Lobsterfest

By: Rebecca Brown (View Profile)

“Hey, do you mind if we go smoke, Rebecca?”

I knew that the question wasn’t so much whether I truly minded if they smoked, but more if I minded being the lone person at the table in this sad little bar.

I was out with some friends from grad school—excuse me, ad school, the rough equivalent of a top ten grad school in cost, but minus the actual degree. We were studying to become “creatives”—copywriters, art directors, and designers—in advertising. In addition to learning the craft of creating award-winning advertising campaigns, we were also quickly learning that to survive and stay sane in the business, you had to drink. A lot. And we took our education very seriously.

Needless to say, we were broke, and that’s how we decided upon the klassy establishment in North Beach that served dollar beers. We shot pool for a while, then we sat down and shot the shit over a few Fosters. As is usually the case after four or five beers, everyone decided they needed to smoke—everyone except me, the only non-smoker. I guarded the table, presumably from the six other patrons, who all looked like they’d spent a good $17 at dollar beer night by that time and thus, probably not a big threat to steal our table since they were having a considerable amount of trouble just standing.

I sipped my beer and took in the scene. Before going back to school, I’d worked in the professional world for eleven years, and in my new grad school life, I was always amazed to see people out getting completely shit-faced on a random Tuesday night. But who was I to judge? There I was, getting tanked with the rest of the randoms in this bar. The thought unnerved me, so I downed my beer. And that’s when I saw him staring at me.

I’m not sure why I hadn’t noticed him before. He was a large African-American man with a commanding presence, and he was wearing a bolero hat and sunglasses. (Did I mention that it was 11 o’clock at night and that the bar was dim?) When he saw me notice him, he took that as an invitation to walk over and sit down with me. He brought his shot and beer with him. Clearly, he thought he’d be hanging around for a while.

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Comments
posted: 12.06.2007
Dayna Shaw
I'm somehow seeing an ad campaign combining fosters + match.com + red lobster. Or not. Yeah -- never mind. Sorry about the encounter RB - and good for you for explaining that you're not an 'up the butt' girl.
posted: 12.05.2007
Jodi Freedman
The good ones always get away don't they. Seriously, don't ever go to Lobsterfest. You'll regret it.
posted: 12.05.2007
Rita Taylor
Well Brown, I had an equally disturbing meeting where a man that I had been chatting with for a grand total of about 2 minutes asked me I if liked it in the ass. At first I laughed trying to figure out how I got in this conversation but he persisted with details and more offers. Between the language he was using and his crassness, I just walked away in shock. Some men are fearless, but my fear is that his tactics might actually get him what he wanted from another woman.
posted: 12.05.2007
Ali Greenwell
For the record, I made a desperate dash for a mad pee, and came back just in time to meet you suitor. This lobsterfest memory has served me well over the years, so glad you've shared it with the world. Shame they tore down that bar. ps- F Advertising.
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