Friday, May 18, 2007

The case of the $10 hooker


Last night I had a work "sort of" function. I didn't really have to go, but I thought I'd make an appearance. I dressed up a little (Izaac Mizrahi coatdress-cute in a "dirty secretary" way, snakeskin wedgies and my sweet Nicole miller leopard clutch) and headed downtown.



After snagging a sweet parking spot at a METER (cue angels singing as this truly is a miracle sweet baby jeebus), I was sashaying down Market St. feeling a little like Marlo Thomas when I passed the St. Paul Hotel. Actually the correct phrase here would be "almost passed" the St. Paul Hotel.

Almost.

Anyone who knows me very well can tell you that one of my favorite (and by favorite, I mean a delicious cocktail is involved here somewhere) things to do is have a Martini at the bar at the SPH. They're always perfect: Grey Goose (or Bombay Sapphire) and just the right amount of vermouth with 2 olives. They shake it just so, and there are always a few paper-thin ice chips floating on top.
Perfect.

Like a magnet I was pulled in. A magnet, I tells 'ya.

I like having a nice cocktail by myself. There's something about ordering a $10 martini, settling in, and just sipping and watching the going-ons around you. I'm sure people wonder if you're lonely, or maybe you're a world traveler, or in my case, maybe a mid-to-high-end prostitute.
At least that's what I always kind of hope: "hooker" rather than "businesswoman".
*Sidenote: I always thought that, should I decide to join the Hooker Scouts & earn some "merit" badges, I would want to be just like the one Shirley MacLaine played in "Irma la Douce". Sassy, sexy and not too over-the-top whore-ish. And, Jack Lemmon would fall in sweet, goofy love with me.
Sigh.

I tried to look the part: Successful lady-about-town. I tried to not slouch, I crossed my legs (mostly to hide that I really should have shaved), I purred a little when I ordered.
As expected, I got a near-perfect martini from the very charming and distinguished bartender.

And I sipped.

I listened to the older affluent couple next to me on the right discussing some of the more mundane aspects of the day. I made note of the 40-something shortish man two seats to my left who seemed to have a French accent.

And I sipped.

The Frenchman was joined by a companion in a suit & tie, and the two men launched into animated conversation about their various business travel adventures they've had lately.

I listened, and sipped.

Towards the end of the glass I plopped my card down to pay. I really did have an "engagement" to get to, plus the martini was kicking my ass.

The Frenchman's companion gestured to me.
Uh-oh. Please don't be hitting on me, please don't be hitting on me, please...
"Would you allow me to pay for your drink?" He asked.
I blurted out the most sophisticated reply I could muster up-"Why?" (Confused, scrunched-up face)

Then he said the best thing: "Because I like to do something randomly nice at least once a week. It's Thursday already and I can't think of anything I've done yet. Will you let me do something nice for you- as long as you promise to do something nice for someone else this week. Plus, if it's not you than I have to do something nice for this guy (gestures to Frenchy). Let me buy a drink for a beautiful woman".
I immediately realized he wasn't hitting on me. At all. Nope.
Really? Not a bit? Sheesh.
Oh well...

I smiled. "Of course you can buy my drink."

I graciously (while wobbling a little from the vodka) thanked the pair and sauntered (well, teetered may actually be the correct word here) on my way.

Oh- I almost forgot, the guy who bought me the drink looked a lot like this guy:


But with worse hair.


And a much cheaper suit.


Still though, thank you bad hair guy for buying my martini. It was a sweet gesture that really did make me feel pretty good (and pretty tipsy). I promise to pass on the good deeds.

My first one will be to tell you this: Please get a new 'do. Please. You're a nice guy and you look like a clown.
Seriously.




I realized today that I just wobbled out & didn't say anything to the bartender about the whole "this guy is paying for it" thing.

Next time I try to drink there there'll be an artist's rendering of my face behind the bar as the "drink and dash hooker".
Oops.

Just my luck.

6 comments:

Anonymous said...

So, what nice deed are you going to do? I can't wait to hear. . . And are you going to "pass it on?" I love this. It seems like a great way to get people to be nicer to one another. I'm inspired. I think I'll try to do something nice today. Or maybe tomorrow. It's already been a long day and I'm tired. I don't want to get too ambitious. . .

Mecca

Brillig said...

I'm, um, sorry that he wasn't hitting on you. hahahaha. I, too, want to know what exactly you're planning to do as a nice thing....

Thomas said...

One time somebody "paid it forward" to me in the drive-thru lane at Starbucks.

Whiskeymarie said...

I was hoping to do a "blowjobs for the homeless" thingy, but then I came to my senses.
I'll come up with something more appropriate, I'm sure.

"Handjobs for the handicapped?"
"Drinkin' with the dorks for Diabetes?
"Pullin' the finger for Crohns?"

Yeah, I'm still working on this.
Wish me luck.

Anonymous said...

I'm still not convinced he wasn't hitting on you. When anyone with a penis offers to buy a drinkie for a lady hot as you, he's hitting on you. You're just too modest. I would have thought he was hitting on me, but I think I'm more vain than you are.

One time a guy approached me and said, "If I knew how to hit on a woman, I would be hitting on you right now." I thought that was sweet.

Mecca

Sugar Kane said...

I think you're on to something here. The homeless need love too. With a dental dam and some rubber gloves it might work out ok. Besides, you wouldn't have to worry about them calling the next day.