Episode 164: A case of mistaken identity and the Old Spot stalker

Sometimes I think that shit like this only happens to me.

Thursday nights are usually my early night at work. Sometimes I'll end up leaving around 10-10:30. When this happens, more often than not, I make my way around the corner and up the street to my favorite bar, the Old Spot. I like this bar for a lot of reasons. I have been going there for years, it is small, usually relaxed, not a lot happening. Couple TV's, some good beers on tap, solid food and I know the bartender. Most of all, almost no one I know goes there. That is the biggest challenge. Working in a restaurant, I am not one of those people who wants to go see 12 people I work with or used to work with or just served drinks to at another bar. I want to go out, have a few pops and keep to myself.

Occasionally, when drinking alone after work, you can end up with what we call the 'unlucky bar seat.' That is to say you are sitting at a bar with an empty seat next to you and someone terrible sits down. This is usually someone who talks a lot and who you do not know. This happened to me over the summer.

I was sitting at the bar minding my own business. The kid next to me makes a comment about something to me and it sparks a small, unimportant conversation. This is always how it starts. Next thing you know you are hearing stories about God knows what and he is asking you what you do and where you're from. On this particular night I was in an especially bad mood and probably a little bit more drunk than I would typically be in a regular post-work circumstance. This led to me engaging this individual, a 30-something male with one really, really wide nostril, in conversation. Eventually he left and I went on with my night, stumbled home and forgot he existed.

About two months later it is the same scene. I am at Old Spot after work, eating a burger, waiting for another friend to get out of work and meet me at the bar. I'm talking to the bartender when someone slaps me on the back. "Hey, Dan, how's it going?"

Now, it takes me a minute, but I am able to eventually identify this gentleman, mainly because of his nostril, as the dude who I talked to over the summer. I am not nearly as grouchy or drunk this time, so I am in no mood to talk to him. I'm eating. Leave me alone. He starts asking me questions. "Is this person still pissing you off at work?" "Is your daughter still doing whatever random thing your daughter was doing the last time I talked to you two months ago?" I had not only forgotten everything we talked about the first time we met, but I had forgotten who this dude even was and here he was reciting every bullshit drunk story I told him. It was so bad that once my friend arrived, I immediately asked for my tab and said, "Let's go do some karaoke." We got outside and my friend says "Ummm, are we really gonna do karaoke, because I am NOT drunk enough for that." "No way," I said. "I just needed to say we were going somewhere that I knew that dude wouldn't follow us to."

To fully understand this man, you first need a physical description. The Old Spot Stalker has Coke-bottle glasses, is cross eyed behind them, is balding in the back of his head, has a receding hairline and deplorable skin for a 30-year-old. His right nostril is the size of a large jelly bean. Not a Jelly Belly, not even a standard jelly bean, like, one of those dime-sized Easter jelly beans from when you were a kid that were like chewing gum because they had so much mystery confection in the middle. I am pretty sure that if you had a small miner's helmet light you could see all they way in to his brain. 99.9 percent of the time I can actually bring myself to look at his awful, awful face (which isn't often) this is what I am focused on. This is only his second worst physical trait. The worst is his teeth. As my friend, Pat, put it "His favorite snack as a kid was rocks." They are broken, crooked, rotted and pointing in all different directions. His breath is the closest thing to dog shit I have ever smelled that wasn't actually dog shit. He knows it, too, he keeps a pocket full of mints. It doesn't help.

The Old Spot stalker is a classic nudge. A loaner. Lives with his parents in to his 30's, minus a few awkward years going to college in New York City. Single and falling in love with crazy girls online, he is broke as a joke and, for some reason, can't seem to land a real job doing anything. Every time I see him his 'temp job' has just ended and he is in search of another one. I get that the job market sucks, but when all you do is look for temp work it is your own fault if you fail.

He has two common discussion themes, other than his pathetic job search. First and foremost, he talks about some girl he is 'seeing' that lives 'up north.' Second, he likes to take every opportunity to remind you that he supposedly worked on movie sets when he was in New York.

"Oh, Adam Sandler, I met him on the set of such and such. He's OK" or (and this is a real comment) " I met Will Farrel on the set once, he was in the bathroom, he had a really small wiener." Yeah. Will Farrell was taking a piss and saw your ugly, misshapen nostril face and had a small wiener. Cool.

The stories about the girl are the worst. From my sporadic listening, here is what I can conclude is going on. Dude meets girl online, they meet up, go on a few dates, have sex. Dude gets a little crazy and thinks they are dating. Girl realizes his stalker like tendencies and backs off, only letting him in when she is drunk or she really, really needs to get laid. This unhealthy relationship goes on for a few months until she finally realizes how overbearing he is and calls it off. He gets confused because he is an idiot.

As of now, here is where we stand. Around Christmas he texted her constantly to see if she wanted to hang out/ spend the holidays with his family. She did not. After that, she avoided him pretty much constantly until one day last week he called her in desperation as his car had broken down and he needed to get to a job interview. Girl, against her better judgement, agrees to come pick him up, let him drop her off at work and go to his job interview. Dude proceeds to crash girl's car. Girl gets pissed, makes him pay insurance deductible, tells him he is crazy, she never really liked him and not to text her anymore. She sends him text messages because she needs his money for the car. He mistakes this as her messing with him.

Actual quote: "She keeps telling me not to text her, she doesn't want to talk to me, she hates me, leaver her alone. Then I get a message today about her car. Like, which one is it?"

Which one is it? WHICH ONE IS IT???!?!?!?!!?!?!?! SHE FUCKING HATES YOU DUDE!!! But you OWE HER MONEY! She isn't messing with you. She isn't "playing games." You crashed her car and she needs to get it fixed. Bottom Line. WHAT an IDIOT.

The mere fact that I can share this story with you should prove that I have been dragged in to way to many conversations with this kid, but this situation reached a head this week.

Let's rewind a few weeks. It is two weekends ago, on a Saturday, the night of the Patriots- Broncos playoff game. I am walking in to work and I get a text from a mysterious number.

"Hey, Dan, will you be working tonight?"

"Sure will, all night. Who are you?"

"This is Sean."

"Oh, Hey, Sean. I didn't have your number, sorry."

"It is ok, I am thinking of coming in for a beer tonight, I might see you later."

"Cool."

Sean. Hmmm. Sean? I don't know many Seans, and the ones I do know I am not exactly close friends with. Not close enough to have shared my phone number. I thought for a little bit and decided that it must be this guy Sean that I used to work for at the newspaper. He lives fairly close to the bar and he is in there every now and then. He was the only person I could think of. Maybe he wanted to make sure he could get a seat for the game. Who knows.

The night goes by, no Sean. I did see the Old Spot Stalker that night, though, and I was super mean to him. Told him I was way too busy to listen to his depressing stories. I forget this text message exists, but I do store the number in my phone under the name of the Sean that I think it is.

Fast forward to last Thursday. Walking in to work again I get a text from Sean.

"Hey, Dan, are you working tonight? Any plans on going out after?"

"Depends on if I am here late, if not I was going to go meet my buddy at Old Spot."

"Ok, great. I wanted to see if we could have a beer tonight. I wanted to talk to you about something."

Now, keep in mind, I have saved this number in my phone under the name of someone I used to work for. I am a little surprised, but enthusiastic about this meeting. I like work Sean, he is a good guy. Maybe he has a job opportunity for me. It is strange that he would want to get a beer, what could it be?

About an hour later I am still thinking about this meeting. My mind is racing. This is so weird. What could Sean want out of the blue? Are they really hurting that much at the newspaper? Is he going to try and get me back? Then, like a wrecking ball on the end of a crane, it hits me. Old Spot stalker is probably named Sean. I have never asked him my name, but I know he must have said it. It is probably Sean. You know what? It is Sean. Fuuuuuucccccccccckkkkkkk. How on Earth did he get my number? Now it hits me again. One night, while I was trying to avoid him, he tried to give me his number. Instead of writing it down, he told me to put it in my phone and call him so he had mine. Unable to avoid the situation, I did, and immediately deleted it, thinking I would never need it. Well, bad move. Old Spot Stalker had texted me. This was not a job opportunity, I would not be meeting up with an old work friend. I had just been so nice, so welcoming, so open to having a beer with this nostril, rock-tooth freak and I didn't even realize. Talk about a shitty feeling.

Now, I have already made plans with my friend Pat to go to Old Spot. This is literally the only bar we go to. The Celtics are on, I'm hungry, my friend John is bartending. We are going. Screw the stalker. I purposely choose a two-top table off to the side in front of a TV. Even if the stalker comes in, I know that there will be nowhere for him to sit and I will be enthralled by some regular season basketball. Besides, back when I thought he was work Sean, I told him I'd text him when I was getting out of work. I never sent that text, so he won't show up, right? Ha.

Pat and I are in the middle of eating our food and watching basketball when I heard the door open behind me. I felt the draft on my back and, without turning around, I just knew who it was. I closed my eyes, looked at Pat and said "Please tell me there isn't an ugly man walking towards us."

Too late. There he was. In all his hideous glory, the Old Spot Stalker. He introduced himself to Pat. We continued to look at the TV. We did not offer to move to a bigger table. We did not engage him in conversation. He. Just. Talked. The whole time. About the girl. And the car. And the insurance. And his no job. And his shitty life. And Will Farrel's penis. Again. Then, he walked around the corner to go talk to the manager of the bar, this girl Kelly. "Yeah. I am here with my friend, Dan," we heard him say. I look over at John the bartender, he is laughing at me. He catches my eye, shakes his head, turns around and grabs a beer out of the cooler and brings it over. "Sorry, dude," he says. "Just keep drinking these. It can't hurt."

At one point, the stalker went to the bathroom. I stopped Kelly as she walked by and said " I just want you to know that weirdo is NOT my friend."

"Oh, I know," she said. " But I have to say, it is nice to know he is going to leave me alone as long as you're here."

Now, normally, this would be enough for me to ditch the Old Spot and find another bar. I have done the same to other bars for much less. But no. Not this time. This is my friggin bar. I go there. I go there on Thursday. I like it, and no rock-tooth dweeb is going to ruin it for me. I will win. I only wish this kid understood social cues so he could realize that I don't give two shits about his awful life, his breath smells and he should either get a job stocking shelves at Wal Mart or drive off a bridge, because he isn't getting my ear anymore.

...

FINALLY a live version of this song hits Youtube. I don't care if it sounds a little bit like Stairway to Heaven. Screw Led Zeppelin. This song is a triumph.