The Bruise

I have a big bruise on my hip. It has turned a very vivid shade of purple and is shaped like a duck. It reminds me of falling off my bike last year. And falling off a tree this summer. And dancing with an elderly gentleman in Excelsior last Saturday. That was the cause of this most recent contusion. At the beginning of the night, Jackie and I met for comfort UK/Irish food at Jake O'Connor's pub in the beautiful and historic County Hennepin. Upon discovering that the pints there were a little dear, we decided to take advantage of the much cheaper local taps in a nearby townie bar.

We had settled into a booth and were chatting over the rather wretched cover band when a man approached us. He appeared to be about 50 and attempted to chat us up by asking, "Do you have any gum?" Both of us claimed to have eaten our last pieces earlier that day (an excuse that was true on my part; I'm not sure about Jackie). We suggested that he try asking some of the couples seated at other booths. They were far more likely than we to be in possession of such tools of personal hygiene enhancement, since Jackie and I have reached the point in our relationship where we no longer feel the need to impress each other.

The man's disappearance from our booth was brief. He succeeded in sourcing breath mints at a different table, and he took enough from the generous donor to allow him to bring some back to us. He then swept Jackie out onto the dance floor. After their song was over, he came back for me. We danced to a Rolling Stones cover. Between leading me in incessant spins, he morphed into Keith Richards (he was about the right age) and fit in some impressive air guitar work.

I rejoined Jackie at our booth, but we didn't stay long. The guy came back, bought us drinks, and took us out to dance floor again. When Keith was occupied with Jackie, a younger guy complying with the dress code of a t-shirt and backwards baseball cap captured me for a dance. He soon tired of trying to win me over with this gentlemanly display of culture and decided to revert to a more failsafe method: alcohol. He repeatedly asked me what kind of shot I wanted, despite my unchanging answer that I didn't want one because I was driving. I even resorted to steering an imaginary wheel to help illustrate my complex answer. Finally it either sank in or he became frustrated. In any event, he went back to the bar.

Eventually Jackie and I took leave of the dance floor, Keith and Bayside. Without consulting each other, we had both turned up dressed in brown shirts and cowboy boots. While we both shared the blame for committing this egregious fashion faux pas, I ultimately suffered more than than she. The lack of traction in the soles of my boots left me suddenly sprawled on the ice outside the door of the bar. During previous mishaps on ice, I've been able to tell that I was slipping and that a fall was both imminent and inevitable. This spill, however, was completely unexpected. I just suddenly found myself on the ground. "Are you OK?" Jackie asked (while trying to suppress laughter, I discovered later). I said that I was, but I wasn't entirely sure. It hurt. It hurt a lot.

In the end, I was OK. Despite the pain that indicated I should have a massive bruise, it was a few days before one actually appeared. It was worth the wait. In addition to proof that my injury was as grave as I imagined, I now have a nice memento of my first townie bar experience.