The "Dodgy" Knight

dodg·y  (dj)

adj. dodg·i·er, dodg·i·est Chiefly British

1. Evasive; shifty.

2. Unsound, unstable, and unreliable.

3. So risky as to require very deft handling.

During the Giants season I was trying to catch all the games I could while I wasn't working. This is a difficult depending on how my day business was going, and how much I was working during the evening.  

I had the whole season laid out for me on a wallet sized card, but weekly I never knew what was going to come up that I would prevent me from watching my Boys in Blue. I tried to make all of the games I watched, while not standing at work, as enjoyable as possible. I generally went somewhere that had a TV larger than my 13 inch so I could actually see the ball when it was thrown down field. 

There is a place that we "locals" refer to the bar down the street as The Box.  I think that it was supposed to be a sports reference, a dog's age ago, but now we have no idea why it's called that. Judging by the crowd there on any given night, I could sometimes call it the penalty box. 

Truthfully, most of the locals that come here are lovely. However there is another faction of bar goers that laddered up, (as you corporate people would say) to one of two camps.  Either people had been cited for a penalty and were waiting their time given, or were spending their time given in this bar. I liked the fact that no one really came there to watch the hockey games, and usually the football games still had seats available even well into the second quarter. It was a good place to meet your Bail Bondsman, and in hindsight, maybe not a potential boyfriend.

On this day in particular I was there watching a Sunday evening Giants game. I had made my way down to The Box and had watched the Giants lose this particular night. Nights when I come to watch the game, I generally bring my laptop with me as to avoid conversation with some of the patrons which are part of the Box penalty serving crowd. 

I was going to wrap up the work I was doing on my computer, finish my beer and head home in disappointment. I began to collect my various items: pad, pens, laptop.  As I was putting all of my materials back into their respective bags, I noticed that a man had walked in. He waved hello and smiled at the other folks at the bar.

OK, so he must be a local too. He was wearing a knit hat, so I couldn't see him well, but even from this cursory glance, I could tell I had not seen him before. 

As he took off his coat, he was wearing a Giants jersey. I check out the number on the back. Cruz. OK. Interesting.  Popular choice.  Actually a fan though?? Hmmmmm . . .

I continue to watch my version of the Nature Channel here at the Box. The main programming tonight is a roughly six foolish, dark haired, swarthy man. This species looks like he could be Latin or Italian. His jersey, jeans and work boots make it look like he's been working hard somewhere.  Men in work boots = employed? Now I am making all sorts of wild assumptions. 

He puts his belongings on the chair a few down from me, asks the bartender for quarters, and heads to the jukebox.  This is about to get good. All I need is popcorn. I am starting at this man like he's the after school special "New Guy in Town". God help me. This is the best entertainment I have had all night.

The jukebox now goes from silent to the words, "Yeah, this album is dedicated to all the teachers that told me I'd never amount to nothin'," and I realize that this young man is playing Biggie. The Notorious B.I.G is one of my all time favorite artists. I'm just sayin'.

So just to recap for you folks at home, our Nature Channel pic of the week is: a Giant's fan, employed(?), likes good music and I find him attractive. He's smiling as he turns from the jukebox and makes his way around the bar shaking people's hands as he goes and the bar tender buys his drink. OK. So he's well liked by The Box patrons.  Plus or minus column?

The next song comes on. It's TuPac. Old school rap. My favorite. I decide that there is more work to be done with this man and re open my computer, take out my paperwork and decide to continue to work while someone else is playing DJ. A Dr. Dre song later and my eye candy wanders past me. Up close he remains a good looking guy. Probably late 20s? Looks like he's a happy man and he smiles as he passes me. 

As he returns by me a short while later, he stops by and asks me if I liked the music he put on.

I responded, "yes," and that it was rare I ever heard rap coming out of the jukebox here. He asked me what songs I liked that he chose. I told him and he laughed. Apparently, for whatever reason, it doesn't seem like I should be a fan of Gangsta Rap. 

Yea boi! 

He offered to buy me a shot and I decided what the heck. I think the bartender suggested some kind of Three Olives Vodka that tasted like a fruit loop. We decided we would have a shot of it to give it a try. 

Drinks poured, presented and poof. We giggled at how much it did taste like fruit loops and continued chatting about the music. I asked him about his interest in the Giants and shared that I was a huge fan as well. He asked me what sort of work I was doing and he seemed fascinated with the spreadsheet. He just kept staring at my Excel spreadsheet like it has the answers to the universe embedded in it. If only it did.  

He worked outdoors and enjoyed the labor intensive job. He told me how it was challenging but he had a good work environment and liked the hours. 

We talked for a while longer about living in the area and some of the hobbies we had. He showed me some pictures of fish he had caught recently and just seemed like a genuinely nice guy.  I realized it was getting late and that I should probably be heading home to finish up my work. I thanked him for the drink, packed up my belongings and started to leave. He stopped me to ask me if he could get my number. I thought, "why not?" and scribbled my number down on a piece of paper. I'm a dater of the 90s.  I still put my number on a slice of paper, and sometimes, said person and I have a laugh about it as I realize that I CAN just put it in my phone.

If you ever used one of these phones, yes. You are old. 

I pulled my things together and wandered home. I sat and thought about the evening. I didn't think that I was going to spend the rest of my life with this man but, it was another date and I still believed in the power of positive thinking. 

We sent a few texts back and forth over the week and decided we would catch a Giants game at a local pub that Sunday. I had the day available, which seemed to never be happening these days, and was excited to get to see my Men in Blue!! He offered to drive us to Miami Mikes which is a giant sports bar. I had never even been there to see a game but there is a first time for everything right?

He picked me up in his late model Honda. I don't want to that to sound condescending and this is not intended to be.  I think of it as more Lloyd Dobbleresque 

"I can't really work it all out now, I'm just kinda hanging with your daughter."

That, and I choose not to throw stones in a glass house. My Jetta is 13 years old, has had 14 recalls and is literally the 90K dollar Volkswagon from the amount of work that has gone into decoding and attempting to fix her lemon ass. Svetlana, as I have been calling her for the better part of a decade, was a befitting name. She was no different than the Russian girls that used to  dance where I bartended (not the other way around). They were attractive from the outside, took a ton of maintenance to keep happy, cost a small fortune to keep up with and at any given time when they had a meltdown or malfunction, it was epic. I digress. . .

As we headed for Miami Mikes he was asking me about my week. I had mentioned that it had been a particularly busy and he was happy to swap stories about work and the like on the way to the restaurant. 

He was a bit late to pick me up, but I wasn't upset. I was just happy to have  the night off and get to sit and watch a football game.  Part of me didn't even really care how it went. I just wanted to embrace my eight plus hours of not serving the community or the social media sphere.  

We may have arrived as the dead last people at the day's festivities. As  I walked in, my enthusiasm was quenched by the throngs of colorful jerseys.  This facility had a number of rooms, ALL OF WHICH were filled.  It was the second quarter and we looked like the Johnny Come Lately's to the party. I was going to make the most of this.  I immediately surveyed my setting.  I was like one of those chefs at a cooking competition. I had foie gras, white chocolate, seaweed and a squirrel to make an amazing meal with. Go. 

Same concept.  

I scoped out a chair which may have been used for a bouncer, and one last chair at a comfortable table of eight I could easily poach. Wa- la VIP seating. . .

I am the missing member of the A team.

As we sat ourselves at my miracle invention we happened to sit right smack in the middle of the stations for two severs. . Manifique! Everyone had pitchers of beer.  I thought that popular convention was the way to go. We got our pitcher of Miller Light and the waitress put in orders for lunch.  I decided on beef brisket and he had a burger. We began some small talk.  The ride over we had gotten in a bit of conversation, but now we really had no way of talking.  

The televisions on multiple walls boomed over us.  He leaned in to ask how things were going. I said great. I noticed that he and I had nearly drank the first pitcher. I having now hit my two glass maximum, was going to head the water route. It was still pretty early in the game, and I wanted to make sure everyone was getting home in one piece. He ended up ordering another pitcher. 

I had not thought about dining when I got our "create your own table" location. Thankfully, the nice men at the table next to us were amenable to our sharing their table. This made for a great way to have a squatters picnic, but kind of made for an awkward first date.  

My Knight would periodically lean in and chat me up about the game.  He had  mentioned  during this time how he really wasn't drinking that much since being out of rehab. Hmmmmm.  I didn't think you were supposed to drink AT ALL when you were out of rehab, but, maybe there are different techniques I am not aware of. 

I didn't really ask about his time in rehab but he offered up that it was instead of doing more jail time. Hmmm. I wasn't really sure why he had done his jail time, but I have this feeling, without even asking he was going to tell me. And of course, he did. It was the blow that jammed him all up.  

Fantastic. 

I've dated people in recovery, people who have been in jail and people who have done drugs. Everyone deserves a second chance. Lord knows the universe helps me out every now and again.  It just seemed that this specific sequence of events didn't bode well for me or honestly even him, seeing as we were a pitcher into his recovery efforts. 

I asked if this was a good idea coming to a sports bar for lunch. He just shrugged at me and said "nah, it's the other stuff I have to stay away from." I am glad to see that the drug community is now distinguishing between class A and class B drugs for rehabilitation purposes? We both leaned back into watching the game and I just wondered to myself "who is this man I am out with?"

It worked out well that we sat where we did.  We have conversations with those around us, hi-fived other Giants fans and heckled the opposing teams' fans. We watched the game to completion. The second pitcher still had quite a bit of beer left when we were getting ready to leave. We hadn't really spoken all that much to each other. He had stepped outside a few times for cigarettes and I had gone to the ladies room a few times to text a friend or two to share the license plate and make and model of the car just in case they heard of a renegade drug cartel shooting up a late model Honda on the news at 6. 

As the check came I politely took out my card with every intention to split the bill with him.  He immediately looked at me holding my card and answered "Oh cool. I'll get the next one." Huh?? I guess I was footing the 70$ plus bill which was way outside my free/I'll pay for myself dating parameters. I just quietly paid the bill and collected my bag and coat to leave. I asked if he was OK to drive and appeared to be.  

On the way home, he shared more stories of his sordid past. The crazy ex-girlfriend, the strung out buddies who made random appearances at his home and the Probation officer he wasn't looking forward to seeing next week. I just sat there wide eyed, nodding, having NO REFERENCE POINT for any of this lifestyle. When we arrived out front my house, I wondered if it had even been a good idea letting him pick me up. There were four choices for what apartment I could live in, but even that made me uncomfortable. 

He said he had a great time and he definitely wanted to take me out again so he could repay me for the afternoon today. I told him it was OK, and thanked him for accompanying me. I wished him well with his probation officer, pending court case and continued success (?) in recovery. 

I walked up to the wrong door and walked into the wrong apartment hallway just to make sure that he wasn't sure where I lived. I think it was safe to say I was NEVER going out with this guy again no matter how great his taste in music was.