Ace of Spades

The other day I was watching a reality TV show about frog-catching at a neighborhood bar.  My friend had abandoned me and my beverage was long gone but I couldn’t unglue my eyes from the duo of old men on the screen hurling accusations of amphibian sabotage at one another.  Suddenly, a bar patron who sounded like a Tickle-Me-Elmo in mid-tickle straddled the barstool next to mine and asked if he could buy me a drink.  I was hesitant– the last guy I’d taken up on that offer at this particular venue had turned out to be a crawfish-obsessed carny.

My new friend’s name was Brant.  I’d never met such a giggly individual and couldn’t decide if I was more confused by what drug he must be on, or why he was wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap inside a bar at night.  He asked what I did for a living and I told him that I work in a store… which prompted an eruption of high-pitched giggles.  When I returned the question, he looked around before responding in a lowered voice “I play poker.”  That’s right– Brant was a part-time poker player, full-time party animal.  I could see a reflection of my facial expression in his dark lenses and quickly altered it to appear more impressed.  I don’t remember anything that was said between “I play poker” and “Let’s go to Atlantic City and get married next Wednesday” because my brain was still stuck trying to process that there is an entire reality series dedicated to frog-catching.  But it was just one of those situations where you agree to go to Atlantic City with someone you just met to get married next Wednesday.  Why not?

Sadly, my schedule that Wednesday ended up being full to the brim, so my fiancé had to go to Atlantic City alone.  He sent me a text saying what a great time he was having but how it would be much more fun if I were there.  How romantic!  Did he even remember what I look like?  Because I didn’t have any clue, thanks in part to his unabomber disguise.  I recall a sort of mushroomy nose and distressing thumbs… but I only remember the thumbs because he sent me a picture of them fanning out five crisp $100 bills.

A few evenings later, he asked if he could use his plentiful winnings to buy me some beers.  I declined his offer because I didn’t want to go out after work, and he texted back “Ok then send me a pic if u in ur PJs.”  ENGAGEMENT OFF.  What a creep.  My disgust quickly dissipated, however, when I realized how hilarious his typo was.  He wanted me to send him a sexy selfie… but only IF I was wearing my PJs– no nudity or underwear, please.  I started to text him back “you first,” but was afraid he would actually follow through.  A vision crossed my mind of Brant cackling into the night sky, wearing sunglasses, a cap, and onesie pajamas– with the rear-end flap unbuttoned to reveal a strategically-placed Ace of Spades.

What had I gotten myself into?  A pending engagement with a professional gambler who wears criminal disguises and has a pajama fetish.  This is precisely why you don’t encourage people in a biker bar.