Popcorn Songs

It was a date and I was being auditioned by the friends. I was too dumb to know that, then, of course. Any ability I had to size up a social situation and constructively participate didn't come until about 30. This was years before I had a prayer of not making an ass of myself.

So, we strutted to the bottom of the Chestnut Hill to a bar there in an old colonial style building. Her friends already had a table. Saying hello was about the extent of my social skills I think. Maybe by sheer strength of personality I'd made it through a few sentences. Small talk is something I try to practice everyday now. It's like exercise. Do it daily and it's not hard. Every day you skip will be that much more pain the next time you go.

The more out of place I feel, the more likely I am to do something completely crazy. Once the conversation went beyond hello, I didn't have much to contribute. In my defense, I was outmanned, sitting at a table with four women. I didn't realize the tactical perilousness of my situation, I just knew two things. I had absolutely nothing to add to this conversation, and I was bored out of my mind. That probably showed. If I mentally undressed them... ya, that probably showed.

Now, my memory is rusty and my vision's tired, but I think it went like this. The girls were wondering whether the flowers on the table were real, what kind were they, were those in season now, blah blah blah. I told a story about eating the daylilies that grew behind my mom's house. Yup, did it all the time. Loved them. You're making that up, they said, or some such expression of disbelief. Then I ate the flowers on the table.

And that's when they named me Flower-Eater.

It's a fact I didn't pass the audition that night. But I bet they all still remember it.

Sometimes I wonder if I should miss the crazy-ass fucker who would just grab a bouquet of flowers and chomp away. Ensign might say he's called five-martini Matt now. I don't know.