MAXimum Babe-iliciousness

September 10, 2008 at 12:40 pm (Sweet sticky things, Waxing Nostalgic)

I’ve often said this about my job: If I work there long enough, I will run into everyone I’ve ever known or wanted to know. (Along with many I’d rather not know.) Most nights are run-of-the-mill. Last night I had a blast from the past.

Just as rush hour was ending, I’m ringing up a line of folks when I hear a yell; a truncated version of my name that makes me bristle. (If you’ve known me thirty years or more, you may slip and use it. Otherwise, off with your head!) I looked over and saw my ex-wife.

We have a long and wild history. I joke that I’m the only husband she hasn’t killed. (She’s been widowed since our divorce.) While we weren’t very good as a married couple, we were always fast friends and lusty lovers. No matter who is with her, I’m greeted with a big wet kiss. Last night was no exception. I stepped away from the register and gave her a lip-lock. My co-workers (and a long line of customers) stood slack-jawed.

After we exchanged our intimate greeting, she told the onlookers, “This is my ex-husband. There was I time when I cared about him very much!”

Gee. But not now? I knew what she meant. While never delicate in having (or voicing) opinions, and not being the mushy type, she has softened. Knowing her, I took it as high praise.

Her brother was tagging along. When we met, he didn’t think much of me (it was mutual) but over time we’ve accepted each other and get along fine. He was there to keep her out of trouble, which is kinda like asking Al Capone to keep an eye on John Dillinger.

“We just chugged a beer at Skidmore Fountain.”

I gave her a gentle lecture about street-drinking, telling her, “You can drop my name if the Clean & Safe guys catch you, but it probably won’t do you any good.” (Later confirmed by one of my favorite officers: “You? Never heard of ya!”) I should know better anyway. Drinking on the sly is so ingrained to our past that a quart bottle in a brown bag should be mandatory at all our rendezvous’.

“It’s no big deal. I just didn’t want to spend five bucks on a glass of foofy beer when I can slam a can in thirty seconds and get on the train back home.” I understood. I remember those days well. However, knowing the downtown scene, I stick to hitting a bar when I’m tippling in transit. (The Rialto is the best MAX watering hole in the city, IMHO.)

We caught up. We are grandparents now. Our daughter is living at the beach, and her son is about six months old. I hope to meet him soon. We exchanged info. More accurately, I refreshed my same old info, and got her new phone number and e-mail. We promised to contact each other, but in reality I probably won’t see her for another couple of years. It’s how we roll…

Later, a fetching young lass came in, shopping for a bottle of wine. She was dressed nicely, a bit provocative. Her breasts didn’t want to stay contained, and I was enjoying the view. She seemed to enjoy my enjoying the view. I bantered, flirted a little, and when it came time to ring her up, I said, “I’d probably better check your ID, make sure you’re old enough to drink this fine libation.”


She pulled out her driver’s license, and a wave of something went over me. “Wow,” I said. “There’s a reality check.”

“What?” She was taken aback at my sudden change of demeanor.

“You are six days older than my daughter.” I stuffed the wine in a bag, giving her a weak smile.

“Wow,” she said. She pulled her sweater over her mighty-fine boobs, like all of a sudden I was the creepiest guy on earth. Then she relaxed, and started doing the math. “Wait a minute. How old are you?

“Forty-seven,” I muttered, feeling sixty and like I should be wearing a raincoat with no pants.

“Really? You don’t look it.”

“Thanks, flattery will get you everywhere. This isn’t powdered sugar,” I said, fingering the white stripes in my beard.

She laughed. “You’re pretty hot for forty-seven. Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it!” And poof! She was gone.

I don’t know if I’ve ever been called hot by anyone before, let alone a (post)school-age babe.

But I’ll take it!

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