My roommate, my coworker and I are hanging out at Brass Monkey in the Meatpacking during the hour before July 4 fireworks are slated to start. While we’re laughing about some latest work blunder, a portly Indian gentleman suddenly shoves his head into our little girls’ circle and single-handedly attempts to pick… well, now, I don’t even know which one of us. In any case, he stands uncomfortably close to my roommate and me, and the two of us end up having to stand at 70-degree angles just to get some space.
“Hi, girls, are you drinking?” he begins, unaware of our aversion to him.
We collectively look down at our drinks, then look up.
“Yes,” we tell him.
“Where are you watching the fireworks,” he fires off again immediately.
“Err, probably just down by the sidewalk.”
He nods approvingly. The girls and I send incredulous glances at one another while he stands there looking into his beer, as if his armory for pick-up questions is contained in there.
“Where are you girls from?” he asks now, again completely unrelated to our prior topic of “discussion.”
“Delaware,” my coworker responds immediately.
“Oh cool,” he nods again. “How do you guys know each other?”
“We’re all college friends,” my roommate answers. “University of Delaware.”
In response, the guy sniffs the air.
“Do you smell that?”
Let me just tell you, boys. Bringing up dubious smells is not the way to go when you’re trying to hit on a girl, much less hit on three. But I guess people in general feel inclined to be nice. So I ask back, “Um, what?”
Suddenly he leans into my face and stares intensely into my eyes. “Hot Dogs.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “You should go eat one?” I say, and we excuse ourselves.