Liquor? I don't even know 'er!

Slow time in the store – that seems to be when the best encounters take place.

Me, sitting on a stool behind the counter, taking notes on neolithic religious practices for a project/story. Disc one of Stevie Ray Vaughan's greatest hits playing Voodoo Child in the background.

I was startled out of my reverie by the drunken ramblings of a customer who'd just popped into the doorway. “Sorry?” I asked aloud, thinking she'd addressed me personally. No response, so I tried again: “What did you say?”

She was dressed in all black – black pants, heavy black coat belted around her waist. A bit of overkill even for a brisk summer evening in Southern California. Dark hair, pulled back. Cute, from where I stood, but I couldn't see much of her besides her profile as she walked to the beer cooler.

“It's cold,” she said, responding to my question. “It's not that cold,” I said as I stood up and walked over towards the register.

“I'm from Detroit,” was her non-sequitur response.

“So this really isn't cold for you, then.”

She looked over at me and smiled, “No, it's not. I'm just here on vacation and was expecting 80 degree weather.”

Then she turned back to the cooler, searching intently. “Do you sell bottle openers?”

“We do, when we've got them in stock,” I quipped. “Which we don't at the moment.”

“Which of these beers can you open without one?”

I headed over to assist. Truth be told – there weren't any I could think of with twist-off caps. “I've heard that if you roll up a dollar bill tight enough, you can pop a bottle open.”

She was only half-listening to me. “I'll just get a can instead,” she said. “Do you have Miller Lite?” Not waiting for my response, she spied what she was looking for and grabbed a six-pack. Then she turned and walked away from me towards the chip stand. I went back to the register, since she didn't seem to need my help any more.

“You don't have firey-hot Cheetos?”

“Sorry?” She was definitely a little inebriated. That last line was spoken in the hyper-fast, semi-slurred drunk pidgin known throughout the world of bars and clubs.

Grabbing a bag of Cheetos hot fries, she came at last to the counter to check out. “You don't have the firey-hot Cheetos,” she repeated. A statement this time, not a question.

“Those aren't hot enough for you?” I pointed at her purchase.

“No,” she smiled as I began ringing her out. “And can you tell me how to get back to the Hyatt downtown?”

I looked at her admiringly as I considered. “You driving?” Small nose, brown eyes. Probably mid-20s or so. My first impression was right. She was cute.

“I'm taking the bus,” she said. “The A or the D, right?”

I nodded. “Yeah, either one will take you downtown. You can pick it up at the end of the block, by the Bank of America.” I pointed vaguely in the direction of north. “It'll drop you off on Pine Avenue, then you can just walk south past the convention center to the hotel.”

She suddenly looked self-conscious beneath my assessing gaze. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I'm a little drunk.”

“That's okay.” I grinned at her. “I've never seen anyone drunk in here before.”

“Really?” My sarcasm was apparently lost on her in her condition.

“No, I'm kidding.” We smiled at one another for a moment. “It's $1.20. The bus, I mean. You owe me $8.08.”

She handed me a twenty. “I know, I took the bus here.” Beginning to reach into her purse, she added, “I think I have 8 cents.” Absentmindedly, she rifled through her purse as I took the twenty from her.

“Look how tan you are!” she said, looking at my hand. “I'm so pale.” She held her arm up next to mine. I was flattered, since no one's told me I'm tan in ages. I told her so.

“I'm not really that tan. I used to be, way back when I lived in Arizona.”

“Well, compared to me. You can really see it in your face.” She looked into my eyes as we talked.

She seemed to have forgotten what she was doing with her purse, so I jokingly reminded her. “You were looking for eight cents?”

“I know.” She was nonplussed, as she dug out a quarter and a penny. I took both and pulled two pennies from the “take-a-penny” dish.

“Tell you what, I'll take the quarter and the penny, and add two of my own. So you get twenty cents back.”

“That's fine, I don't mind the change,” she replied as I proceeded. I gave her back the change – a ten and two ones.

“And two dimes for the bus.”

She smiled gratefully as it dawned on her what I'd done. “Oh! That's right!” She set aside a dollar and the two dimes. “I'll put this away for the bus right now,” she said, placing the rest of the money back in her purse.

“So are you here with a convention? Work?” The Hyatt downtown caters to a lot of conventions, so I felt it was a pretty safe question to ask.

“No, I'm here on vacation.”

“Kind of a strange time of year for a vacation, isn't it?”

She shrugged. “Well, it's Spring Break.”

“Ah,” I replied sagely, though she didn't strike me as the Spring Break type, nor was Long Beach a major Spring Break locale. Apparently I was right:

“I'm a teacher,” she elaborated. “I'm not really into Spring Break. Not college Spring Break.”

“Gotcha.”

“I'm here for two days, then Phoenix, then Las Vegas. I'm making a whole tour.”

I nodded my understanding. “You should have started in Hawaii and made your way back east. Long Beach is kind of a weird start,” I joked.

“I wish I could go to Hawaii,” she said, seriously. “Long Beach was a lot cheaper.”

It would be, in ore ways than you know, I thought to myself. But it was time for another drunken non-sequitur from my talkative visitor, albeit a not altogether unpleasant one:

“You're really sexy,” she said.

I could feel the flush rising to my cheeks at her compliment. “Thanks,” I somehow managed to reply. “You are, too.”

“Do girls tell you that all the time?”

“Sometimes.” Once in a while, and somewhat more in recent memory than at any other time in my personal history. Not so often that the flattery doesn't still make me a bit shy and self-conscious. Which is fine by me – I may have a bit of an ego but at least I'm not too jaded to still appreciate and be humbled by a compliment from a beautiful lady.

“I'm sure you do,” she continued. “Your eyes, your goatee...” I lost track of her compliments as she admired my face.

“Well, thank you very much,” I said sincerely.

“Would you like to kiss me?”

I may do a remarkable impersonation most of the time, but I'm not actually a eunuch. So...

“Of course,” I replied, leaning in and kissing her lovely mouth.

Hell, it had been almost two and a half months since I'd kissed a girl last, and I don't even want to think about how long my dry spell had been prior to that.

So what else can I say? Her lips were soft and compliant; she smelled great; and I was only partially aware of how this would look on the security camera over my shoulder should my boss get an urge to review the tapes when he returned to the store.

As is customary when I have great moments at work, someone showed up to ruin things. A bespectacled stoner walked up to the counter as I was still mid liplock with this sexy stranger.

“What can I do for you?” I pulled away, not missing a beat. To my great relief, the woman didn't suddenly bolt out of the store in a fit of embarrassment.

“Got any zigzags?” he asked. Rolling papers, for the uninitiated (as I once was.)

“Think we're all out,” I said, as I pulled open the drawer beneath the register where we kept them. To my chagrin, I saw that somebody had restocked since the last time I worked. Fortunately, Stoney didn't see notice, so – “Yeah, still out.” I shrugged, feigned sympathy, and quickly shut the drawer. He muttered a disappointed response and put his wallet back in his pocket.

“What are you rolling?” my new friend asked him as he walked away. Apparently he was in no mood to talk, as he didn't respond. Good riddance, I thought, but two other customers walked in and begain looking around the store. Moment lost, it seemed.

So...

“What's your name?” I asked her, so that I could at least associate an appellation with the evening's auspicious assignation.

“Karen,” she replied. “What's yours?”

“Drew,” I answered, because that's mostly what I go by these days.

“Would you like to kiss me again, Drew?”

“I would love to kiss you again,” I said without hesitation. So I did. Screw the other customers.

Much more lip action the second time around. I think Karen wanted a bit more—at least she leaned back in for more kissing when I pulled away a few seconds later. Tempted as I was, I felt that might be a little too unprofessional.

No, seriously, there are levels to these sorts of things. Flirting at work—perfectly acceptable; kissing—brief contact on lips allowed in the presence of other customers or coworkers; tongues—right out, unless the store is completely empty and you are in the dry storage or freezer. Or something like that. Pretty sure it's in the employee handbook.

“I should catch my bus,” Karen said, a little disappointed.

“When do you leave town?” For my part, I was none too eager to say goodbye either.

“Tomorrow,” she answered sadly.

Ah, well. “Enjoy your trip, Karen. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

She smiled, gathered up her groceries. “You, too, Drew.” And she left, to catch her bus and return to her vacation, leaving me with the taste of her lips on mine and a pleasant memory. I hoped she'd recall our brief encounter as fondly in the future as I would.

That was Karen.