I stopped in to get a little beer on Saturday night, and these guys came in right behind me. I already had wondered about them because when Christy pulled into the parking lot she kind of ganked their space that they were waiting to turn into from the street. So they drove ahead and found another spot. The two guys appeared to be middle eastern. That’s sort of significant, not because of their potential to be at 7-11 in order to blow it to smithereens, but because in my experience with middle eastern guys, they don’t seem to be all that great at pulling chicks. Maybe they don’t care, but they always seemed a bit awkward in college, and even more so into adulthood, when I ran into them at the bank and they tried to hit on the tellers. Never mind that any dude hitting on a bank teller is automatically put into the category of “complete assclown.”
I walked in and perused the selections. I was really hoping to get my hands on some of theat Mike’s Hard Limes stuff, which is really good, but they had nothing of the sort. So I settled on a pretty darn good alternative, Sierra Nevada Summerfest. Everyone was in the car, so I didn’t have a whole lot of time to observe. But when I got to the checkout counter, I saw the two guy over by the slot machines. The slot machines in this particular 7-11 always seem to have a person or two playing. Usually, it’s a guy who just wants to be able to go somewhere that might happen to have other people and smoke. Welcome to Nevada. You can buy a 40, drop a few hundreds, check out the latest skin mag, smoke, 24 hours a day, all at 7-11. I also think the slots tend to have players because I think one of the guys who works there sells dope or something. So the buyer plays, waits until he can buy, then bails. Maybe I’m crazy, but someone I know once told me he got his dope there.
Along with the two guys, there was a woman and a man at the slots. So as I grabbed my beer and went for the door, I took one more look. There were the two guys at the end of the slot area, leaning over the woman’s machine, completely macking on her. One guy was behind, but too close for your average stranger encounter, the other guy had his elbow up on the machine, hand holding his head, his face about three inches from her, working it. He was laughing, talking smooth, all of it. So instead of walking right out, I decided to take a few seconds to gander at the magazines near the door, and observe the macking middle easterners. And I have to give them credit. It was working. That chick was digging the attention the two awkward fellas were throwing her way. Fine by me, so I bailed.
I told Christy all about it in the car, and remembered that in college she had been a frequent target of the awkward advances of middle eastern dudes. I really thought she should walk in there and try to swoop those guys right out from under the claws of slot-playing 7-11 groupie, but I don’t think she would have been into that. But even if Christy wasn’t into it, I learned that anywhere, and I mean anywhere, in this town can be the happeningest place in the world to somebody on a Saturday night. It sure as shit was to those three folks.