Oh Mickey’s Dining Car. Providing the good people of Saint Paul with prime people watching since 1937. Whatever would we do without you?
Take last night. 11.11.11. Friends of ours were married, G was the DJ, and as it is when you are partying on this side of the Mississippi one is limited with late night food and entertainment. Luckily, Mickey’s is always there. Open 24 hours to provide you and yours with a heart attack on a plate. The dining car is wee, however, and once the bars close seating is at a premium. There were six in our party, and we were the last to arrive. We could have tried to squeeze in with our four friends who were already seated. If I’m being honest, I need to lay off the cheeseburgers so that wasn’t the best idea. However, it appeared luck was on our side! A couple was finishing up at one of the other three booths. We waited to make our move, only to be told by the waitress that there was already a group waiting for it. I was slightly grumpy, because it was a group of people that were already sitting at the bar. Oh well. They would move, we would sit at the bar, it would be fine. Except that in making their way to the booth they went out of their way to be extra bitchy, pushing past me and saying, “excuse me,” in that way that really said that I was the one that should be begging for pardon, despite the fact that I was pressed against the booth as far as I could possibly be. I replied, “You’re excused,” in the same tone. Then said to our friends, “bitchy, much?” As we went to our seats, we looked at the women. Now, you may be familiar with the stereotype of the angry, overweight, very butch lesbian. I am pretty sure these were the women responsible for the creation of that stereotype. They were angry and macho. It turned out that we were still sitting next to some of them. This was only awkward, because when we sat down, apparently they wanted to move to those seat. I apologized and offered to sit somewhere else and explained I was trying to get out of the way of the cranky ladies that were going for the booth. It was later that I realized they were with those cranky ladies. Oops.
Clearly, more bars were letting out and more charming folks paraded in. Up next was a group of four women roughly the color of Oompa-Loompas with brassy hair that would make Miss Clairol blush. One of them immediately starting crying. I am not sure why, but I would guess a combination of too many shots and the wee hour of the morning. The booth next to the angry lesbians opened up, and one of them with a Kangol hat parked herself in the booth. The Oompa Loompa quartet scored the booth, anyway, and Kangol couldn’t figure out why their lady-friends didn’t jump at the booth. Frankly, I wouldn’t want to admit I was with any of them, either.
So, we stand at two booths, one of angry lesbians and one of Oompa Loompas, plus two more angry lesbians at the counter. Add two frat boys inside the door. We had a bit of trouble trying to keep our eyes on everyone at this point. G asks me what happened to the hair of the orange woman with her back facing us. To answer, I had to dig deep.
Now, many years ago there was a fella. He would target women with long hair in movie theaters. He would take the seat behind said woman and once the theater was dark would take a pair of shears to her hair and make off with the locks. The poor woman would realize once it was too late that she now had the world’s most unfortunate shag haircut. I feel like he was called “The Movie Theater Bandit,” or some such nonsense. Anyhow, if this man is the owner of a salon, that must be where this woman went. Or, she puts scissors on her pillow at night and sleeps on her back and hopes for the best. Either way, not the best look.
Eventually, her sobbing friend put large sunglasses on. Apparently, no one can tell you’re crying if you put your sunglasses on. Especially when it’s three in the morning and you have smeared mascara on your face. Now, I don’t know if it was because she couldn’t see, or if no one at that table learned how to use utensils properly, because at one point a fork, followed by a knife, catapulted off their table and at the table of our friends. I am pretty sure no one lost any eyes, which is good because none of them had their sunglasses on. Maybe those orange ladies were onto something, after all?
On the bright side we were sitting with a great view of the archway leading to the restrooms. I have not seen so many muffin tops since I was a barista and had to prep the baked goods. My tip? Just go up a size. Also, buy a bigger shirt. I’m just saying.
G and I managed to eat, pay our bill, and thought we would bid adieu to our friends. It was at this point that we learned that sleeps with scissors flashed the contents of her purse to the restaurant. Apparently, the interior of said purse was largely filled by a massive stack of bills rubber banded together. I guess she didn’t want the bills to be lonely, so she stuffed some random lottery tickets inside, as well. It was thought that the women were perhaps poorly groomed strippers. I felt that they seemed more like the type that would solicit on the intersections along Lake Street, if you know what I’m saying and I think you do. Know what I’m saying, that is.
As the rest of our party paid their tabs, we realized the frat boys were moving in for the kill with the chocolate factory night shift. We also realized that the two women next to us were on a date, which apparently is why they were loath to join their angry friends. We just hope that everyone was up to date on their inoculations and had a stash of antibiotics in their medicine cabinets. Hell, I took some when I got home. Just in case.
I think the button on the evening was the crowd of panhandlers around the exit of the diner. They clearly had a plan and scattered to follow our group as we went our separate ways. It’s reassuring to be walking home at four in the morning wondering if you possibly might get mugged. Though, I realized that really the only difference in mugging and panhandling is the force involved. Those panhandlers were pretty determined to get some dollars, but at least they weren’t brandishing weapons. It’s the small things, friends.
Now, I am trying to decide if this adventure could top the time we were at Mickey’s with the woman who had a large handprint-shaped bruise on the inside of her thigh or possibly that time at Perkin’s when we were surrounded by trannies. I think it might.