Overheard at the Smithsonian

M. and I bailed from work a couple hours early on Friday. He took me to the shop to pick up the jeep—the one with the ruined back brakes and two leaking rear axle seals. How often do you get a call from an auto repair shop telling you, “Yeah, we can’t fix that!”? But a special thanks to Sevier Brothers on old Hickory for not screwing over the poorly dressed guy with fly away hair. They could have easily sold me a $300 brake job and let the leaking seals ruin the brakes all over again. I never would have known of the pre-existing axle problem. For their honesty and apparent expertise, they will get my future business.

From the shop, I let the hobbled grey Jeep lead me to Jonathan’s. In the cool air of the bar we ordered teeth-achingly cold draughts and sparred back and forth among a pointless boxing match, a race of some sort, a hotdog eating contest, and meandering conversation. All in all, not a bad way to spend the waning hours of a Friday afternoon.

If I were one to notice such things, I would mention here that the bartender owned an exquisite figure. That her expensive breasts should some day be on display at the Smithsonian. That she was so attractive it was difficult to swallow our beer.

If I were one to notice such things.

It is interesting to me how quickly a primal reaction to someone’s beauty can be reversed by watching that person interact with her peers. The inner mechanics rarely match the aesthetics, I find. (Nonetheless, the Smithsonian should be put on notice).

M. is a car geek. A very knowledgeable car geek. When the slate grey Ferrari parked itself by the side glass door, the bartender ceased to exist for him. And, I admit, she ceased to exist for me. There was now on hand a beauty pure and right whose outer and inner attributes matched perfectly. It was utter perfection resting on four perfect tires. When I looked at M., he had chill bumps racing the lengths of his arms. I was happy for him.

At some point, a businessman pulled onto the barstool to my left. Although it was late afternoon, his pressed white shirt was wrinkle free. His tie looked as if he’d only moments before put it on. He was my age. Maybe a couple years younger. He had an air about him that suggested his unpleasantness. Though I profess to never judge, I am human. I had sized him up pretty quickly. Another flaw I admit to. During “Ferrari talk,” I forgot about the guy. Peripherally, though, I noticed him extract a cigarette. He seemed put out that it wouldn’t ignite itself. He asked the bartender for matches and when she brought them, he snatched them away from her without a thank you. I immediately forgave myself for having been judgmental. Cat Daddy was a prick. Soon thereafter, he was on his cell phone—false friendly and giddy. It was then that I noticed a semi-attractive lady on her cell phone not ten feet from where we sat. She was sincere friendly and appeared genuine. As the loud conversations continued for five minutes or more, it became obvious the two were speaking to each other and were meeting at the bar. Oh the oblivion of the masses. The woman stood and walked over to where suit-guy sat. Since the conversation had been played for the entire bar, I said good-naturedly and with a grin, “You guys could have just yelled to one another.” The lady laughed with the same good nature the joke was intended. The guy did not so much as acknowledge my existence and turned his back to me. I have always had the delusion that I am funny. And for some unknown reason, when someone around me thinks that I am decidedly not, it cracks me up to immeasurable degrees. Laughing, I said to M., “He thinks I am hilarious!” Deadpan, M. replied, “Yeah, I can tell.” Maybe because the guy was a pompous ass, maybe because I was tired and thinking of broken axle seals, maybe because I was in a mood—I really was kind of an asshole; and I unfortunately brought M. into that fold as I kept laughing and talking about how funny I found the situation. And while I will get over it, I should have left well enough alone. Why fret someone I’ll never have to interact with when there is beauty afoot in the form of people who will bring you beer and when there are cars you will see maybe once in a lifetime?

We finished our beers. We took a slow stroll by the mechanical Messiah. We said goodbye. I got into the wounded grey Jeep and limped to Em’s daycare where his beaming smile displaced everything female and everything mechanical. He didn’t care about broken Jeeps, or sublime bartenders, or that his Daddy had been an asshole at Jonathan’s.

I know this because he told me so as he hugged my neck and kissed me hello.