Monday, June 6, 2011

Close Encounters of the Rando Kind: Pub Fiction

There is an elusive creature that prowls the bars in and around Houston, attacking when you least expect it and vanishing when you, its prey, turn hunter, and try to catch a glimpse of the beast. This brute, ladies and gentlemen, is known among some circles as the "rando." Going out with the intention of finding said person is known as "rando hunting," which has become a new hobby of mine.

I first encountered the rando at a midtown bar while I was sitting at table near the restrooms. An exceedingly intoxicated young man's gaze locked onto my bare legs and he stumbled over to me and my good friend, Jeni.

"Hey. Heeeeeyyyy. I like-a your dresssss."

"Um, thanks. It's actually a skirt. But thanks."

"I'm Dave, by the way," he mumbled, "You're working that hair flip." (Rando will henceforth be known as "Rando Dave")

"Hey, Dave, nice to meet you.

Rando Dave naturally takes my attempt at politeness as an invitation to pull up a chair between me and Jeni (most randos have cojones to spare--they cannot begin to imagine that their overtures will be met with anything but pleasurable acquiescence).

Rando Dave takes this moment to look deep into my eyes and throw out this gem: "Sooooo....we should totally make out right now." (Oh, Rando Dave! There's your first problem right there--you never verbally give away your end game that early).

I exchange a look with Jen.

"Well, that's a thought," I begin, "but I think my friend might feel a little awkward about that." Understatement of the year (litotes for those of you who are literarily inclined).

Rando Dave looks unconcerned as he inches his hand over to Jeni. "That's okay, I'll hold her hand." He looks at me expectantly; evidently, our little problem is solved!

I'm a bit unsure of how to respond to this so I settle for a simple "Thanks, but I'm good." Rando Dave does not appear to appreciate this turn of events and sulks off back to the bathroom line...

...only to return about five minutes later, with an earnest concern:

"I don't get it!" he pouts. "What did I do wrong?! I complimented you! I told you I liked your dress! Skirt. Whatever."

Poor Rando Dave really just could not comprehend why the equally random girl at the bar did not want to hook up with his drunk-ass self. In his mind, he did everything right.

And, for some girls, that would have been enough. Alas, Rando Dave was never going to be anything more to me than an amusing anecdote to break out at various social events, and the start to America's new favorite pastime: rando hunting.

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