I don’t know about you, but for me it’s rare when I meet someone I really connect with. But it happened to me last weekend. I met a guy at a bar, we started talking, and it turns out, we share so much in common: he wears skinny jeans, loves Lady Gaga and shares a phobia of beer nuts in close proximity to bathrooms that lack hand soap.
“So, what do you do?” I asked turning my stool to face him.
“I’m a flamer,” he said, swirling his vodka soda with his straw.
“I’m sorry—what did you just say?”
“I said I’m a flamer. Like, professionally.”
“I live in Boystown,” I said. “Don’t play. It’s offensive.”
“No, I mean I really flame things — in the restaurant, where I work.”
“That’s a job?”
“Yes, it’s a job. I’m the fire guy. I mostly do desserts—we do a lot of flambé — but sometimes I’ll light up a Greek cheese, too . Opa!”
“I’m sorry, are those finger guns?”
“I don’t have fire. I had to improvise.”
“ Here’s your chance–looks like our candle is out. Show me your stuff,” I said, pushing the candle towards him.
“I don’t do candles. What do you think I am? A busser? You know what? I don’t have time for ignorance.” And with that, he stood up and left.
Another one up in flames.
Related Disasters:
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http://www.DirtyInPublic.com Marrie
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Janie
