On Valentine's Day, no less!
I know what you're thinking, and the answer is yes. He is a pirate.
Let me back up. This week I've been down in Savannah, Georgia for my first ever business trip. (Hence my panicky post earlier in the week about traveling. Yes, the flights went okay. Yes, I made it through security. Yes, I felt the need to entertain the TSA attendants with witty banter as they body scanned me. No, they did not laugh, but they also didn't flag me for a body cavity search. So I'm calling that a win.)
The whole thing feels very adult: airplane flight, hotel reservation, conference registration. The days are pretty long, crammed with lengthy concept lectures and intense work group sessions. By the time dinner rolls around, I'm running on fumes.
Tonight is our last night in Savannah, which just happens to also be Valentine's Day. Our group decides to try out a local eatery near our hotel called The Pirate House. I of course imagine this to be a sea-faring version of Medieval Times, except instead of corsets and jousting we would see eye patches and walking the plank.
Turns out, The Pirate House a very nice restaurant, complete with a necktied waitstaff and dim lighting. No problem. After all, this is a business trip. Mature dining experiences with cloth napkins are to be expected.
Side note: to all restaurant managers, may I offer a suggestion? If you are running some type of Valentine's Day, two-entrees-for-one special, perhaps place that conditional statement in, I don't know, size 48 bold-face all caps font at the top of the specials menu. That way, you will save your servers the extra time of having to go back to a customer and explain that the item they ordered is not available to them since they are an old, withered up spinster who can't keep a partner around past the appetizer portion of the meal. Either that, or bring said spinster two servings of the chicken marsala Valentine's Special. And a box. And some more bread.
Now that we have THAT little kink ironed out...
We order (re-order) our meals and sit chitchatting about that day's conference topics. Halfway through a story about a work group conversation hijacker, one of my colleagues looks across the dining room and startles.
"I think I just saw a pirate."
We of course all scoff at her and write it off as her brain short-circuiting after a long day of conferencing.
Turns out, she is totally right. The server corroborates her story. "Oh yes, we have a pirate. I'll send him over to you."
Ten minutes later, as I am tearing into my filet mignon (that I secretly wish is chicken marsala), I hear a voice coming from below my shoulder.
"Excuse me, lasses..."
We all turn, and there, kneeling down beside my chair and pointing a saber at my purse on the floor, is a pirate.
"... but who be the owner of this here handbag?"
Not to be too critical, but I feel it's important for me to clarify the type of pirate this gentleman is portraying. As pirates go, he isn't rough and ragged. He's no Johnny-Depp-as-Captain-Jack-Sparrow, nor is he Johnny-Depp-as-he-is-in-real-life-which-is-still-noticeably-piratey. To be honest, he's kind of a dandy. First of all, he has two fully functioning eyes. His teeth are Crest WhiteStripped to perfection. Barely a brush of stubble on his cheeks. I Web-MD symptoms for scurvy on my phone. No dice. White fluffy shirt? Pressed and pristine. Socks? Striped and straight. Hat? Definitely three-pointed. Jauntily askew? Nope. It's placed at a perfect horizon. Flat and straight as the plains of Oklahoma, which is nowhere near the choppy waters of the high-farin' seas.
Then there's his performance... It isn't that he's a bad actor, necessarily. It's like he's acting like a pirate, as opposed to just being a pirate. You know? Like he is doing a caricature of what a pirate is, not a character. Maybe the problem is that it feels like he is trying too hard. Like he really cares whether you think he's a pirate. If this was a real pirate ship, there is now way this guy would be captain or first mate. He would be lucky to be the schmo swabbing the deck, casting longing looks at the tight-knit crew of pillagers and plotting ways he can knock out a few of his perfectly formed teeth. I'm pretty sure that if he ever tried to order someone to walk the plank, it would come out as more of a noncommittal suggestion than a barking command. Maybe he'd luck out and someone would think, hey, the water looks nice, maybe I should dive off this wooden board and pop in for a quick swim.
That being said, if I were to date a pirate, this is the type of pirate I would wind up with. Captain Jack Sparrow would take one look at me, mutter "goody-two-shoes" under his breath, and swagger off to something more buxom. Some girls attract distant yet douchey. I attract eager yet insecure. (Trust me, I'll take the latter every time. As my friend says, you always want to date someone who is just a touch damaged, self-esteem-wise. Makes them easier to keep around.)
Anyway, The Pirate chats with us a bit.
Pirate: "Where'd ye get sech a fine lookin' bag?"
Me: "Ah, yes, on the high seas of the internet."
Pirate: " ... yes, err ... be ye privateers or buccaneers?'
Me: "Oh, actually we're Buckeyes!"
Pirate: "..."
Check out that death-stare he is shooting at me. Apparently this pirate is not used to witty repartee. Probably because most customers who call him over their tables read at a third-grade level. I had intended to help by being part of the bit, but I start getting a sinking suspicion that he prefers to work solo.
Then The Pirate says he doesn't understand any of the racket playing in the room through the loudspeakers. (Um, it's Sinatra. Have a little respect.) Would we like to hear a song? Well, I sure as hell want to see where this is going. So he reaches into his vest and pulls out a metal flute-whistle. What is this, Riverdance? He tells us we should feel free to clap along, then proceeds to whistle out some high-seas tune and stop his feet. (Which basically DEMANDS that we clap along.) We applaud politely at the end of the fair tune.
...
(Then, as you can imagine, there is some awkward silence.)
....
Then we ask if we can have a picture with him.
"Ah, yes, I'd beer 'appy ter oblige ye travellers from thee north, but may I suggest we parlay down ter the hostess table at thee entrance? See, yar able ter get much better pictures with ye cameras with thee overhead lamps down yonder. Jest shout ahoy when yer leavin' and I'll beer ready."
That's right. The Pirate prefers that any pictures of him be in good lighting.
We agree and tell him we'll grab him on our way out. He bobs his head and swashbuckles over to another table.
For the rest of our meal, I spy The Pirate popping in and out of the background. Half the time he just scoots into a corner of a hallway, eyes darting around. He never seems sure what to do with his hands.The poor guy doesn't even feel comfortable in The Pirate House. Good sir, if you can't own your space at The Pirate House, then really what is left for you? Long John Silvers? Red Lobster?
An hour later, we sign our checks and gather our things. Ever lurking, The Pirate pops up and asks if we be ready ter take our portrait. He leads the way, feather bobbing excitedly toward our photo shoot locale.
Still ... cute, right?
All in all, one of my more successful Valentine's Days. I can't wait to tell our future brood of little lads and lasses how me and the Pirate met up! All because his refined flute playing, impeccable fashion sense, and our shared appreciation of handbags. (Wait a minute ...)
Bonus: The menu at The Pirate House had a recipe for a cocktail called Chantham Artillery Punch. And it looks fantastic.
Then again, any recipe is fantastic when the last step is "Add one case of champagne when ready to serve."
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