Roman, or THB as he’s now affectionately known, is one of my best friends, and has been for a long time. He’s one of those guys that always enjoyed going to the bars and hitting on every beanhead that wandered past. But now he’s got a pretty damn cool girlfriend, Squalls. So that has pretty much put an end to his favorite past-time (besides chain smoking). Not easily deterred, he has taken it upon himself to live vicariously through me.
I’m far more passive about meeting ladies at the bar than he is. I’m sort of an acquired taste, and I like to kinda ease into these things. Throwing shit at the wall to see what sticks is not my style. Whenever we hang out at a bar without the usual lady-friends in tow, Roman is constantly trying to shove me out in front of a bus. He constantly says, “I can’t throw a grenade for ya, but I can sure as shit fall on one!” This loosely translates into: “Let’s go talk to chicks. I’ll be your wingman.”
Roman will walk right up to you and feed you the biggest line of bullshit you’ve ever heard, and you’ll believe it. He’s just that kind of guy; as charismatic as the day is long. I once witnessed him walk up to a table of girls, sit down, and tell them with a straight face that he was an astronaut. They believed him, and one of the girls ended up going to the lake with us.
I, on the other hand, am pretty much a straight-shooter. I believe my life is interesting enough on it’s own, and if you frequent my blog, I think you’ll agree. This often creates a clash of styles when Roman attempts to be my wingman. Since he’s been with Squalls for nearly a year now, he’s had quite a bit of time to refine his act.
At first, his main method would be to go up to a group of ladies, introduce himself and then I’d walk up. This was immediately followed by, “Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaavvvvveeeee you met Biloxi?” (Seriously, stretch the word “have” out as long as possible.) At which point I would look like a complete idiot who is unable to talk to women on his own. Normally, the conversation lags here and I wind up wandering back to my bar stool, lonely and dejected. Funny for everyone else, shitty for me.
I put an end to that tactic rather quickly, so Roman fell back to his old standby; the alter ego.
Roman has a University of Texas Longhorns t-shirt he often wears (much like my USC Gamecocks t-shirt, but without all the drama). Based on this t-shirt, he got the idea that he would be a Texas Ranger. As in Walker, Texas Ranger. He decided his name should be Cash Tidwell. If there’s a name that says Texas more than that, I sure as hell don’t know what it is.
The first time Cash made his appearance, the result was far less than spectacular. We were standing by the bar when two young ladies walked in. They were leaning up against the bar and were obviously on the prowl, so THB and I decided to wander in for closer inspection. These beanheads were classic examples of what I call fifty-yarders. They look good from about fifty yards away, but up close, mostly busted. I wanted to take my wares elsewhere, but Roman was adamant. We had to try this out. Better to do it with nothing on the line.
So we walk up, I introduce myself and Cash does the same. He starts into his spiel and I can’t really keep a straight face. These girls totally aren’t into me anyway. That feeling is reciprocated.
I wandered off to grab another drink and a few minutes later I came back over. These girls were not buying his BS. Oh well, no real loss there. For him to be my wingman, I sure am sucking left hind tit here.
The next time Cash Tidwell stalked the streets, hilarity ensued. We were at the bar and this time we were prepared…
There was a decent looking young lady at the bar, and somehow she introduced herself to us. I introduced myself and said I was from Atlanta, then I introduced Roman as Cash Tidwell from Hog Nipple, Texas. Her response was, “Where’s that?” Without missing a beat, Cash answered, “Near the X.” “The X?” She asked. “Yeah, the X.” Cash responded. “When you look at a map of Texas, Hog Nipple is right near the X.”
Somehow I was able to keep a straight face. Cash stepped away to use the restroom, so I talked with the girl a bit about how we grew up together and how he came to be a Texas Ranger. All complete BS. I told her that I was a writer, which is mildly believable (I mean, you’re reading this now). But a freakin Texas Ranger?
About that time, Cash returned. The chick immediately asked him if he was indeed a Texas Ranger. He responded in the affirmative. She asked how we knew each other and Roman told her the same things I did just moments before. You couldn’t draw it up any better. Nothing actually came of the encounter, other than some conversation, because quite frankly, she just wasn’t very interesting. Not worth wasting good sushi money on.
Later that evening, Roman decided he needed a taxi to get back to Squalls’ house. He had no cash, and since I get tired of loaning it to him, he decided to raise the funds. I was sitting at a table with some friends and Roman saw another table with three girls sitting nearby. He got up, walked over, and sat down at their table. We couldn’t tell from where we were sitting what he was saying, but I knew he was using his Cash Tidwell speech. We could tell by the girls’ body language that they were really interested in what he was saying. Until the point he asked them for money. It was seriously like a collective sigh at their table. the girls’ shoulders slouched and they leaned back in their chairs. Somehow, he did manage to convince one of them to pony up some money for a cab fare.
In practice, Roman/THB/Cash Tidwell isn’t much of a wingman. He usually winds up stealing my thunder and I just wait for the train to wreck so I can sweep up the wreckage, but damn, it sure is entertaining to watch what he gets away with.
