Weird Tales from Tuman's Tavern

As some of you know, on most Sundays I frequent a bar in the Ukranian Village called Tuman's Tavern (nobody calls it Tuman's Restaurant). I go there, well, because they have cheap beer and internet access, and because Sunday afternoons are a nice time to go to bars and do something relaxing, like working on the script that will either make or break you in Hollywood. 

The only downside to Tuman's is that it's pretty short on electrical outlets. By which I mean: in the entire place, there are two of them, and one of them is in the back by the kitchen and bathrooms. Thankfully, this means that not many people bring their laptops to the bar, but yesterday this couple did, and they ended up sitting next to me. 

For the purposes of this story, we'll call them "Mike" and "Trixie." Why "Mike" and "Trixie"? Well, because the guy's name was Mike, and the girl, whose name I didn't get, is in her professional life a stripper, escort/prostitute and real estate mogul, so if her name isn't Trixie, it should be.

(I'll pause here for a moment to answer the obvious question: How did I figure out Trixie was an escort/prostitute? Well, I can't point to any one statement to the effect of "Hi, I'm Trixie, I'm an escort/prostitute." But various side conversations she had with Mike in the three excruciating hours I was sitting next to them made it more than clear. Between talks of clients, and whispered words like "topless," "appointment" and "I don't want to do this forever," I was able to read between the fairly unsubtle lines. Besides, Trixie owns four buildings in Chicago. Even a conservative estimate puts the relative combined value of those buildings at $1 million. You don't get that kind of money just being a stripper. And in case you're wondering, she looked almost exactly like this.) 

Mike and Trixie had brought along a laptop because Trixie was thinking about buying a pink Chevy Tahoe on Ebay. No, seriously, that's why. But Trixie was sort of worried, because the seller wouldn't answer any of her questions beyond the amount of the reserve. 

"I don't get it," she whined. "What if there are problems with it? I don't want it to have any problems. Why won't they answer meeee?" 

Eventually, Trixie turned to me. Up close, she was sort of startling looking, sporting a paint-on tan, platinum hair, fake breasts and trashy clothes. She explained that she was in "contruction," (later revealed to be real estate, and another clue to her whoredom) and had at one point owned a Range Rover she'd painted pink and had "totally tricked out. It cost me soooo much money!" 

Anyhow, since then, she'd totaled it. I didn't ask how. And now, since she was a "broke bitch," she needed a new truck. She explained about the Tahoe, showed me the ad, and asked me what I thought. 

After a while I said, "You shouldn't buy it. It seems pretty clear to me you know you shouldn't. They won't answer your questions. If they wanted to sell it, or they could answer your questions, they'd answer you. Almost everything that can happen here is bad." 

I learned later she had asked almost everyone she knew about the Tahoe, and everyone had told her not to buy it. But then again, you don't get to be a stripper and an escort/prostitute without doing a few things other people tell you not to do.

Suddenly, Trixie got a phone call. To her disappointment, it wasn't the seller. One of the people she hires to work on her buildings had called. They told her that there was a roof leak in a building where they were working on the electrical, and that work would have to stop until someone fixed the leak.

"Oh, yeah," she said. "Electrical and water, you know. But look, that kind of freaks me out, because I don't have insurance on any of my buildings and I don't want it catching fire." 

Suddenly Trixie got up to go to a quieter place in the bar, leaving me with Mike, her frat guy boyfriend douchebag who acted like he gobbled horse tranquilizers by the bucketful. Mike would later tell me he was in the foreclosure business, proudly recounting a tale of outwitting someone and being able to repossess their house, leaving them homeless. 

"Ain't she a cutie?" he said, motioning to his whore girlfriend.  I gave him the "OK" sign. Then the waitress came over, a cute indie girl named "Dane." Dane asked Mike about his drink, his fourth vodka tonic that hour. When she left to get him another one, he turned to me. 

"So what kind of tits you think she has?" 

"Well, I think she has two of them," I said. 

He laughed. "What, like 36As?" He laughed again. Then the bartender came by, a statuesque brunette with a come-hither smile and unfortunate teeth. Mike was wearing sunglasses and laying so far back in his seat he looked ready to fall asleep. 

"For a second I thought you were passed out," she said. "I thought, 'you know, we're going to have to kick this guy out.'" 

Mike shrugged. "I've been kicked out of better parties than this." 

The bartender frowned and went off, and Mike turned to me. 

"So, would you?" he said, referring to the prospect of having sex with the bartender. 

"I don't know," I said, annoyed. 

"She's big." 

"Well, so am I." 

He laughed and held out his fist. Very reluctantly, I bumped it. 

Trixie came back. The auction was close to ending, and Trixie was getting anxious. As you can imagine, she had decided to buy the Tahoe. The bid was at $11,800, and the only email she'd received from the seller was one that told her the reserve was $12,500. No other questions about, you know, whether the car puked oil or even ran had been answered.

"Put in 12.5 and that's it," Mike said. 

"I don't know," she said. "It's only a two wheel drive." 

"Put in 12.5 and that's it." 

"There's only three minutes left and I really have to pee!" she said. She got up. "Okay, I'm going," she said. "But I'm not going to wash my hands!" 

"That's fine," I said. "I don't have to touch them." 

When she came back she bid $12,500. But that didn't beat the current high bidder. So she put in a bid of $13,137. And while that made her the top bidder, it didn't beat the reserve. Why, because the email that said the reserve was $12,500 was a lie. 

Big shock. 

"So," Trixie says eventually. "They're just stupid." 

Overcome with irony, I started laughing out loud. 

"I bet it's not even a real car," Mike said lazily. Trixie grabbed her wine, took a big gulp, and started writing an email to the seller. When she finished, she closed her laptop angrily. 

At this point, I gathered my things to leave. I gave a thought to taking a picture of them with my camera phone, but I decided that more than anything, I just didn't want to be around them anymore. 

So that's it, I left. I walked home, grinning to myself about how fate had smiled on these two vain, moronic, morally bankrupt people by allowing them to find each other. What a strange, strange world indeed.