The Good, the Bad, and the Funny

Among my friends, I consider myself ‘the single one’ because I am in fact always the individual in the group who is single. I feel that I am what one could call a Seasoned Single at this point in my life, and think I’m pretty good at it now. I’m very proud indeed. Us singles don’t all resent our friends who have found their beaux or gal pal, to you I say cheers, congrats, and high five. But I also have to say, though it can be exhausting sometimes, being out in the single world has its perks and entertaining moments.
One reason I am establishing my title as a Seasoned Single is because, finally after much practice, at 25 years of age I can successfully separate the good guy from the jackass, pretty early in the game. There are, of course, good and bad sides to this fine tuned ability: Good side- obviously you don’t want to get caught up with a jackass, so you weed them out before you are sucked into a vortex of crappy conversation, association, or even worse…relationship. Bad side- as time goes by you may start to notice that all the weeding has made the optimistic ‘plenty of fish in the sea’ scenario seem more like a drought plagued desert, and the chick next to you cries “Screw this, I’m calling Mr. McCreepy for a drink of water.” Whatever…stand by your guns guys and girls, it’s not that bad. Good side- during the weeding out process you often have entertaining stories to tell your friends at the end of some of your horrendous encounters with the opposite sex. Often times including clever nicknames, list of amusing character flaws, and things you should have said instead of being polite.
In saying that, I am going to share a recent series of horrendous, yet entertaining, encounters that will include nicknames, list of amusing character flaws, and things I should have said instead of being polite. Of course the following has been modified; my memory is not always great, complete conversations are hard to replicate and not interesting to read, and some names have been changed to protect the idiots…I mean innocent.

Oh Captain My Captain

Last week I went to dinner with a friend of mine, let’s call her Alice. We went to a local café before continuing our plans to see the Miss Galaxy pageant; the cultural experience of a life time lay in the talent competition between the Tongan drag queens. Of course we were very excited and needed provisions for the upcoming event.
Literally, in no way am I embellishing, within 60 seconds of the time it takes to walk through the door and getting to the counter, the cute guy with blue eyes at one of the front tables has made his way to his position of attack next to us. I am not going to lie; when I walked in, I made eye contact with those blues and was not disappointed that he acted so quickly…yet.
With his west coast American accent he opened “Hey, how are you guys?” 1 second pause “What are you doing?” 1 second pause “I just got in today with my friends over there” points to table, “Yeah we came on this boat we built, I’m the captain, my name is…” for the sake of this individual, and I like nicknames, his name is Captain Rufi for reasons that come full circle throughout this account. “So what’re your names? What are you doing here?” Captain Rufi asked as if he didn’t ask before when he was rudely interrupted by himself.
Alice and I introduce ourselves along with our current status as volunteers living in country. We can tell Captain Rufi is enthralled by what we are saying as he blatantly looks below the neck line and takes a sip from his bottle of local Tongan beer, a.k.a. rancid cow piss. That last observation isn’t a critique on his judgment in beer, no one knows how bad it is unless you live here, and it’s the cheapest option; I just don’t like it and prefer to pay the extra buck for the beer that wasn’t bottled in Dick Cheney’s butt hole. I digress…
My friend and I have put our orders in, still standing at the counter, and the captain isn’t going anywhere. Out of politeness, and apparent temporary insanity, Alice invites him to sit down with us. We make our way to a table outside, sit down “So what are you guys doing tonight? What’s there to do here? So you guys live here? What do you do?” All questions, mind you at this point, are not allotted appropriate time for responses that might qualify as having a conversation. Alice and I are allowed to give somewhat bulleted responses and then listen to repeated Captain Rufi facts and phrases, such as: “yeah we’ve just been sailing around on this boat we built” and “I’m the Captain” “so what are you doing tonight” and the most excessively used “you should come back to the boat with us, we have loads of food and booze.”
As you might already be able to tell, this is becoming a bad after school special where you learn not to get into the car with the guy holding a bag of candy…In what world is this guy successful enough to build boats?? In what world is this guy ever going to get action?? I haven’t been living on an island that long have I? You would think I’d be the one desperate enough for social interaction with the opposite sex…anything croaked out of a frog would sound like Prince Harry, but give me some credit!
We answer his questions, tell him where he might want to go, what he might want to do, and he removes himself from our table, so that I might enjoy my toasted ham and pineapple sandwich. Alice and I quietly have a few laughs to ourselves about Captain Rufi’s “game” and sympathetically chalk it up to him, like so many yacht guys, just being socially awkward after long periods at sea…sun rise, sun set.
That concludes what I am simply calling, Encounter Number One.

Encounter Number Two is set in a local dance bar the next evening, let’s call it The Billfish. It is a favorite among local volunteers for reasons of preference and few options…it is in fact an island, so the idea of options isn’t much more than a question of whether it’s myth or an actual memory from another life. I am accompanied by another friend, let’s go with Emily, among a small group of people we also know…but their names are less concerning details in this story.
Emily and I had just sat back down at our table after finishing our excellent dance session showing off our impressive, unprofessionally trained, salsa abilities. We’re so cool. So cool in fact, Captain Rufi who was there also noticed and initiated Encounter Number Two. Not only is it almost unbearably annoying to have conversations in loud bars, but Tongan establishments maintain decibels that the rest of the world is yet familiar with. So when a guy wants to talk to you in one of these places, it is not to have ‘get to know you time’ and that’s fine, nothing wrong with it, but I’m not in the business of yelling out my life story when the person asking me isn’t even…damnit he’s looking at my chest again, how old are you??? Okay, maybe I’m full myself, maybe he’s looking at a sauce stain from dinner earlier…wouldn’t be the first time.
Just as I start to give this benefit of the doubt, I decide to be even more kind and break yet another awkward silence…a little side note- not a good idea to approach someone you don’t know, insist on standing in front of them to talk, and allow multiple awkward silences…be prepared to fill it or walk away when the other party is not enthusiastic to help fill it. Okay, he’s not walking away, so I guess I need to ask the obvious question of age, since Captain Rufi can afford to build boats and sail around the world. “I’m 24” says Captain Rufi.
And I bet you’re expecting something else following that statement, for example maybe a question directed to me, or maybe anything…ANYTHING…jeez, just walk away, because I am not losing my seat by getting up…o.k. Finally, Captain Rufi after apparently much needed consideration, he asks “So how old are you?”
Those of you who do not know, “I’m 25” I answer shortly because I’m completely exhausted at this point, but something inside me says that I really need to stick this out because it is going to get good. Now, I mean ‘good’ as in this guy is just about to say or do something that is going to be so unbelievable, so crazy, and so hilarious that I will have something to talk about for years to come. Then it happened…shortly after my own age announcement Captain Rufi threw his cards on the table, maybe thinking it was his ace in the hole, “I’m really 27, I thought you were like 20, so I thought I would say I was a little younger.”
Let me give you a moment, if you are not already laughing or disgusted or both, please take a moment and reread the situation I just told you. This grown man either lied about being younger or older than he actually is, based on his new found knowledge of my own age. And he’s not going anywhere, I had nothing to say!! I had nothing in return…I had this amazing opportunity in my life to tell this idiot how much of an idiot he is, and be completely justified in doing so. I could have said something like “You’re gross, please get a vasectomy, and avoid having any dealings with the creation or the upbringing of children.” Maybe even throw a drink in his face, because I’ve yet to have that pleasure in life either.
But alas, when it comes to a performance, I’m great in rehearsal but when the curtains are raised…I forget my lines. All I can do is clear my throat and say “um oh” and hit my friend Emily, who’s been talking to someone else this entire time and has not had the pleasure of Captain Rufi’s rendition of ‘Ode to Creep’. After the world wide known women’s signal of “Get me the hell out of this situation, I’ll tell you why later” that I gave by the swift slap to Emily’s thigh, she immediately had the urge to dance to her favorite song and I had to be present.
Successfully removed from the situation, we danced until we were ready to leave, and took the walk back to our temporary residence. All the time I was explaining why it was necessary that she received the blow to her leg. Of course she understood.

When encounters three and four occurred, I was walking down the street each time and was blasted with the same…”come out to the boat” “have some drinks” “bring your friends” and the newest and maybe one of the humorous, or scariest, “don’t be scared.” Okay Captain Rufi, that’s it….”I’m not coming to your dingy, I’m not having any part in any drinks that you offer me, I’d rather accept an ice tea from a guy in a white robe who says that it will take me to a more peaceful world…”
Yes, this is what I should have said…but again, when it comes to performance the best I can do is awkwardly smile and just make the decision to avoid Captain Rufi’s apparent hang out street.
This had nothing to do with Peace Corps, nothing to do with Tonga, and certainly not a life changing experience. I just thought it was funny, and if you ever come across a boat called the Pearl Hunter, with a guy who’s blonde and delusional, just say NO and if you have a rolled up newspaper it might be a good idea to smack him on the nose.