Stadium Views


“Ya wanna come over my house.” Why Charlies my Buddy and Buddy’s not. by gpiv
April 17, 2010, 12:10 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

Sixty-three bottles of beer in the fridge.

Tonight we’re going to the Drover.  As all who enter The View looking for restaurant recommendations find out, it is my favorite steakhouse in Omaha.  Abby’s typing the restaurant list today.  It’s classy looking and a credit to the Series.

Buddy.

That name is a typical Southern moniker.  Kind of like Sonny and Butch.  One day Buddy from South Carolina came ambling up the road.  It was a couple of years after my Dad’s death and either real or imagined, he kind of looked like my dad.  so being the kindly gent that I am….

I offered him a beer

As an aside, are you starting to sense a theme in my conduct at The View.

Un-aside,  it was a mistake.

Oh Buddy was really nice at first.  He was heavy and dressed with the same flair as my dad, or lack thereof.  He had a chubby face , sagging jowls, and deliberate gait.  He had a slow southern drawl.  He had a good sense of humor, until it turned perverted.

Speaking of perverted I need to tell you about the incident that happened between a four year old and myself in the bathroom at DJ’s Dugout, my local watering hole.

Oh get your minds out of the gutter.

So, I walk into the bathroom to relieve myself.  At the time there are several others in the bathroom but they quickly vacate.  I am left standing at the urinal, going about my business.  Then I hear this voice come out of the first stall saying, “Hey, I need toilet paper.”

Not wishing to interrupt what I was doing I replied, “Hold on dude, I’ll help you out in a second.”

I did not expect the response, “My names not dude, it’s Charlie.”

Quickly recovering I replied, “OK Charlie I’ll be with you in a minute.”

He inquired “What’s your name?”  Having finished my business, I invaded the stall next to him and tore a lengthy piece of toilet paper off the roll tossed it over the top of his stall while announcing, “My names Greg, is there anything else I can help you with.”

Obviously grateful and able to gauge my lack of peophiliac tendencies on the spot, in the innocent voice of a five-year old he said, “You want to come over my house.”

While he may have been able to judge my character immediately, I was a little more sceptical.  I immediately looked around for cameras fearing some kind of sting operation.  Finding none I decided to garner a little more information, and I inquired, “Charlie, where do you live.”

Disclosing his lack of maturity Charlie replies, “I don’t know” I further inquired if it was close and if his parents were at the bar.  He didn’t know the answer to the first but  was sure his parents were there.  I decided it would be better if I terminated our present relationship so I closed the conversation with him still in the stall, instructing him, “I’ll be up at the bar playing Keno, if your parents want to have me over have them come and ask me.”

Back to Buddy.  He came back the next day for a beer, and another, and another.  It was becoming apparent that Buddy might be entering the kingdom of Moochiness.   And he would sit out on on the stoop in fromt of the entrance to the place and block people’s entry.  But come on, he knd of looked like my dad.

About the third or fourth day of this things turned worse.  He apparently had been kicked out of his hotel, although he had couched it terms of the fact that he had not expected South Carolina to stay that long and his room was booked to someone else.  He explained about his home on the ocean in South Carolina and how he wanted me and the family to come stay with him anytime and how there were three or four golf courses within a stones throw of his house.  Then the shoe dropped.

He asked if he could stay at my house.

Luckily he started explaining some of his other difficulties besides housing.  He also needed some professional help.  Apparently in one of the temporary bars along the street, someone had accused someone had accused Buddy of some inappropriate touching, and the police were wanting to talk to him.

Now, as a lawyer I am used to thinking quickly on my feet.  I told Buddy that as much as I would love to help him out with his lodging difficulties, my house was full (partially true, Harper was there and Stacey I think).  Besides with his other disclosures I certainly didn’t want him around any of my kids.

The final straw was when Buddy was still around late in the evening, waiting for a cab or something and all molared up.  He decided to make some off color comment about a young lady that was in there.  Stingray and Moosey and I and several others were standing around and though we have been known to be crude and inappropriate at times not, quite like this.  Stingray was shocked, and that takes a lot.  He looked around, stuck his hands out, clapped them once like a dealer ain Vegas, showed us palms and then flipped them over and showed us the the back of his hands.  Just like a dealer who had enough, he was out of there, stymied at the time by Buddy’s crudeness.

I never saw Buddy again after that night.

I never took a vacation to Myrtle Beach and saw Buddy.

I’ve never been to Charlies house either.

I’d like to talk to Charlie again.

I hope I never see Buddy again.

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