jeff yen

While people who know me will certainly not deny that I’m a social crap-shoot — since spectacularly embarrassing yourself in front of strangers is known as “pulling a Jeff” — doing this to someone who actually approaches me is a special event, since it happens so rarely. By this I mean, I can usually muster up enough propriety for the occasion. Usually if you pull a me, it’s a stranger in passing overhearing something ridiculous that you’ve just said, and so you’re just left with a funny story that will haunt you for the rest of your life. Anyway, break out the champagne!

This particular celebration of my suave sophistication happened in the park this afternoon, when I was lying in the grass reading “How to be Good” by Nick Hornby (on Purnima’s suggestion, and very good so far, thanks P). The park was lively, as it always is on the weekends, with one large group of Asian college kids — they must be freshmen, nobody else is that enthusiastic about anything — playing volleyball and generally having fun; and another group of people with a keg of beer, who are having quite a lot more fun. My kind of people. I watch them in snapshots as I read, every time I hear a particularly loud shriek or yell, then I smile a little bit and go back to my book.

I’m well into the book and more or less carpeted with dead grass, when a shadow falls over me, and I hear a voice wth an audible smile.

“Are you studying?”

I look up a little, into a pair of shapely legs which the shadier parts of my brain briefly appreciate while my eyes venture further skyward. At this point, I’m hoping it isn’t some dude with a really feminine voice, whose legs I have just evaluated and mentally ranked somewhere in the mid to high teens on a 1-10 scale of “Whoa!”

While I’m no homophobe (and yes, I know saying that generally is an indication that you ARE), that is still definitely not the way to start off a friendly conversation with some guy. “Hey, what’s up? By the way, nice legs. Whoo!”

Eventually, I’m polite enough to look my attacker in the eyes, and squinting slightly at the sunlit halo framing a lovely face, I manage to frame a response which, to my credit, sounds only a little stunned. The face isn’t threatening in and of itself, but looking down at me from above, combined with that glow… well. Let’s just say I was glad it wasn’t Alanis Morissette.

“Nope, I’m just, uh…. reading,” accompanied by a little chuckle and a wide smile which is supposed to say, “I’m not generally this stupid, you’ve just caught me a little off guard, sorry. I’m not the kind of guy who usually gets accosted by lovely ladies in parks, you see, a) because I don’t actually spend much time in parks, b) when I do, I’m usually doing something boring, like reading, and c) I tend to make obnoxious little itemized lists of things.”

She must be good at reading sheepish grins, because she chuckles a little at my witty riposte. Possibly she’s also drunk, because she then says “Well, do you want to come and have a beer?”

I look at her a little sadly, because on some level, I know that no matter how much my brain says “Hell yes! Let’s go hang out,” it is wholly disconnected from my mouth at this point. My mouth ignores the frantic S.O.S., and shapes the words: “Hey, thanks… but I’m all right.”

In my defense, I suppose my mouth was assuming that this woman, like some kind of goddess of beer, was just hoping to enlist my help in giving good cause to the fruit of her labors by drinking a brew. That’s understandable, I suppose. My mouth has no ulterior motives, while my brain, by comparison, is the Marquis de Sade.

Sadly for my morality, my brain normally controls what I do, think, and say. Sadly for my social skills, it has to say these things with the cooperation of my mouth, which has developed the unfortunate habit of severing all diplomatic ties at pivotal moments like these.

Incidentally, this state of affairs usually has the ultimate effect of my spending the weekends doing gripping things like reading Nick Hornby books at the park.

“Well… okay.” She shrugs and gives a little pout, and I can’t help but note the interesting effect this has on my hindbrain, which is now foaming in some kind of dopaminic jacuzzi. She walks off back to her friends, and I turn back to my book, vaguely wondering what the hell that was all about.

About 15 minutes later, the suspicion sneaks up on me that she might have been doing what any male with a complete set of basic instincts would have figured out long ago. Impossible, I think to myself. There’s no way some scruffy dude in an old T-shirt and a pair of ratty shorts, laying down in dogshit-infested grass and reading some random British book would attract the attention of the likes of her. But, the suspicion persists, and I can’t help but glance over at the kegger, even when there hasn’t been a particularly piercing shriek or peal of laughter. Every now and then, I catch her looking in my direction. Mere coincidence, or my overheated imagination. I go back to my book, and polish off a good 50 pages before the next suspenseful chapter in this social encounter.

Beer Goddess, accompanied by her good friend, Random Girl, casually strolls past me. I think nothing of it, since I’m laying almost in a direct line between their keg and the bathrooms which, as any drinker will know, are a vital addition to any good party involving alcohol. I’ve flipped a few more pages before they come strolling back. Casually, I look up and flash a little smile at them. Beer Goddess grins, and inquires, “Are you sure you still don’t want that beer?”

At this point, I’d like to refer you back to the bureaucratic framework within which my brain and mouth must operate.

Sure, I’d like to have a beer and possibly some interesting conversation. I mean hell, I can read this damn book anytime. It’s a gorgeous day, I wouldn’t mind the chance to get to know you better, and… wait, did you mention free beer? Sign me up!

“Mmm… naaah… I’m good. But thanks anyway, really.”

Mouth 2, Brain 0.

I watch the pair walk off together, and as they leave, Random Girl leans over to Beer Goddess and in a low, teasing voice, says, “Are you suuuuure you still don’t want that beer?” A laugh, a little shove, an oh-shut-up.

And a check mark for Saturday.