Something Awkward This Way Comes

Travel Buddy: He only talked to you because he liked your boobs.
Belle: Oh, thanks. You're saying there's nothing else about me that would ever make a guy want to talk to me?
Travel Buddy: Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying.
Belle: You're a bastard.

A few weeks ago, Ms. Potato* came up with the grand idea of finding an establishment at which we might quench our burning desire to play The Skee Ball.

Travel Buddy and the Fun Committee Chair quickly vetoed the Chuck E. Cheese suggestion and proposed Dave and Buster's as a more adult-oriented alternative. And so the adventure began.

We ate. We drank. We played The Skee Ball. We collected tickets.

And when all was said and done, the Grand Pumba of the fine, fine establishment asked that we make our prize selections so the staff could close shop and go home.

So we found ourselves in a room filled from floor to ceiling with cheap Chinese imports, trying to put our hard-earned points to use. Should we get the goofy glasses? The Family Guy figures that grow in water? A stuffed animal?

Ms. Potato and I stood facing a wall with pens, pencils, gadgets, and novelties galore, discussing our options. Suddenly, there was a low voice behind us.

The walkie talkie pens are pretty cool, if they still have them. We turned to see a guy standing awkwardly with his hands in his pockets. That voice recorder has a pretty decent recording time, he said, pointing toward a small package to our left.

I thanked the guy for his input and turned back to face Ms. Potato. She had edged her way to the other end of the aisle and was intently inspecting a stuffed monkey with her back to me and the stranger. Smooth. Real smooth.

The stranger was still pointing things out, telling me what was "worth it" and what wasn't. Wow. You really seem to know your stuff, I told him. You must come here a lot. It wasn't delivered as a compliment, but the subtle clue of my intonation seemed lost on him.

Without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his Dave and Buster's card. The plastic glittered and gleamed under the fluorescent lights, announcing his Gold Status.

If we'd been on television, this is the point where they'd cue the dramatic music and hushed oohs and ahhs of the crowd. Ah, I see, I mumbled, and returned my attention to browsing for something, anything, that would get me a little bit further from this guy.

When I'd successfully navigated away from him and back to Ms. Potato, she raised a questioning eyebrow. I shrugged, and we went back to our discussion of which items we just couldn't live without.

A few minutes later, I found myself buddy-less with the stranger at my side again. Ms. Potato walked toward me, and I picked up the first thing my hand touched. Scooby's kind of cute, I said to her. She nodded and kept walking, ignoring my telepathic plea to get me away from the guy.

I tossed the toy back in the bin, and he picked it up. Hold on, he said. I'll be right back. Wait, your boyfriend isn't here is he? Without thinking, I shook my head. I don't have a boyfriend, I answered, regretting it immediately.

With that, he was gone to the register, and I felt my face burning. Good lord, he's not going to buy me that, is he? Why didn't I just say yes? I stood helplessly waiting while he swiped his gilded card at the register. I could feel the heat rising on my neck as I noticed my friends in a gaggle in the corner, giggling as they looked in our direction. Thanks, guys.

The stranger returned and held a bag out to me. I thanked him and told him he really didn't have to buy me anything. Eh, it's no big deal. I have about ten thousand points, he said, and I don't see anything I want today.

Feeling somewhat befuddled and a little obligated, I introduced myself. Belle, I'm Mr. Awkward, he said, limply shaking my outstretched hand. I managed a little small talk before excusing myself to find my friends.

Bag in tow, I located Travel Buddy and FCC. Did that guy just buy you something? I nodded. He's weird, Ms. Potato interjected. I nodded again.

A few minutes later, the group having dispersed again to search for individual booty, I found Mr. Awkward at my side again, cell phone in hand.

Uh oh , I thought. He's going to ask for my number. Lying didn't even cross my mind. It rarely does.

To my surprise, Mr. Awkward didn't ask for my number. Instead, he showed me a couple of videos of his friend doing stunts on a motorcycle. I watched distractedly, commenting sporadically and wondering what my escape route would be if the guy suddenly went wacko. When the videos finished, we parted ways again.

Final selections in hand, I met my group at the counter, where we swiped and splurged the night's earnings on meaningless trinkets we'd soon forget. Mr. Awkward was nowhere in sight.

As we made our way out of the establishment and across the parking lot, I took a lot of good-natured ribbing from the group and wondered if Mr. Awkward would be waiting around the next corner or behind the next car.

He never made another appearance.


* With nary a week's notice, Ms. Potato made a whirlwind exodus from D.C. earlier in the summer and set up camp in the lower regions of these great United States. After enduring the sweltering heat and humidity of the great metropolis she's calling home these days, she returned for a week and graced us with her presence.