Today I drove nearly 8 hours while venturing deep into God’s country for a deposition with a workers’ comp attorney, taking the time to thank God for my traveling companions: XM radio and GPS. The former kept me from intentionally driving into the median to cure my boredom (and satisfy the curiosity Aerosmith’s “Living on the Edge” video created), while the latter kept me from banjos and a lot of ass raping. GPS notwithstanding, the patrons of Bobby’s Treats restaurant somewhere around Tallahassee apparently think the banjos would be a draw for me…because I made the mistake of wearing a pink shirt with a powder blue striped tie. Even worse, said pink shirt was an Alain Figaret. And I had my file in a man-bag. I’m not sure what the hell I was thinking this morning in the closet (or when I came out).
I walked into Bobby’s, and the customers in line parted as if I were wearing a “kiss me, I’m a leper” button. I went to the register to decide between the “gourmet burger” and the bbq sandwich. Then, to the cashier’s horror, I ordered an unsweet tea. I actually asked for tea and then stopped her right before she filled it with the sweet stuff. “Don’t you at least want some sweet & low?” she pleaded. A white man in a brown tank top, hunter’s orange cap (with mesh in back), and jean shorts stood behind me with three girls. The girls pointed and whispered something to the man. Then I actually heard him say to the tallest daughter, “Reckon he’s happy about that new law in California?”
I chose the gourmet burger and sat down to go over the file, got a text from Pretty Bride, who responded to my saying I should not have worn pink today with a reassuring “did they whisper about a code red when you went to the bathroom?” Thankfully, they did not. And my manhood was almost immediately reinstated when I made the deponent cry an hour later.