Sweet-cheeks

 It happened recently when a good friend of mine managed, after several hours begging and pleading, to coerce me into heading up to the Old Tap and Tapeworm for a fist of foam. He was only successful after arguing that I could spend my time profitably there convincing the bar's denizens to forsake the smoke, dim lights and music for the love and warmth of their own homes.

  I'm loath to turn down the opportunity to steer some lives onto the straight and narrow path of righteousness. I reluctantly agreed.

 After my friend finally caught up to me at the bar (remarking with admiration on how he had never seen a man of my size run so fast), we both started to mingle with the crowd. I chatted with some old cronies while he mingled with the "younger crowd" - a collection of 20-something folks moving on and off the dance floor.

 His behavior was disconcerting. There's a well-defined code of social behavior at the club and one of the most stringent laws says that the old coots have to lurk around the standup bar staring at the dance floor muttering stuff to each other like "Do ya remember when we had that much energy Jim" or "I could probably still do some of those dance moves - if I was drunk enough."

 My friend had crossed the generational divide.

 And suddenly, he was coming back.

 But he was not coming back alone.

 Accompanying him was a lovely young woman, probably in her early 20s. He introduced us to each other and explained that she was currently studying journalism. He suggested that I might perhaps have some advice to offer, seeing as I was a long-time professional news hound.

 If there's one thing I like better than trying to steer barflies back onto the straight and narrow path of righteousness, it's talking about the real world of journalism to would-be scribes.

 "Well, it's a good life," I began, hitching my thumbs in my pockets and launching into my standard battle-worn-newsman speech. "It's a good life if you don't mind being a divorced, alcoholic with no friends, no life beyond the news and no prospect for happiness. I only managed to escape that trap by keeping my steps on the straight and narrow path of righteousness."

 For the coup de grace, I then gave her the grandfatherly over-the-glasses look patented by Wilfred Brimley in Cocoon.

 I then waited for the expected "Jeepers Mr. Meharg, I only hope that someday I'll be as good as you!"

 It didn't come.

 Instead, the pretty young woman reached up, grabbled both of my copious cheeks between her fingers and gave each a good tweak. (You'll notice that I said she reached up)

 I was dumbfounded.

 Even my mother doesn't do that anymore.

 My mind raced for some witty, but still profound, comeback. Something she would remember the rest of her life, something she could look back on as a defining moment in her long career as a journalist.

 "Thanks." I said.

 And she was gone.

 Since that night, I've been trying to think of what would prompt a perfect stranger totweak another perfect stranger's cheeks. It's not like a kiss or something. That would be understandable. Unlikely yes, but still understandable.

 It still has me baffled.

 Oh well. I guess it'll have to stay one of those little mysteries in my life, like how my wife manages to shrink all my pants in the first laundry after Christmas, or how mirrors, as they get older, seem to improve in the abilty to reflect facial wrinkles.
 

 I'll just continue my struggle to stay on the straight and narrow path of righteousness.

 My wife says I should just get a new friend.