The Talker

We were out having a couple of drinks after some yard work at an establishment down the street. Over the winter the place had a fire and this was, unbeknownst to us, the second day they’ve been re-opened. Needless to say, the place was full with well-wishers.

A couple we recognized (but have never spoken to) were finishing their dinner. We nodded at each other like people who’ve seen each other but don’t care to go any further (you know, civilized people) do. After they exited the seat next to my girlfriend stayed empty for a few minutes.

And then he arrived.

Your prototypical conversationalist. He arrived alone, would leave alone, but would make his presence known by all within earshot. And, trust me, that would be just about everyone. Even in this noisy, crowded venue, with it’s gaggle of aging (and aged) frat boys and dollop of pseudo-hipsters (playing all the mope rock the jukebox would allow before shorting out it’s own CPU) he would be heard above it all.

He engaged my girlfriend once or twice (each time she’d turn to sip her drink he’d take that as an opportunity) before she was done with him. Being someone who can hold her own (he asked what her drink tasted like and she replied, ‘If you’re that curious buy one, you cheap fuck.’) I left them to their own devices.

It wasn’t until he joined in on a conversation she and I were having that I decided to get in the game.

“What is the name of that drink?” He asked her. She answered while turning her back fully towards him. If you think that would stop a talker you are sadly misinformed. He did a lame joke that caused us both to droop our heads in deference to the comedy gawds for being in the presence of such a poor comedic rendering.

He then decided to tell us how many wacky named drinks he’s encountered. I listen to one or two before interjecting. Happy to have engagement (remember, he doesn’t know me. I think this is how serial killers lure their victims) he gives me his full attention.

“Have you heard of the Annoying Fuck?” I ask. I could tell he was searching his database but was coming up empty.

“No,” he responds happily. “What’s in it?”



13 responses to “The Talker

  1. where’s the rimshot when you need one?

  2. [audio src="" /]

  3. Oh my God, were you in Dennis? Because this sounds exactly like my brother-in-law.

  4. Um, well, ah, as a matter of fact, yes.

  5. I swear to God you must have been talking to my brother-in-law. Isn’t that weird that I could tell by your description? You have an amazing gift…maybe you should be an FBI profiler.

  6. It’s funny, whenever I work on something with someone in law enforcement, they always tell me that.

    Or they’re profiling me for the FBI. I get so confused.

  7. Wow, her line was great, yours was priceless.

  8. Good god, the world is your straight man! How do these people zero in on you like that?

  9. There’s actually been some vigorous debate about that. Some people think I go out of my way to find them (not the case) whereas other take the side that for every action (me being there) there’s an equal and opposite reaction (them finding me).

    I tend to think of it like someone’s who allergic to bees who always manages to sit next to the hive. But instead of running away screaming I jot it down.

  10. You’re just a weirdo magnet.

  11. And it’s also my guess that more people are walking around with metal plates in their heads than not.

  12. Oh for crying out loud! Not another “Pecker” reference!

  13. Teabagging.

    There’s another

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