Rather, she liked the blood-and-knuckles, old-school NWA, loser-leave-town kind of fights with yours truly trapped in the role of hero after some Neanderthal supposedly offended her delicate sensibilities.
And I was usually dumb enough to do it.
One time at a bar in Auburn, this girl, we’ll call her Trixie, decided she didn’t like the way some dude was looking at her, and rather than passively turning away and listening to the band, she decided to throw her vodka and cranberry juice on his head.
And like Bill Cosby says about back-talking his mama, “I don’t remember much after that.”
Fast forward 15 years, and though the circumstances have changed, it appears the Fates have placed me in the company of another girl who seems hell bent on watching me get my butt kicked (or humiliated) … only this time it’s my daughter.
Jellybean’s gonna get me killed.
Take our recent trip to Taco Bell. It was one of those Taco Bells that’s connected to a convenience store. Jellybean and I are sitting in a booth by the door and she’s eating her plain (I can’t express PLAIN enough … as in no sauce. None) cheese quesadilla while constantly staring at the homeless man at the booth on the other side of the door.
I’m not trying to be judgmental when I say “homeless.” Dude was drinking Fanta from a Cup O’ Soup, eating peanuts off the table and had about as many teeth as a jack-o’-lantern. Plus, he was talking to himself. “Sure is cold out there,” he said loudly over and over again.
Still, he seemed harmless. “Sure is cold out there,” he said again. Jellybean couldn’t take it anymore. “Yeah, and my Daddy let me go to school wearing a tank top.” There was a second when I actually saw the guy stand up and stab me in the eye with a spork. But he just leaned forward, grinned and went back to eating his peanuts.
Jellybean was unperturbed. Not 15 minutes later a dirty hippie stumbled in (this is a pretty decent Taco Bell, I’m not sure what was going on that day), looking just like the lead singer from Blind Melon with long dreads, cut-off jean shorts on top of tight hot-pink women’s yoga pants. Jellybean was fascinated … hell, so was I.
Before I could stop her, Jellybean blurted out, “Those pants match my shirt … but those are for girls.” I just knew Dude Love was gonna beat me to death with his wizard-shaped bong. Instead, he stopped, pulled down his shades, smiled and said, “You’re cute,” before making his way to the counter for a gordita.
We escaped Taco Bell with our lives that afternoon, but I might buy some Mace the next time I take Jellybean out in public, just in case. I’ll say this for her, just like that girl from so long ago, going out with Jellybean is a lot of things, but it’s never boring.
Contact Brett Buckner at firstname.lastname@example.org.