schweblog

Over the weekend, I decided to satiate my inner geek by attending BlizzCon, a convention hosted by Blizzard, one of the best gaming software companies out there (they’ve released hit titles like World of Warcraft and Starcraft, for those of you not in the know). Overall, I had a pretty good time bumping elbows with fellow geeks and watching the invitational tournaments. In a rather entertaining sweep of fate, a French guy won the Warcraft III tournament–maybe they do know how to fight, after all.

About halfway through the convention–late into the afternoon of the first of two days–I decide that I’m hungry, tired, and peopled-out. There was an Italian restaurant not far from the convention center, so I left my fellow attendees behind and head out for a nice Italian dinner. Alone.

On the way there, I notice a small, hole-in-the-wall bar next door to the Italian restaurant. I’m rather fond of exposing myself to ridiculous, interesting, or downright absurd experiences whenever the opportunity arises and this was most certainly a potentially great petri dish for shenanigans. I resolve to have a beer and step out of the bar after soaking up a little part of Anaheim that Disney hasn’t managed to buy out and clean up just yet.

Upon stepping into the bar, I am immediately barraged with a myriad of ethnicity–primarily Hispanic. Loud Mexican music blares from the jukebox in the corner while a TV displays an obviously Mexican soap opera, muted. I sit down at the bar and realize that I’m the only Caucasian in the bar. No worries…growing up in New Mexico, I’m pretty used to this kind of situation.

Upon ordering my beer, I also realize that I’m the only one with any basic capacity for the English language in the bar, judging from the chatter that is audible over the music. I smile, sit back, and enjoy my beer. All is well. This is Anaheim. This is an experience. This is exciting. And no one would think of bothering me, the lone white stranger in a bar full of what I gather are regulars.

About halfway through my Negro Modelo Especial, a hand brushes across my back and a short, squat, 200-poundish woman appears on my right. She smiles a big, gap-toothed smile and starts muttering what I can only assume are sweet Hispanic nothings in my ear. I smile back at her and, having given up on understanding the dialogue in the bar about 2 minutes after entering, explain that, “No hablo Espanol.”

The women smiles again, keeping her hand on my shoulder. “Me and you have fun. Me. And you.” She brushes her hand across the inside of my thigh and my assumptions are affirmed–I was being solicited by a Mexican prostitute.

I smile, trying to appear flattered, and respectfully decline. “No, gracias.”

She’s seen this act before and has probably overcome it with persistance. Pretending not to understand me, the woman–probably in her 30s–continues her assault, promising me what I can only imagine are the raunchiest deeds that easily transcend my dirtiest fantasies…in Spanish. Again, I decline and start consuming my beer significantly faster. It felt like a Jehovah’s Witness of all things sexual was trying to win me over by using cheap, incomprehensible literature that I couldn’t understand.

She laughs and the woman who got me my beer also laughs. They converse with one another in a rapid vernacular that I couldn’t hope to understand even if my two years’ of high school Spanish was fresh in my mind. They are laughing together now, me between them, and mention “viejo”. Obviously, I’m the butt of some joke. Finishing the last sip of my beer, I bid them adios and head out of the bar.

Upon being blasted with the warm, polluted night air of the greater Los Angeles area, I smile to myself. Now that was an experience! I head next door to my original destination, order cheese ravioli, have a brief exchange with the Italian grandmother behind the counter about vegetarianism, and dig into my salad. At this point in time, I’m trying to collect my thoughts and, strangely enough, ponder how I’m going to express them in a journal entry. I’m enjoying the old, slightly brown-around-the-edges lettuce drenched in ranch dressing when–who would have guessed?–the prostitute walks in the door.

I concentrate on the salad now, hoping that I’m outside the periphery of her vision and will go unnoticed. She orders two warm turkey sandwiches from the Italian grandmother and turns to leave, seeing me as she headed towards the door–she flashes a big grin and waddles (what I think was an attempt at swaggering) over to me. The Italian grandmother is in the back, helping her husband with the food preparation. There are no other patrons at the restaurant. We are alone. I smile back at her, frozen in my seat. This is not going according to plan. Absurd prostitute time was earlier. This is now scrumptious Italian dinner time. This is not in the schedule. It’s like that scene in “Lady and the Tramp”, except poor Tramp is strapped into his seat against his will and being force-fed spaghetti by an overweight lapdog.

“I am Lupe,” she announces as she steps up to the table and pushes her thigh against my shoulder.

“Hola, Lupe.”

“I hate you.”

I raise my eyebrows and continue eating my salad, not responding.

“You fuck me, I love you.”

I set down my fork. “No,” I repeat in a stern tone, “gracias.”

“Porque? You no like me?” She rubs her hands down her body in a suggestive way. I can’t help but smile again, my hard exterior shattered by the sheer absurdity of the entire situation.

“Porque yo tengo una chica a mi casa,” I slur out in poor, hesitant Spanish.

“I treat you good.” She runs her hands back down her body again. Then, without warning, she reaches down and grabs my fork from the salad bowl. Awestruck, I do nothing while she takes a bite of my salad. She smiles as she chews and swallows it with a satisfied grin. She bends over and repeats it in my ear, the stink of alcohol and ranch dressing on her breath wafting into my nasal cavities, “I treat you good.”

I’m frozen again as she takes another bite of my salad and sets down the fork. “No…no,” I mutter. This is not me. I’m normally calm. Collected. If this was anyone else, I would have stood up and told them off. This is my salad. For some reason, though–maybe it’s the ridiculous situation, maybe it’s her bold approach, or maybe it’s just me hoping for more content from this plot that I couldn’t even imagine–I do nothing.

“Fine. I hate you.” She waddles away again, her ego a little bruised, but her pride nonetheless intact. I was an easy mark–a young, fertile, horny college-age student–but I supposedly had a girl at home. She is snubbing me. I am not the free-thinking libertine I thought I was in her mind–I am limited, whipped by a woman far beyond my proximity. I have allowed myself to be enslaved when I could have some quick and easy pleasure that no one has to know about.

I didn’t really have a girl back at home waiting for me, potentially angry if I ever confessed to such an act. In all reality, I just didn’t want a handjob from a Mexican prostitute in a seedy part of Anaheim. C’est tout.

Filed under: memories, travel by Jesse