Steve, Pussy-Ass Bitch, and The Eyebrows

Years ago, I worked for a company as, among other things (so many hats), a transportation manager. That’s a very fancy way of saying I picked up a phone and scheduled trucks to pick up our shit and make it go away.

I had started out there as sort of a generic office support person. But due to the fact that current transportation manager, Carla, was sentient can of Aquanet who oh so generously cross-trained me for her position so that I cover for her while she snuck out of the office for hours at a time and/or took naps in the upstairs locker room. She ultimately got herself fired for fraudulent behavior among other things, and it was an extremely smooth transition into that job for me when I informed the owners that I was the only other person there who already knew the job and could step right in. They didn’t ask a lot of questions. Good shit. Thanks, Carla, you freakin train-wreck.

It was a pretty good job, all things considered, though about three years into that grand career I found out that a dude I worked with, an eventual buddy of mine who I should have been on equal footing with, was making a considerable amount more per hour than I was. That was fun. And by “fun” I mean heartbreaking. That was younger “Ew, I’m not a feminist, I’m as equal as anyone” self’s reality check that shit wasn’t as cool as I thought it was. Yes I complained. No, nothing was done about it. Why? Because they didn’t have to. Anyhoo…

For the most part, I really enjoyed that job. It kept the rent paid, the kids and I fed and housed, and I liked most of my coworkers. We were sort of a weird, dysfunctional, functionally alcoholic work family. I truly thought that, if I won the lottery, that would probably still work there for a while because I couldn’t imagine not working there (that sentiment waned a bit when I found out I was being completely fucked over on my paycheck).

The crew I worked with really enjoyed happy hour. I mean they really enjoyed it. We started going, a regular group of us, on Fridays, but that changed to Thursdays AND Fridays…and sometimes more often. It depended on the week and our stress levels and desire for cheap beer at one of the local watering holes.

One particular night, we all decided to head up to a shitty little tavern in North Portland, Oregon to celebrate finally getting rid of Sharron, the most annoying receptionist (she was the fucking worst, my god, that’s a whole side-story) ever to answer a phone.

This tavern has had a lot of different incarnations since that time, and it’s currently some gentrified nightmare that I’m sure serves deconstructed kombucha tacos or some shit.

But at that point in time, it was a rundown brick building that was spray-painted red white and blue because America, and it was a perfect spot to unwind and stuff your face with bar food and whatever was on tap while simultaneously trying to avoid getting knifed in the bathroom. Magical. And I am not lying when I say this was, maybe still is, my favorite kind of place. Take me here any night of the week before a “velvet rope” nightclub. I’m a fucking supermodel in a place where you risk getting knifed, where, at Club Botox, I can barely get someone’s attention for a drink. Please, let me thrive where the bar (at the bar) has been significantly lowered.

I generally tried to get to this joint as early as possible since a.) I, being an office-dweller, didn’t have to shower before I ventured out, and b.) I had a favorite set of tables located conveniently between the bar and the bathroom, and I didn’t want to fight to procure that spot.

My friend, Tim (the guy getting paid way-the-fuck more than me) and I showed up about 4:45 and grabbed our spot. Mike and the warehouse manager, Sam showed up a bit after, a few of our drivers after that, and finally the warehouse crew (the dirty fuckers who needed a quick hosing off) made their arrival, most of them anyway.

We ordered our burgers and chicken fingers, grabbed a few pitchers of Henry Weinhardt’s, and started in on our usual talking of the shit.

Other “non-coworkers” milled in, some were cool and would join our little crew, and some were annoying twathammers. This one dude, a tall oily man named Trent who worked at the mattress place down the street was usually the worst to bear, but tonight he brought in a new guy named Damon, also visibly oily, who immediately with his idiot one-liners chock full o’ innuendo made Trent seem tame. Great. That’s fine, I’ll just attempt to drink him tolerable and/or ignore him.

The door to the bar swings open, and I had to do a double-take because in walked Steve, a pretty chill, ginger-pony-tailed warehouse dude I actually liked quite a bit. Soft-spoken, hard worker, genuinely seemed like a sweet guy to boot. But he arrived with a woman who looked WAY too much like the receptionist we just shit-canned.

Tim saw it, too.

“What the ffff…no, way, did Steve just show up with fuckin Sharron???”

We all froze. Seriously, we all sat there as if we were on a TV show and someone hit the pause button.

Upon closer inspection, oh. No. WHEW! It’s not her. We let out a collective sign of relief. God she looked a lot like her, too…short, stocky, a mess of curly dark hair and a face that looked like someone took Roseanne and Dan Conner and put them in a blender. That’s fine. She even wore the same goddamn perfume as Sharron. My eye started twitching in protest.

Steve walked over to our table with not-Sharron and sat down across the table from me. I kept an eye on not-Sharron because I was still worried that she was actual-Sharron even though I logically knew she was not. Seriously, guys, this is how bad actual-Sharron was. I promise I’ll go into that at a later date.

Six O’Clock rolls around, the music gets louder – always 70s era classic rock…always – and people are becoming more and more tolerable (and attractive) as the alcohol disappears pitcher by pitcher.

Not Trent or Damon, though, they’re still annoying as fuck. No amount of beer can fix this as it turns out.

I head up to the bar order another pitcher, and Steve and not-Sharron follow and stand behind me waiting to order whatever the hell they were ordering. Oily Creepfuck Damon, who decides that he wants to bother me a whoooole fucking bunch more, sidles up next to me.

“Hey,” he grunts.

I think that maybe, just maybe, if I keep staring at the row of taps in front of me, he will cease to exist.

No such luck.

“Heeey, Beautiful. Wanna test drive some of my product,” he growls at me…referring to the mattresses he’s recently been hired to sling. God, is that why he took this job, for the shitty pick-up lines? Gross.

“Dude. No. You’re harshing my buzz. Shoo.”

A familiar voice behind me chimes in. And then I smell the familiar perfume.

“She’s with us.” I turn around and Steve and not-Sharron are staring him down.

My involuntary gut reaction was “Ew, no, I am not with not-Sharron,” but then I realized, oh, hey dummy, these two are trying to save you from Creepfuck here. I decide to play along.

“Yeah, sorry dude, I mean you’re annoying anyway, but I’m otherwise tied up. Maybe literally in a bit. If you get my drift.” I winked. It seemed appropriate.

As if on cue, Steve and not-Sharron flank me and they each put an arm across my back and draw me in close to them. I’m the meat in a Steve and not-Sharron sandwich.

Creepfuck has zero idea how to react to this. You could sense his tiny little brain-hamsters dying one-by-one as he tried to reconcile a scenario involving me with Steve, me with not-Sharron, me with Steve AND not-Sharron. This was shit he had seen in the VHS pornos he’d rent from the Jack Shack but had never been experienced in the wild. It was a total annihilation of alllllll the brain-hamsters. You could smell it.

He stammered and said, “Oh…oh…um…wow, ok. Cool.” He grabbed his Zima and shuffled off.

I was half-surprised he didn’t ask to join in whatever party we had going, but I also didn’t figure he could articulate as much at that point.

I gently broke off from the side-hugs of my saviors.

“Haha…wow. Thanks, guys. I was all but certain that I’d be saddled with that dude for a lot longer, and I appreciate the hell out of the fact that it appears I am not. Thanks.”

Steve smiled broadly and laughed, “Hey, no prob. That dude was a real prize.”

Not-Sharron reached for my hand and drew it up to her magenta-stained lips and kissed it.

Oh, ok.

“Absolutely no problem, m’lady,” she cooed, releasing my hand. She then curtsied.

…huh. Weird. Sweet though.

I curtsied back because why not and headed back to our table with my new pitcher of Henry’s. My heroes followed shortly behind with additional pitchers of draft and sat down across from me again.

The night progressed as it frequently did when we didn’t have to work the next day (and sometimes even if we did). More pitchers were ordered for the table, more fries were ordered. Shots of the cheapest tequila in the well were thrown back. The bar phone would ring and the bar patrons would, as always, simultaneously shout, “I’m not here!”

Steve and not-Sharron got into an friendly argument with Tim about which strains of pot are best, I didn’t pretend to have a clue one way or another because I don’t know shit other than pot is generally green and also that if someone hands it to me and says “free pot,” I will smoke it. That’s all I need to know.

Some folks start peeling off the group at around eight or so, and the rest of us make the decision that we want a change of scenery. So we left our current venue to head down the street and across to an even sketchier place called Porky’s (yes really. Porky’s).

The terrifying, denim-vested, mountain of a man who worked Porky’s the door checks all of our IDs, probably more to check to see if we’re on the “do not serve this person, they murdered someone in the beer garden last October” list than to verify our ages. Since no one in our group has murdered anyone, at that dive anyway, we filed in and ordered more beers. Unfortunately, they don’t sell pitchers after recently getting shut down for over-serving people multiple times, so now they just over-serve their patrons one pint at a time. But their prices are cheaper so it ends up balancing out budget-wise. Winner winner. I head right up to the bar and order two pints of Henry’s, one for me, one for my friend…who is also me. Hey, I’m trying to be efficient.

We find a spot smack dab in the middle of the joint and sit down. I set my cellphone (Nokia!) and car keys down, but decide to keep a firm grip on my purse, and we continue on with our super deep conversations, asking all the important questions: Is Monica Lewinsky actually a Russian spy and if so, why doesn’t she have an accent? Does beer taste better out of a can or out of a bottle? What if the bottle’s green? What if it’s clear? Who here has actually SEEN Bigfoot?

“Whole Lotta Rosie” by AC/DC is playing in the background, some one-eyed dude is calling another dude a “pussy-ass bitch” over at the pool tables because the pussy-ass bitch won’t play another round so one-eyed dude can win back the twenty bucks he wagered and ultimately lost on the previous game.

My coworker, Mike, is asleep in his chair, which is a usual thing that happens when we’re out past eight o’clock. We take turns throwing things at his head to wake him up, lessening his chance to be 86’d from the joint if only temporarily (it’s happened before).

Two nearly identical-to-each-other, adorable little gals with their drawn on eyebrows  – apparently they were with with the pussy-ass bitch – laugh at the spectacle of sleepy Mike getting pelted with ketchup packets and bottle caps, shake their heads in unison, and one of them says something that sounds a lot like, “Payaso Borracho,” which I found out later means “drunk clown.” Accurate.

My overpaid buddy, Tim, is up at the bar ordering a couple shots of tequila for he and I because SHOTS! I glance over at Steve. He looks a little annoyed. It took me a minute to figure out why, but then I glanced over and not-Sharron, who had kicked off her shoes because her feet hurt after the block and a half trek from the previous bar. She had her feet up on the chair between Warehouse Manager Sam’s legs, and he was giving her a foot massage. She had her eyes closed and was quietly moaning while arching her back and pressing her feet right into Sam’s crotch.

Oh. Alright then.

I glanced back at Steve. He rolled his eyes and shrugged, laughing a little, a reaction that emoted, “Yeah, this is a thing that happens a lot.”

I chuckled back and leaned over with my half-full (optimist!) glass of beer and clinked it against his. He raised his glass, and we both took a drink.

Not-Sharron continued sighing and moaning, a little louder now. This was getting a little weird even for me.

I glanced back over at Steve. He stood up and grumbled something that sounded like, “Well fuck this…” before he walked over to the narrow hall that led to the sketch-ass bathroom, also very much a place you might get knifed. I watched his ponytail disappear around the corner as he strolled to the commode.

Poor dude, his mood was a lot better before his girlfriend was getting her feet serviced by his boss.

Not-Sharron giggled and made an exaggerated purring sound at Sam, who also made a noise that could only be described as “agreeable” and leaned over, moving his hands up to massage her calves, and then up to her thighs.

I turned away from that scene and added my two cents to the conversation about Monica (no, I don’t think she’s a fucking Russian spy, what the fuck…)

Eventually, my bladder yelled at me that the 9,000 beers I had consumed would like to vacate, so I got up, grabbed my purse, and headed toward the bathrooms.

I walked down the hall, and as I turned the corner, I ran SMACK into Steve, who had just exited the men’s room, my forehead colliding sharply with his chin.

“OH shit…ow. Sorry!” I laughed as I rubbed my forehead.

He grabbed his chin and said, “Damn, you have a hard noggin,” as he laughed, his expression changing to concern. “You ok?”

He reached over and gently grasped the sides of my face and tilted my head back so the one, dim, hanging lightbulb illuminated my developing goose egg. “Oh man, that’s going to leave a ma…”

“WHAT IN THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?”

Not-Sharron had apparently come around the corner and, after seeing Steve and I standing there with his hands on my face, she lost her everloving shit.

“YOU FUCKING SLUT, YOU FUCKING WHORE, YOU GET OFF MY GODDAMN BOYFRIEND!!!” She grabbed a handful of my hair on the side of my head and pulled back. Hard.

Oh my god, what the fuck is happening…wait, weren’t you just getting semi-orgasmically foot-banged? I mean…

Steve swiftly grabbed not-Sharron by the shoulders and attempted to pull her off of me. She refused to release the death grip on my fucking hair.

My forehead injury was suddenly not my biggest issue.

“Oh my god, I bonked my head, I wasn’t doing anything to your boyfriend, get the fuck off of me, you crazy bootch!”

Steve was able to untangle her stubby little fingers from my hair and he dragged her way as she continued to shriek at me. Because I was a huge fucking slut, whore, yada.

WELP, I GUESS IT’S TIME FOR ME TO GO HOME.

I exit the hall into the main bar area and find the rest of our crew (except Mike, he’s a sleep again) standing up and drunkenly looking concerned.

“What the hell’s going on back there?” Tim had just caught wind that I might be in trouble (thanks, dude) and had started to make his way toward the commotion.

“Shit went south, dude, not-Sharron is a fucking psycho, and I’m gonna go before she rips more hair out of my skull. Bye guys, headed out. BYE,” I rambled semi-coherently as I hurried past people and out the front door. I see Steve trying to get not-Sharron settled over near the pool tables. The eyebrow twins were laughing at them.

Have I mentioned that I am NOT a fighter? Nope nope nope, I’m getting the hell out of here. Haha.

I get outside and halfway down the block.

Fuck.

I don’t have my phone OR my keys.

Fuck fuck fuck!

I contemplate life and realize I absolutely have to head BACK into the bar I just fled.

Goddammit. Ok, in, grab shit, go. That’s the game plan.

I get back to the bar, I open the door, I walk in. I get about three steps in before a Tazmanian Devil-esque creature flies at me and punches me right in the fucking cheek.

“YOU FUCKING WHORE, I TOLD YOU TO STAY AWAY FROM MY BOYFRIEND!”

As I’m standing their COMPLETELY dumbstruck with my hand to my cheek, the very large and terrifying doorman leaps into action, grabs not-Sharron and roars, “That’s it, bitch, you’re GONE,” as he pushes her out the door, slamming it behind her.

Steve runs up to me, horrified.

“Shit…oh god, I’m SO sorry about her, are you ok?”

Not-Sharron is outside the door screaming obscenities and screaming for Steve to get his “fucking ass outside NOW. NOW. NOW.”

I stared at him and started cackling, “Yeah, dude, I’m good. I think. You better get her the hell out of here before that big dude gets angrier. I’m fine. Go.”

He had a pained look on his face and said again how sorry he was. He hesitated, but then left the bar.

The rest of the guys I was with were flabbergasted at what they had just seen go down.

“I’m fine, guys…really. And I REALLY gotta go pee immediately before I wet my pants.” I remembered that I had never actually made it to the bathroom on my earlier attempt.

I headed down the hall and made it to the toilet without running into someone again or pissing my pants. Or getting attacked. Victory.

When I finished peeing, I exited the stall and the eyebrow twins were waiting for me.

“GIRL! Hey, girl, why didn’t you HIT her! You don’t let people do you like that! No, you fuck them up! Why didn’t you fuck her up!? You should kick her ASS, girl!” Eyebrow 1 was pissed.

I realized I was shaking and started laughing again. Lord, I was probably in shock. I continued quietly laughing. The eyebrows just stared at me like I had lost my mind.

“Oh honey, no, you ok,” Eyebrow 2 said, nodding. “You sit with us, now, ok? Ok honeeeyyy? You sit with us now. We take care of YOU.”

These two gals who were each as big as one of my thighs took my hands and led me to their table with the pussy-ass bitch. He did NOT look amused. I kept laughing. The eyebrows sat down on either side of me, flanking me in protection much in the way Steve and not-Sharron had earlier. I started laughing hysterically at this. What is my life? Eyebrow 1 was petting my hair as Eyebrow 2 got back up and headed to the bar.

The guys from work peered at me from the table and I just shrugged and yelled, “I guess I’m with them now.”

I laughed some more. Eyebrow 2 came back to the bar and handed me some tequila, which I happily accepted.

Pretty soon I realized I had never procured my fucking phone and car keys. Fuck!

I asked Eyebrow 2 to move so I could go grab my shit if it was even still there.

I headed over to my former table and Tim handed me my stuff. He had been keeping an eye on it. Thanks, dude (now can you do something about my fucking paycheck lolz?) Tim was an ok dude.

Just as I was about to head back to Pussy-ass Bitch and the Eyebrows (great band name, to be honest), the door of the bar opened up. Steve walked in.

I froze in panic (god, I AM the pussy-ass bitch, for REAL).

But I looked, and no, not-Sharron was not with him.

“Hey. I guess I don’t have a girlfriend anymore. I don’t suppose you could give me a ride home later…”

The eyebrows cheered, “Good, fuck her! Let’s do shots!”

Steve shrugged and said, “Sounds like a good plan.”

I agreed.

Pussy-ass bitch rolled his eyes and started a new game of pool.

 

 

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