Her name was Elizabeth Street and she was one of those chicks that everyone got along with. Not the coolest girl in the room, but confident enough and funny enough to never consider having to sit alone, sometimes even when she wanted to. The kind of girl that guys who knew socially described as the perfect woman, probably because they never felt her claws. A bit on the tall side, she carried her weight well, and her dark features were that of the girl next door. She’d finished college, but didn’t really go to college with the intention of a career, and it wasn’t like there was a ton to do with a sociology degree, so here she was, tending bar or working coffeehouses to pay the bills. For whatever reason these types of jobs made her feel less of a slave to the machine. Must have been the attraction to living on the margins of society. Some accused her to constantly needing to be different, or in some cases, difficult.
It would seem to almost everyone that she had her proverbial shit together. And for the most part, she did. There was one fatal flaw in her character however, and that involved men.
It wasn’t that she always dated them, or frankly even gave them a lot of attention. Sometimes she only visited with them for a laugh, like that night out at one of the local bars. She’d long considered herself a bit of a feminist and was usually opposed to the phenomena known at "Ladies' Night." Let's put a bunch of women in one place, feed them half-priced drinks, and publicize it for all the horny, recently paroled in the area to congregate and see what happens. However, since her friend, DJ Dreamboat, spun records there on Ladies’ Night and his dance parties are notoriously fabulous, she suspended her beliefs on Tuesdays to go and shake her bones with her friends.
That night started off like any other as she enjoyed a couple of drinks and chatted up friends. They hit the dance floor and the first moment she took a break, this dude came running, literally running across the floor and sat at her table. The devil in her thought it had potential for amusement, so she said hi.
She must have forgotten that she was wearing the t-shirt that read: Losers with limited cash flow, this chick wants your attention.
He began, “What you doin' girl?” in that yell-speak hybrid only necessary in a club.
“Dancing with my friends, having a drink,” she said as she tipped her bottle of O’Douls toward him.
“Isn't that some kind of non-alcohol beer?”
Wow, he’s really exceptional, she thought as she rolled her eyes and said, “Yep.”
She’d given up booze several years earlier and it had become a handicap of sorts in some social settings.
After several seconds of awkward silence, he said, “So are you gonna buy me a vodka cranberry?”
Though sometimes dumbfounded, she was rarely speechless. She looked at him blankly. “Why don't you have YOUR friends buy you a drink?”
“They ain't got no mutherfuckin' money either.”
She took a drag of her cigarette and considered all the mean things she could say, like how much fun jobs were or how her friend’s mentally challenged brother had superior social skills.
“I am higher than a mutherfuckin' kite. You smoke weed?”
She tipped her head slightly to the right and before she could muster an answer he blurted out, “You seen that movie, Me, Myself, and Irene?”
She nodded as he continued, “You know that part where he's in the police station and his face gets all...”
She totally quit listening to the douche at that point and nodded when it seemed appropriate. Then suddenly this chick came up and hit him square in the side of the head, making her think she should listen in the hopes that it would get interesting. Too bad it was really hard for her to make out anything they were saying. She was pretty sure she was called a “dumb ho” and he was a “stupid motherfucker.” She really couldn’t disagree with the latter assessment.
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