Me [in a polite leave me the fuck alone]: "I don't think so, I'm usually pretty good with faces and names."

Jones [randomly bastardly]: "Roseville alum of 96?"

Me [while turning up the volume on my headphones]: "Sorry, no..."

Outside of being dumped or cheated on throughout my entire governmentally funded academic career, my only other real claim to fame was having a truly fucked up name. It is so egregious that it is capable of producing a wide array of insults and also is kind enough to work into many mnemonic devices so that it is as easy to remember as a soda-pop commercial.

So jones says my name with this proud look on his face, and a sickening sense fills the void like he wants to pull up a chair so we might effectively "catch-up".

Rather than allow him one mucky-from-condensation-from-his-frozen-latte finger from forming a beach head on my precious area of zen, I turn on the smile and say, "Oh, you're thinking about my cousin! I'm Mike from Mahtomedi. Ha, Ha, this sort of confusion is always happening. Wait until I tell my cousin about this!"

The exclamation point at the end of that statement seemed excessive, and as we both shook hands I couldn't help but wonder if I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew it was me...

And then I went back to wondering why I don't have any friends...