That was what I heard Friday night at a little hole in the wall bar in Western Pennsylvania. I was catching up with my father and his cousin over a drink or two, when I couldn't help but notice the attractive, if tipsy, young white lady hanging on the arm of an acquaintance of my dad's. I then noticed her flitting from person to person, bumping and grinding against nearly every guy in the bar. At this point I feel it important to note that the crowd was overwhelmingly African-American. Why is this pertinent to the story? Because, as we were sitting in the back room away from the crowd, she found her way back to us and exclaimed, "they're out to get me!", to which my father said, "who is?" to which she replied...
Well, I won't say. It wasn't the mother of all offenses but it was uncalled for. She then found her way onto my cousin's lap and shouted out that she had painted Gregg Allman's house. I asked her if she used watercolors, acrylics, or oils. She gave me a look that clearly said, "there's no one home". I told her that I liked to paint in watercolors, myself. To which she shouted, " I am a professional contractor! I actually painted his house in Florida". I told her that I am a big fan of the Allman Brothers Band, have seen them five times, and have read the biography, "Midnight Riders". "I thought he lived in Macon Georgia," I said.
"Are you calling me a liar?!" she shouted. No, I wasn't. I just thought he lived in Georgia. What she should have said was, "No, silly. The band may have come together there but he doesn't live there now." To which I would have replied, "Well said". Instead she became indignant. "I have a picture of myself with Gregg!" to which I asked, "Is it in there?" pointing to her purse.
"No," was the reply. "That's convenient," I said.
"WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY!!!???" she shouted. I made it clear that I wasn't trying to say anything, but that wasn't good enough. "You know that song, 'Sweet Melissa'? He sang it to me. My name is Melissa." I said that it must have been right before the picture was taken. By now she was becoming livid, so I asked her, " how many toes does he have?" Her jaw dropped. "Dude, I don't even know where you are coming from now?" My cousin asked if I had ever seen his feet. While I hadn't, I do know that there was a certain issue about going to Vietnam, and a bottle of whiskey and a shotgun somehow got mixed up one night and Mr. Allman sustained a serious injury to his foot, or so I read. I don't even know if he really lost the toe. I guess I wanted "Missy" to clear this up for me, she knew him so well.
She made it clear that she did not know anything about his feet and that doesn't change the fact that she painted the house and that she had seen the band SIX times. I knew that was a lie. If I had said 7 she would have said 8, it was the old one-up game that children use to out-do each other in school. I told her that I didn't believe that.
She started to cry. No shit. She really started to cry. She buried her head on my cousin's shoulder. So I asked her about the 20 minute drum solo that Jaimoe and Butch Trucks still do at every performance (The Chief knows this is true. He lived through it). "Dude, I don't even know who you are talking about!!!" she shouted. To which I replied, "right, and you want me to believe that you have seen them six times." She began to sob again. At this point my father and his cousin stood up and said in unison, "well, we better get going".
I laughed my ass off all the way through the bar to the front door. As we emerged into the street my father shouted, "that's why you don't have a girlfriend!" and we all continued to laugh all the way to our next stop. I woke up the next morning laughing my ass off.
What is the moral of this story, boys and girls?
If you don't know what you're talking about, shut your goddamn mouth.
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4 comments:
HOLY SHIT! RIGHT ON THE MONEY. IN AN AVERAGE DAY OF MINE ABOUT 89% OF WHAT I HEAR IS BRAVO SIERRA (bs). THEIR IS A CERTAIN PERSON, I WILL CALL HIM MR B, THAT JUST DOES NOT SHUT UP. ALL THAT HE TALKS ABOUT IS BS. I MEAN FROM WHAT I HAVE BEEN TOLD IS THAT EVEN A GREAT AMOUNT OF BS, HAS A LITTLE BIT OF TRUTH IN IT. I CAN PICTURE THE SCENE THAT YOU WENT THROUGH IN THAT BAR. THAT HAS TO BE ONE COMICAL MOMENT.
You know, I'm gonna say that this woman was telling the truth about painting Gregg Allman's house. Think about it: If you live the obviously pathetic lush life that this chick has, you will tell the world about this one thing you did in your drunken stupors, won't you? Some people need to be accepted and telling people about something like this might just be her way of doing so.
The question with her becomes, was he home? Was he there? If so, did you really interact with him or were you just some hungover hunny who was working for a contractor he hired?
I look at a woman like this and I think how sad of an existence it must be.
I never once questioned whether or not she painted the house. As for being accepted, I think the free lap dances were her way of telling the world, "I'm here". I found her racist comment offensive. She lost all credibility with me after that (might I mention that Gregg Allman is singing 'Statesboro Blues' on the radio as I type this). I get the impression that she has told this story before and gotten a (phoney) reply from the people around her. "Oh, what was he like?" and vapid things like that. I, on the other hand, respected her as a woman, not some cheap floozy piece of ass. I took the high road by asking legitimate questions about the band/group from a fan to a fan. To quote the late great John Kramer, I wanted "to play a game". She lost. Game Over.
"I, on the other hand, respected her as a woman"
You're a better man than I, Elgarf. It doesn't seem that this dim bulb had a lot about her to respect - she doesn't even seem to have much self-respect.
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