Chivalry Lives on the Smokers Patio

Monday, 5/5/14
Richie and Anne tramped all over the area we'd been told held  the Bono remains.  Frank and I, being the sensible adults, sat in the car and visited.  When we were all back together again, someone remarked on how tiring cemetery hunts can be and someone else chimed in "And we were doing it in the desert, too!  And it's important to stay hydrated in the desert."  For our health (and, of course, no other reason)) we should repair, with some speed, to the Brit-style pub on North Palm Canyon for a beer..  Or more, if medically indicated.  (I felt sure it would be.)

We arrived and the three of them went into the bar.  I sat down in a chair behind a group of five men on the smoking patio and reached for my cigarettes.  I was invited to join them, but, "No, no - fine here."  They continued their conversation about the crazy things various of their friends had done.  Clearly, military attack helicopter pilots seem to be especially at risk for insane behaviors.  Cigarette finished and carefully put out, I waved farewell and went into the bar. 

My diagnosis was correct; another dose of hydrating fluids was required.  Time passed happily and when I looked at my watch, I saw it was time for my 4:30 p.m. cigarette.  Out to the patio I went where the group of guys (not a good description; I know but they were Just Guys - mid 30s to mid 50s) were still debating what constitutes crazy behavior.  They insisted that I join in the discussion.  So I sat down, put my beer on the table next to me, lit up and listened attentively. 

A sixth man, who would prove to be genuinely insane himself, entered the patio, was greeted and started to sit down.  When he noticed me - the only woman out there - he straightened up and stuck his hand out to shake or so I thought.  Instead he flipped my hand over and kissed the back of it.  Playing along,  I sank back in my chair and patted my heart in a mock swoon.  Which proved to be a big mistake.  He instantly whipped around to face me, got all up in my face, reached down, cupped both hands around his equipage and began moving it up and down.

Three of the closest guys leaped up, grabbed him and frog marched him down the bar and out the back door.  They returned in seconds and joined the other men in profuse apologies.  I wondered aloud if he was a retired Chippendale dancer? And speculated that had warped his mind?  Further speculation ensued.  Theories put out included - both parents were meth addicts... or first cousins.  Consensus was that he was just crazy.  And they moved the discussion into '60s rock and roll, a field I know well.