nobody asked…

(This post might be considered a sequel to the Shake Your Sugar… piece from last August. Different bar, different subject, same type of curiosity and observation on my part, similar quirky behavior from the subject. Read with your best Bogie voice impersonation of Sam Spade. Enjoy!)

It started and ended as just another uneventful evening. But with a tangy morsel sandwiched in between. Having worked a bit later than normal, Roomie out to one of her writers’ group meetings, and knowing that the only dinner waiting at home was mystery meat du jour between a couple of slices of whole grain, good-for-you, tough-as-styrofoam bread, I headed over to the local TGI Friday for something less healthy but more appetizing. Sitting at an elevated table in the bar with a view of several games on the TVs scattered around the room, I settled in to my first glass of Kendall Jackson and placed my food order. After checking out the TVs for anything of interest, I swept the bar area for anyone I might know. Not tonight. Just as well. It had been one of those exhausting days and I was not in the mood for trivial conversation. Just wanted to relax, enjoy my wine, and stuff my face.

I’m not sure why she caught my eye, but there was … something… She was sitting alone at the bar. I had a side profile view from maybe 15 feet away, so there was no guessing about the strange performance already in progress. I’m not good with ages, but I would put her in the mid-30s. Her fashion statement was just a tad uni with a not-too-well-kept coif to match. A barely touched glass of the house draft was at her right hand, while her left was kept busy with the cigarettes. Other than hand movements with the beer and cigarettes she had no noticeable body language. Perched on the barstool, she could have been a statue. No head movement, no expression, no apparent eye contact with anyone or anything except the objects of her immediate focus — cigarettes and beer.

Even if you’ve never smoked, you can envision this. Puff, tap, tap. Puff, tap, tap. Each puff, tap, tap cycle took about 2 to 3 seconds, then repeats with no pause in between. On a cycle of 2 to 3 seconds, give it a try — puff, tap, tap. Puff, tap, tap. When she had burned about half a cigarette, she would carefully snuff it out in the ashtray, take a very small swig of beer, and head off in the general direction of the restrooms. A couple of minutes later she would return, light another cigarette, and start the whole spectacle over again. After a while it became obvious that most of the bar patrons were mesmerized by this different way of smoking and bar hanging. She appeared to be oblivious to the crowd’s scrutiny.

Somewhere in the middle of my chicken tenders, just as she exited again, my eyes locked for a split second with a guy sitting close to her at the bar. We both shrugged, rolled our eyes knowingly, and silently smiled out loud to ourselves. At times she returned within half a minute, as if she had just walked out of the bar, changed her mind, and walked back in. Other times she was gone long enough to go potty, if indeed that was where she was going. Apparently she was a regular, or at least had an understanding with the barkeep, as he emptied the lone half-smoked cigarette from it each time she left.

My visit to Friday’s that night was probably about an hour and a half, and in that time, The Puffer, as I had decided to dub her, drank less than one beer, ate nothing, smoked — or wasted — close to two packs of cigarettes, and visited the restroom — or somewhere — 25 to 30 times. Cheap date for somebody, as long as she brings her own smokes.