Jessica and I end up leaving the Yankee game on Wednesday pretty upset. And it has very little to do with the fact that the Orioles won, though that certainly doesn't help. Or that Giambi only went to bat once, and he got walked, and his nascent moustache looks really, really stupid. It's because of the assholes sitting near us.
It's only the top of the third inning when it starts. Jessica is eating a hotdog, while I've got myself a chicken parm thing. We're on our second beers, and we're talking about whether or not she's going to try to find another bartending job in San Francisco.
"Hey, honey, that hotdog looks like it's enjoying itself!"
Jessica starts to turn around, and I tap her leg and suggest that she ignore it. We go back to eating and watching the game.
"Oooooooohhhhhhhh yeah, take it all the way in!!"
I've seen Jessica eat a hotdog. For the record, she takes bites from it and chews it. She does not fellate it, nor does she linger especially long with it in her mouth to tease it before she completes the act.
She doesn't turn around, but she lifts her free hand toward the guy doing the yelling, and raises a finger that has unmistakable significance. The reaction isn't so much from the guy as it is from his friends - things like "Are you gonna take that?!" and "She didn't even look at you before telling you to fuck off!" But things quiet down soon after.
It's another inning before Jackass makes his presence known again. "Hey! Hey, hotdog chick! You with the ponytail! Look up here! Look at me! I want to talk to you!"
A friend joins in. "Hey, he's just trying to apologize! Could ya turn around?"
Jessica turns around.
"I'm really sorry about - holy shit, your nipples are hard!" Jackass's friends collapse in fits of laughter. Jessica turns bright red, crosses her arms, and faces front again. "You really do get off suckin' on hotdogs! Hey, do you wanna try a foot-long next? It's on me! HAHA - get it? It's on me!!" More laughter.
I know I shouldn't let things like this upset me too much. But I spend forty or fifty hours a week working at a job where I'm constantly trying to strike a balance between a healthy, innocent flirtation that will encourage good tips and return customers, and the kind of flirtation that might encourage assholes to think either A) they can treat me however they want or B) they can take me home and fuck me.
So when it's time for a free night out at Yankee Stadium as a wonderful gesture from a satisfied regular, with one of my best friends who's moving to the other end of the country in a few weeks, and we just want to have a few beers, enjoy the game, and talk to each other without having to shout over a jukebox and a bar full of customers, you'd think people could just leave us the fuck alone without us having to hang signs around our necks that say, "Go Away." It's not like we were in the bleachers or the nosebleeds, either - we were practically on top of the fucking Yankees dugout, where it's almost all season tickets and corporate boxes. I guess drunk idiots are welcome everywhere, now.
I stand up as the Yankees come off the field for the bottom of the fourth, and turn around, wanting to say about seventeen different things that would be far more satisfying than what I end up saying: "Hey, guys, we're just trying to enjoy the game here, could you lay off?"
"Who are you, the protective boyfriend?" I feel myself getting redder, and wonder why I bothered trying. "Hey, you two on a date? Having a nice romantic evening out? Is that why you don't want to sample my foot-long, baby? Your nips are hard for your girlfriend here?" I shake my head and sit down, and unfortunately fail to stop Jessica from getting up.
"For your information, asshole, I have a boyfriend, and we're getting married."
"Yeah? Where is he tonight while you're out at the ballpark, at home breast-feeding the kids? Darning socks? Does he know about your girlfriend here? Does he know that you have to use hotdogs to get what you're not getting from him?" It's Jessica's turn on the head-shaking and down-sitting.
At this point, we give up on trying to shut them up, and just try to shut them out. We mostly manage to ignore them, chat with each other, and watch the game. There's not a whole lot to enjoy about it - Baltimore was up 3-0 by the fourth inning, and although the Yanks crawl back a run at a time in the fifth and sixth, it's not enough. They even put the tying run in scoring position in the sixth, seventh, and eight innings but still can't pull the trigger. Before we know it, it's the top of the ninth, the Orioles are back at bat, and I start to realize that it's been relatively quiet behind us for a little while.
"Hey." I practically jump out of my seat. It's Jackass, crouching down next to Jessica, who leans away from him and into me, and looks at him with a mix of disgust and curiosity. He's a little sweaty, a little red, and a little older than we are, and he smells like he rode the Budweiser truck here.
"What the hell do you want?" she says.
"Hey, easy, I just wanted to apologize. I get a little crazy when I've had a few beers, and it was all in good fun, I didn't know you were going to get upset."
Jessica tries to watch the game. "That's not much of an apology."
"Okay, whatever, look - you girls are really hot, and I just didn't get that across the right way."
"Damn right you didn't," I reply.
"And damn right we are," Jessica adds. I almost smile.
"Listen, the taps here are shut down now, it's too late in the game, but maybe you'll let me buy you a drink after? Make it up to you? I'm not such a bad guy, if you get to know me you'll see that."
Jessica looks at me, and Jackass finds encouragement in that. "There you go - I swear, I won't try to lay a hand on either of you."
I shake my head. "Thanks, really, and thanks for the apology, but you're just not someone we want to have a drink with." Jessica looks down at her hands.
People talk about someone sputtering when they're taken by surprise, but I'm honestly not sure I've ever seen someone actually sputter before until Jackass starts doing it. I think it somehow genuinely never occurred to him that we wouldn't go out for drinks with him. And then he rides himself right off the rails.
"You really are dykes, aren't you? Jesus Christ, what a fuckin' waste. You don't know what you're missing. I really do have almost a foot-long, you know. Eleven inches, right here." And yes, he grabs himself for emphasis. At this point, Jessica and I can't look away anymore - it's horrifying, like a train wreck, and we can't not watch. "Honest to God, it's eleven inches! I can even suck on it myself. Hey, there you go! We wouldn't have to touch each other at all, I can just give myself a blowjob for you if you want to watch. And you two can do whatever, eat each other out, you put on a show for me, I'll put one on for you."
I'm desperately struggling for one of those fantastic comebacks, the perfect one-liner that will put him in his place and make him realize what a jackass he really is, and it's just not coming to me. But Jessica hauls off and slaps him so hard I swear I thought the Orioles hit one out of the stadium.
While he still looks too shocked to do anything about it, I get us both to our feet as quickly as possible, and drag Jessica the hell out of there. We hear Jackass yell, "Fucking cunts!" as we hit the gate above our section, and we don't slow down until we're on the 4 train platform. We laugh for a minute out of sheer relief, then Jessica cries on my shoulder for five or six stops. I don't even check the final results of the game until Thursday morning.
You know, this punk rock isn't half bad when I'm pissed.