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Freak Magnate

October 28, 2008 10:50 am Richard Rant

I spend an appreciable amount of time in bars. They are my favorites spots to do research and write rough drafts. Bar life is conducive to creativity. Just ask Hemmingway, Dorothy Parker or P.G. Wodehouse (think Cuba Libres, Orange Blossoms & Jeeve’s no-fail hangover tonic). So, yes, I’m the weirdo on the end-most stool by the wall hunkered over a book and scribbling in a notepad. Nothing too remarkable I don’t think. Just doing my thing and minding my business.

Which is usually about the time my Freak Magnate kicks in.

If there’s a Freak in the room, he or she will seek me out; drawn to me like a June bug to the inviting blue glow of an electric insect zapper. They come in many shapes and sizes, but over the years I’ve come up with three main groups: Distractions, Annoyances, and Brain-Cookers.

The Distraction category is populated mostly by talkers. Friendly enough folks who just want to chat away a minute or two with the guy on the next stool. But they do not in any way notice that the guy on the next stool is immersed in a book, and even if they did the knowledge probably wouldn’t cause them even a moment’s hesitation. On more than one occasion I’ve realized that someone has been talking to me for a fair few minutes or longer, apparently unconcerned by the fact that I’ve been utterly unresponsive, and when I finally do pry myself away from my studies the first words out of their mouths are usually along the lines of, “Sorry to bother you while you’re reading.” And then they go right on with their monologue. I usually nod a bit, maybe participate for a minute or two, then go back to work, or tell them I have to get back to work, which sends them in search of other conversation partners. These are not bad people. Quite the opposite, more often than not. They just need a little polish in the manners department.

People in the Annoyance gang are similar to Distractions, but with even less well-refined social skills. At worst, they are semi-literate hillbillies who insist upon knowing what I’m reading and then, when I tell them, get pissed off because, A.) they haven’t heard of it; B.) it sounds faggy; or C.) because the last time they undertook the same activity it resulted only in a grammar-mutilating squabble as to the veracity, indeed physicality, of the lead letter in last month’s Penthouse Forum. It’s important to keep an eye on this bunch, as they are unpredictable and whiskey sometimes makes them volatile. If they conclude that they are being humored or ignored, they can get snarky, and some will even try to stomp on things they find confusing or intellectually threatening. Buying them a shot, however, is usually enough to end the hostilities. Anyone who buys a stranger a drink can’t be entirely queer, book-nerd or not.

And then there are the Brain-Cookers. They are very rare, thankfully, but because they are so diabolically random and strange they can by-God shove a stick through the spokes of a perfectly pleasant afternoon ride. By way of illustrating the exact nature of the Brain-Cooker psyche, take the following brief transcript of an actual conversation that took place between me and a truly surreal example of the species.

I was sitting at a table in one of my usual hangouts, collecting facts for a book I’ve been working on; notebook open; a pint of beer and a glass of bourbon within easy reach. All at once I became aware of a hovering presence and, looking up, found it to be a rather nondescript chick with red hair, holding a beer in both hands as if she was about to conduct some sort of religious rite.

Brain-Cooker (BC): Can I sit at your table?

It was about 3:30 in the afternoon. There were maybe five people in the place. She had her pick of open tables and bar stools. But I elected, for whatever reason, not to be rude, and gestured at a chair.

ME: Sure.

BC: Cool. Thanks.

ME: Hope you don’t mind if I keep working.

BC: I won’t bother you. Just need to sit for a few minutes.

ME: Knock yourself out.

She plopped onto a chair across from me and let out a massive sigh. Glancing up I saw she was frowning fit to beat the band, alternating between sips of beer and gnawing on the cuticle of her thumb. She kept tossing her hair, too. Sigh, gnaw/sip, toss. Sigh, gnaw/sip, toss. Steady as a metronome. It was obvious she wanted me to ask what was bugging her, and I withstood the urge to comply for as long as I could, but eventually caved.

ME: Crappy day?

BC: Fuck yeah. Just broke up with my boyfriend.

ME: Just now?

BC: Yeah, like ten minutes ago.

ME: That sucks.

BC: I dunno. Fuck him.

ME: There you go. Getting better already.

BC: He don’t know what he let go.

ME: They never do.

BC: He’ll never find another me.

ME: Of course not.

BC: Never. Not the shit I can do.

ME: Nope. He probably deserves it, though, right?

BC: Fuck yeah. Never find another me.

ME: So you said.

She tipped the glass to her lips and drank off about two thirds of its contents.

BC: Cuz I’ll do anything, man. Anything.

ME: Oh, yes?

BC: Any-fucking-thing, dude. Swear to God.

ME: I’m sure.

BC: And he’s gonna miss it.

ME: Of course.

BC: Miss the shit out of it.

ME: No doubt.

BC: Cuz you can do it. You can cum on my face. Fuck me in the ass.

ME: Uh…

BC: Have yer friends over and watch while they have a turn. Fuckin anything.

She suddenly sprang to her feet, downed the last of her beer, and slammed the glass on the table, sloshing my drinks all over.

BC: I gotta go. See ya.

And she scurried from the bar without another word.

I stared into space for a few long ticks, wondering if I’d hallucinated the scary mutant and her whole twisted rap, then realized it was just my Freak Magnate operating at peak performance. I tried to get back to work, but she’d cooked a hole in my brain that wouldn’t close. So I closed up shop, dragged my stuff over to the bar, ordered a double Maker’s, and dialed up some Ramones on the juke.

Freak Magnate, man. Jesus…

Condition:A Shot Away From Paradise

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