The Worst Night Ever
I woke up and hadn't slept well. I've had...issues...the last couple of days. Like, I've been crapping my brains out, and it's the definite worst.
At first I thought it was the tacos I had with the Mexican guys up at the golf course earlier in the week. Seemed like a plausible explanation. But I have a pretty resilient stomach when it comes to tacos. Granted, God only knows what grade-D beans were used in said tacos. I can still handle it. I'm a Mexican food fiend.
Then I remembered a couple nights earlier--I think it was Tuesday--I woke with a start, and wondered if I'd cleaned out a dip before I fell asleep. I don't know why I do it. I really like the taste, I guess that's it. I go on and off with it, even though I know it's gross and so bad for you and all that stuff. I happened to be on it at that time, but I'm officially off it now, and you're about to hear why.
I remember throwing one in at about 12 and reading in bed. When I woke up at 3, I had dip taste in my mouth but there was no tobacco present. I remember thinking in a very vague way that I had cleaned it out, but maybe I was just dreaming that I had cleaned it out.
Fast forward to today, Saturday.
I'm very tired of crapping my brains out. Not only is it a horrendous style cramp, but that sort of thing tends to drain you of every last ounce of energy. I've been disappeared in the damn crapper for significant chunks of the last three days, and I'm exhausted and look like death. It sucks.
When I woke up this morning, I couldn't get drag myself out of my apartment until almost 9:30. I got a paper and coffee, and hit the road. By the time I got to Wisconsin, I was ready to pop. My dad and grandpa were already hanging around, and they completely did not expect to see me. As I sprinted past them, Sun-Times tucked under my arm, I explained that I was in bad, bad shape, and briefly explained my predicament. They understood completely and thankfully didn't bitch that I was 3 hours late for work.
My dad and grandpa went to the bank to take care of a very simple thing that had been put off for some time. Meanwhile, I read almost the entire paper in the bathroom. When I got out, I got a call from my dad saying that I also had to go to the bank to sign some papers. I supposed that the bank would have the papers ready to be signed when I got there a half hour later. I was wrong.
In the course of exhausting all possible topics of bullshit chit-chat with the four old and bored Wisco bank clerks, I knew the pain would soon rear its ugly head. I stood there as still as a statue, praying to God they'd get on with it. Mindy, however, was really interested in some moronic administrative quirkiness about our account, and she launched into a detailed discussion with the other three ladies about it. Sure enough, as she droned on and on, I found myself summoning every ounce of energy in my body to resist a painful and messy ass-plosion. They were oblivious to the fact that I was sweating profusely, tapping my fingers on the counter, and softly grunting in pain. I signed the papers and walked out of there quickly yet very, very gingerly.
After another breeze-through of the Sun-Times on the crapper, I hung out at the club house for a couple hours more, then took off during the fourth inning of the Cubs game. They'd just gone down 2-0 and I couldn't take their bad brand of baseball any longer. I hopped into my car and took the tollway to our car wash, where I immediately dove into the bathroom. At three different points during my extended toilet stay, customers started knocking like hell against the door, forcing me to scream, "Fuck off! Use the ladies' room!" They don't know I'm one of the owners, or how much pain I was in, so screw them.
I decided to take the Edens Expressway home, which quickly proved to be a huge mistake. I got on at Lake, and off at Old Orchard--the very next exit, about a mile down the road. The highway was like a parking lot, another crowded Saturday afternoon. Welcome to the summer. (Welcome to always.) If traffic on the highway really sucks, I usually get off and go further east, over to Sheridan Road/Lake Shore Drive, because it's a more scenic trip into the city.
While the scenery was nice, the car in front of me was not. I got stuck behind a slow moving douche. Take. Through the entire city of Evanston. Double take. It was a white limo, called Black's Service. Triple take.
Once I got around the limo on the curve at Calvalry Cemetary, things opened up until about North Avenue. It turns out that the Taste of Chicago set-up started in earnest that morning. More crappy luck. Traffic had slowed to a crawl on the Drive and Michigan Avenue, and I was cramping up bad. I turned off at Michigan and used the Bellevue turn, which may or not be illegal (hey--there's no sign), thereby avoiding most of the jam-up. I ditched the car in the garage and sprinted upstairs, straight to...you know where...the crapper for about an hour.
I finally left my place at about three hours later, after showering and cramping some more. The Red Line was right on time and I hopped off at Fullerton. I decided to wait at the platform to take the the Brown Line one stop to Diversey. The damn train didn't come forever. At some point, waiting for the train becomes self-fulfilling. The longer you wait, the closer you are to a train. If you wait beyond the length of the walk, it doesn't really matter, because you're just blowing time either way. I used to think that waiting for the train is the worst, but actually waiting for the train while coping with wrenching stomach pains is much, much, MUCH worse.
The train came, I walked down Diversey, and Al, my buddy in Mad Town, called just as I walked up to my buddy Sheehan's townhouse. Al happened to be out on the links at his country club, and he had two insane stories to share: one about getting a ticket for spitting out of a cab (I wasn't aware that that was a crime in and of itself--only in communist Wisco), the other about his getting assaulted and wounded in a nasty bar altercation. (The more I think about it, the more I realize that Madison is a really, really dangerous place to be a drunk.) It was a great story, but I was already at Sheehan's, so I told Al to call me tomorrow with more details.
Sheehan and I are the only two of my crew of high school best friends who are currently in Chicago. There are six of us, and we're still very close, but we moved for different reasons. Basically, we're either here or not here because of family, though one of us is elsewhere mostly because of greed.
Tonight was our 10 year high school reunion, and we ditched it like complete losers. I would have gone if Sheehan wanted to go, but I knew he really didn't want to. So we decided to go out for dinner and drinks on our own.
I was pretty tired but still happy to be out. We sat in the back garden of Witt's, a cool neighborhood spot on Lincoln. Sheehan decided without reservation that it wasn't the tacos, but the dip, that was responsible for my wrenching stomach pains. He could sense that I was uncomfortable, but I really wanted the night to rock, as I had pledged myself to hooking up this weekend. So I ordered a Red Bull and vodka as a pick me up, though I was drinking really slowly for no good reason. Mistaking my initial Red Bull order as a cue that I was going to get rocked in a hurry, Sheehan ordered round after round after round of Bell's Oberon, which is like the beer equivalent of high-octane gasoline. As far as I remember, the alcohol content is in the 8% range, so it's really like drinking two beers for every one. Sheehan drinks regular beer at an alarming pace--roughly twice the rate of the average man--and there's no reason why overly-boozy beer would be any different.
It was nice outside, a little chilly for June, but clear and agreeable. I watched in horror as the White Sox came back to score 3 runs in the 9th inning to beat the Dodgers, 5-3. Plus, it was A.J. Pierzynski getting the job done--Sheehan hates him as much as I do. It's not that I hate him because he's on the White Sox; I hate him because he's a dickhead.
Sheehan was pretty darn blasted when 10 o'clock rolled around. He decided he was cold and insisted on going inside after we ate. I was pretty comfy and enjoy having drinks outside, but I didn't care too much either way, so we headed in...and I immediately took a detour straight into the crapper. It was a completely unsatisfying and halted affair, because I could hear people out in the bar having a good time while I was kicking myself for swallowing a fucking dip and doing this to myself. I was beyond irritated at that point with the entire situation. I had no control over what was coming out of my body, I couldn't get in a good groove to put things into my body, and my best friend had the equivalent of about fourteen regular beers in about two hours. Things were looking pretty grim.
I walked out of the bathroom to find that many more people had showed up. Sweet. Oooh, three girls were sitting at a table, drinking vodkas, looking really bored. Lambs, welcome to the slaughter. One of them asked me as I walked by if the Cubs had won (they lost to the Yankees 8-1--glad I didn't go out there after all), and I knew she could be mine with little effort. No-brainer, right? Sure fire? Wrong. Dead wrong.
When I sidled back to the bar, I fully intended to tell Sheehan we were moving over to the girls' table. Instead, I found him inquiring of the bartender as to why they didn't have any ABBA discs behind the bar, and stating in earnest that their brand of Swedish disco was the best thing in their now-removed jukebox. (I didn't know this, but apparently a city bar license allows for just three machines that accept money--in this case a Golden Tee, a quiz machine, a cig machine--so the jukebox had to go. Tavern licenses, on the other hand, can have whatever they want, relatively speaking.) Then, to my surprise, Sheehan started belting out some retarded ABBA song, and I realized that our prospects with the girls were shrinking fast though still recoverable. But when Sheehan demanded an obscure Rolling Stones song called "Slave," which caused him to hump the air and scream the words, "Do it, do it, do it, don't want to be your slave!" He was completely plastered, and getting worse by the minute.
Just then, memories of meeting up with Sheehan at Witt's after the Friday Cubs-White Sox game a couple weekends before. I've know him for 14 years, and he swears he'd never seen me so drunk in my entire life. If I could remember anything from that day after 4 o'clock, it would have made a great What I See entry. But I was far too hammered to retain anything except for brief flashes of memories. One of these is of Sheehan's arrival at the bar, just an image of his silhouette standing there in the doorway. He said that I was standing up on top of the bar, with a smoke in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other, screaming at the top of my lungs about nothing in particular, with four empty shotglasses and a pint glass full of ice at my feet. Sheehan said the two girls working that afternoon were huddled near the door, debating if they should call the cops on me. They said to him, "Oh, he's yours? OK, he can stay." I then ordered each of us two Jaeger shots, two Jaeger Bombs, and two Miller Lites, and amazingly the girls complied. I later threw pizza all over the place, and was ultimately asked to leave because I was terrifying the other customers. It's kind of awesome, but I can't help but be a little bit embarassed about it.
Back in the present day, one of the girls sitting at the bar was pretty and looked vaguely familiar. She kept giving me these strange looks, and I thought about going over to introduce myself. But first, I had to know. I asked Sheehan, "Were any of these people working on the drunkest night of my life?" He replied, "Oh yeah, Paddy, sure. That one (pointing to a girl behind the bar), and that one (pointing to the girl at the bar, the one giving me weird looks)." Well, that explains it. I'd been there for like three hours at that point, and all the while the staff was on guard against some insane man-beast ready to bubble over at any second--the resurrection of Darth Pat. I thought about apologizing for bad behavior, but how to word it? "Thanks for delivering a non-stop flow of shots onto my already throbbing liver. Thanks for not having me arrested. Thanks for letting me back in here." I ignored the awkwardness, and started tipping double.
We were sitting on barstools facing a large mirror behind the bar, with the hot girls behind us, and we could clearly see them over our shoulder. They kept looking in our general direction, visibly scared of Sheehan, and I thought I might kill him for getting so drunk so quickly. Fuck Oberon! Sheehan's bloodshot-red eyes were fixed on the girls' reflection in the mirror, to the point that he was outright oogling them. The low point came when he stood up and, continuing to look at them in the mirror, said, "I just gotta check out their boods."
One of the girls came over to order three more drinks, blatantly looked at me, clearly begging for conversation, then glanced at Sheehan with a considerable degree of confusion as to how the guy was so hammered before midnight. At that instant, right when any cheese-dick pick up line would have been awesomely effective, Sheehan started with his ABBA singing-dancing-screaming routine again. While never known for his level of gamesmanship, he'd somehow reached a new low: This time, we didn't even get to the point of asking their names. The anti-Spanish fly strikes again.
(Sidebar: Sheehan actually admitted that he was trying to make it an early night on purpose because he had to go to his parents' house tomorrow. Seeing as it was Father's Day, every person in that bar was probably due to be somewhere on Sunday, so why not join the crowd and stay out all night, myabe get some ass, and who cares about sleep? I asked him if he had some appointment or if it was the world's first breakfast barbeque, but he was insistent that he had to be there at, apparently, the ass-crack of dawn. I told him that he could take a walk with his mom after dinner, but he refused to hear me out, even though the girls were so so so hot. Hot girls, you lost out to a non-binding start time for sitting around in the suburbs all day. What-the-fuck-ever. If I were him...well, I'm not, so I'll move on.
I considered for a moment letting him make the three block walk home alone, but I needed to go back to his house so I could use the bathroom in earnest. Along the way home he sang some fucked up New Wave song word-for-word; I told him that I never really liked Molly Ringwald movies, and where on earth did he find a CD containing all this shit music? We got to his house and I told him to play some tunes, to keep him awake so that he could lock up behind me after I finished crapping. At that point, I fully expected to go back to the table of girls. My line was going to be: "Hey, I'm Pat. My buddy just stranded me so damn early. Wanna adopt me for the night?" They would have loved it.
As if the night wasn't already devoid of any semblence of cool, Sheehan chose to blast a George Michael song--the one with all the supermodels in the video. Oh sweet mother of take! That turned out to be the soundtrack to my painful pit stop, and in a way I guess it was kind of fitting because that song is absolute shit. I walked out of the bathroom and told him that the only cool thing about that song was the video if you had the t.v. on mute, and I registered my disgust that he had a George Michael CD in the first place. We had a cig outside before I took off, and he promised to never drink Oberon again. I didn't believe him.
I started walking back toward Witt's, and I called my buddy Rick to see if he was in the city. He was sitting at home in Oak Park. No one seemed to be in the city. Lincoln Park felt so damn dead tonight, except for those three hot ladies at Witt's. Ah well.
One block away from Witt's, a brain freeze sturck me: Even though the girls were probably interested in getting laid, there was no way I could ever hook up with one of them at that moment in time. I envisioned myself taking my clothes off and rocking her world with an aggravated ass-reek from my boxers. That would have been a tough one to get around or cover up. I'm not saying I had poop in my pants, but it sure as fuck wasn't Downy-fresh down there. Plus, let's assume we fooled around for a while. Would I have excused myself the second we were done to disappear into the bathroom for an hour? How weird would that be? And what if I bombed out her place with a ridiculous gas bomb? I didn't want to find out how I might handle such a situation, and resigned myself to accept that all of my self-confidence had literally been flushed down the drain hours ago.
Defeated, I turned around and walked back to the Diversey stop. The Brown Line stops running at 1:08. It was 1:12. Even more pissed at the situation, I got in a cab and went home. I thought about going for a night cap at a local bar, but it didn't seem like it was worth it, given how bad my ass was twitching.
So now, as I sit here typing this, drinking a beer, having a smoke, I can't help but reflect on the three principal lessons learned from this episode:
1.) Sheehan is not allowed to drink Bell's Oberon any more. That shit is like a liquid fucking wrecking ball.
2.) No more dipping in bed. If I ever have to endure this again, I'm going to kill myself.
3.) Never ditch organized events, because they've got to be better than nothing at all.
And, by the way, if you happen to know or be those three hot girls who were hanging out at Witt's on Lincoln Saturday around midnight, please go back there much more often, because that place is generally lacking girls as hot as you. Also, I want all three of you naked and covered in baby oil in my bed immediately.
So there you have it: The anatomy of the worst night ever.
At first I thought it was the tacos I had with the Mexican guys up at the golf course earlier in the week. Seemed like a plausible explanation. But I have a pretty resilient stomach when it comes to tacos. Granted, God only knows what grade-D beans were used in said tacos. I can still handle it. I'm a Mexican food fiend.
Then I remembered a couple nights earlier--I think it was Tuesday--I woke with a start, and wondered if I'd cleaned out a dip before I fell asleep. I don't know why I do it. I really like the taste, I guess that's it. I go on and off with it, even though I know it's gross and so bad for you and all that stuff. I happened to be on it at that time, but I'm officially off it now, and you're about to hear why.
I remember throwing one in at about 12 and reading in bed. When I woke up at 3, I had dip taste in my mouth but there was no tobacco present. I remember thinking in a very vague way that I had cleaned it out, but maybe I was just dreaming that I had cleaned it out.
Fast forward to today, Saturday.
I'm very tired of crapping my brains out. Not only is it a horrendous style cramp, but that sort of thing tends to drain you of every last ounce of energy. I've been disappeared in the damn crapper for significant chunks of the last three days, and I'm exhausted and look like death. It sucks.
When I woke up this morning, I couldn't get drag myself out of my apartment until almost 9:30. I got a paper and coffee, and hit the road. By the time I got to Wisconsin, I was ready to pop. My dad and grandpa were already hanging around, and they completely did not expect to see me. As I sprinted past them, Sun-Times tucked under my arm, I explained that I was in bad, bad shape, and briefly explained my predicament. They understood completely and thankfully didn't bitch that I was 3 hours late for work.
My dad and grandpa went to the bank to take care of a very simple thing that had been put off for some time. Meanwhile, I read almost the entire paper in the bathroom. When I got out, I got a call from my dad saying that I also had to go to the bank to sign some papers. I supposed that the bank would have the papers ready to be signed when I got there a half hour later. I was wrong.
In the course of exhausting all possible topics of bullshit chit-chat with the four old and bored Wisco bank clerks, I knew the pain would soon rear its ugly head. I stood there as still as a statue, praying to God they'd get on with it. Mindy, however, was really interested in some moronic administrative quirkiness about our account, and she launched into a detailed discussion with the other three ladies about it. Sure enough, as she droned on and on, I found myself summoning every ounce of energy in my body to resist a painful and messy ass-plosion. They were oblivious to the fact that I was sweating profusely, tapping my fingers on the counter, and softly grunting in pain. I signed the papers and walked out of there quickly yet very, very gingerly.
After another breeze-through of the Sun-Times on the crapper, I hung out at the club house for a couple hours more, then took off during the fourth inning of the Cubs game. They'd just gone down 2-0 and I couldn't take their bad brand of baseball any longer. I hopped into my car and took the tollway to our car wash, where I immediately dove into the bathroom. At three different points during my extended toilet stay, customers started knocking like hell against the door, forcing me to scream, "Fuck off! Use the ladies' room!" They don't know I'm one of the owners, or how much pain I was in, so screw them.
I decided to take the Edens Expressway home, which quickly proved to be a huge mistake. I got on at Lake, and off at Old Orchard--the very next exit, about a mile down the road. The highway was like a parking lot, another crowded Saturday afternoon. Welcome to the summer. (Welcome to always.) If traffic on the highway really sucks, I usually get off and go further east, over to Sheridan Road/Lake Shore Drive, because it's a more scenic trip into the city.
While the scenery was nice, the car in front of me was not. I got stuck behind a slow moving douche. Take. Through the entire city of Evanston. Double take. It was a white limo, called Black's Service. Triple take.
Once I got around the limo on the curve at Calvalry Cemetary, things opened up until about North Avenue. It turns out that the Taste of Chicago set-up started in earnest that morning. More crappy luck. Traffic had slowed to a crawl on the Drive and Michigan Avenue, and I was cramping up bad. I turned off at Michigan and used the Bellevue turn, which may or not be illegal (hey--there's no sign), thereby avoiding most of the jam-up. I ditched the car in the garage and sprinted upstairs, straight to...you know where...the crapper for about an hour.
I finally left my place at about three hours later, after showering and cramping some more. The Red Line was right on time and I hopped off at Fullerton. I decided to wait at the platform to take the the Brown Line one stop to Diversey. The damn train didn't come forever. At some point, waiting for the train becomes self-fulfilling. The longer you wait, the closer you are to a train. If you wait beyond the length of the walk, it doesn't really matter, because you're just blowing time either way. I used to think that waiting for the train is the worst, but actually waiting for the train while coping with wrenching stomach pains is much, much, MUCH worse.
The train came, I walked down Diversey, and Al, my buddy in Mad Town, called just as I walked up to my buddy Sheehan's townhouse. Al happened to be out on the links at his country club, and he had two insane stories to share: one about getting a ticket for spitting out of a cab (I wasn't aware that that was a crime in and of itself--only in communist Wisco), the other about his getting assaulted and wounded in a nasty bar altercation. (The more I think about it, the more I realize that Madison is a really, really dangerous place to be a drunk.) It was a great story, but I was already at Sheehan's, so I told Al to call me tomorrow with more details.
Sheehan and I are the only two of my crew of high school best friends who are currently in Chicago. There are six of us, and we're still very close, but we moved for different reasons. Basically, we're either here or not here because of family, though one of us is elsewhere mostly because of greed.
Tonight was our 10 year high school reunion, and we ditched it like complete losers. I would have gone if Sheehan wanted to go, but I knew he really didn't want to. So we decided to go out for dinner and drinks on our own.
I was pretty tired but still happy to be out. We sat in the back garden of Witt's, a cool neighborhood spot on Lincoln. Sheehan decided without reservation that it wasn't the tacos, but the dip, that was responsible for my wrenching stomach pains. He could sense that I was uncomfortable, but I really wanted the night to rock, as I had pledged myself to hooking up this weekend. So I ordered a Red Bull and vodka as a pick me up, though I was drinking really slowly for no good reason. Mistaking my initial Red Bull order as a cue that I was going to get rocked in a hurry, Sheehan ordered round after round after round of Bell's Oberon, which is like the beer equivalent of high-octane gasoline. As far as I remember, the alcohol content is in the 8% range, so it's really like drinking two beers for every one. Sheehan drinks regular beer at an alarming pace--roughly twice the rate of the average man--and there's no reason why overly-boozy beer would be any different.
It was nice outside, a little chilly for June, but clear and agreeable. I watched in horror as the White Sox came back to score 3 runs in the 9th inning to beat the Dodgers, 5-3. Plus, it was A.J. Pierzynski getting the job done--Sheehan hates him as much as I do. It's not that I hate him because he's on the White Sox; I hate him because he's a dickhead.
Sheehan was pretty darn blasted when 10 o'clock rolled around. He decided he was cold and insisted on going inside after we ate. I was pretty comfy and enjoy having drinks outside, but I didn't care too much either way, so we headed in...and I immediately took a detour straight into the crapper. It was a completely unsatisfying and halted affair, because I could hear people out in the bar having a good time while I was kicking myself for swallowing a fucking dip and doing this to myself. I was beyond irritated at that point with the entire situation. I had no control over what was coming out of my body, I couldn't get in a good groove to put things into my body, and my best friend had the equivalent of about fourteen regular beers in about two hours. Things were looking pretty grim.
I walked out of the bathroom to find that many more people had showed up. Sweet. Oooh, three girls were sitting at a table, drinking vodkas, looking really bored. Lambs, welcome to the slaughter. One of them asked me as I walked by if the Cubs had won (they lost to the Yankees 8-1--glad I didn't go out there after all), and I knew she could be mine with little effort. No-brainer, right? Sure fire? Wrong. Dead wrong.
When I sidled back to the bar, I fully intended to tell Sheehan we were moving over to the girls' table. Instead, I found him inquiring of the bartender as to why they didn't have any ABBA discs behind the bar, and stating in earnest that their brand of Swedish disco was the best thing in their now-removed jukebox. (I didn't know this, but apparently a city bar license allows for just three machines that accept money--in this case a Golden Tee, a quiz machine, a cig machine--so the jukebox had to go. Tavern licenses, on the other hand, can have whatever they want, relatively speaking.) Then, to my surprise, Sheehan started belting out some retarded ABBA song, and I realized that our prospects with the girls were shrinking fast though still recoverable. But when Sheehan demanded an obscure Rolling Stones song called "Slave," which caused him to hump the air and scream the words, "Do it, do it, do it, don't want to be your slave!" He was completely plastered, and getting worse by the minute.
Just then, memories of meeting up with Sheehan at Witt's after the Friday Cubs-White Sox game a couple weekends before. I've know him for 14 years, and he swears he'd never seen me so drunk in my entire life. If I could remember anything from that day after 4 o'clock, it would have made a great What I See entry. But I was far too hammered to retain anything except for brief flashes of memories. One of these is of Sheehan's arrival at the bar, just an image of his silhouette standing there in the doorway. He said that I was standing up on top of the bar, with a smoke in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other, screaming at the top of my lungs about nothing in particular, with four empty shotglasses and a pint glass full of ice at my feet. Sheehan said the two girls working that afternoon were huddled near the door, debating if they should call the cops on me. They said to him, "Oh, he's yours? OK, he can stay." I then ordered each of us two Jaeger shots, two Jaeger Bombs, and two Miller Lites, and amazingly the girls complied. I later threw pizza all over the place, and was ultimately asked to leave because I was terrifying the other customers. It's kind of awesome, but I can't help but be a little bit embarassed about it.
Back in the present day, one of the girls sitting at the bar was pretty and looked vaguely familiar. She kept giving me these strange looks, and I thought about going over to introduce myself. But first, I had to know. I asked Sheehan, "Were any of these people working on the drunkest night of my life?" He replied, "Oh yeah, Paddy, sure. That one (pointing to a girl behind the bar), and that one (pointing to the girl at the bar, the one giving me weird looks)." Well, that explains it. I'd been there for like three hours at that point, and all the while the staff was on guard against some insane man-beast ready to bubble over at any second--the resurrection of Darth Pat. I thought about apologizing for bad behavior, but how to word it? "Thanks for delivering a non-stop flow of shots onto my already throbbing liver. Thanks for not having me arrested. Thanks for letting me back in here." I ignored the awkwardness, and started tipping double.
We were sitting on barstools facing a large mirror behind the bar, with the hot girls behind us, and we could clearly see them over our shoulder. They kept looking in our general direction, visibly scared of Sheehan, and I thought I might kill him for getting so drunk so quickly. Fuck Oberon! Sheehan's bloodshot-red eyes were fixed on the girls' reflection in the mirror, to the point that he was outright oogling them. The low point came when he stood up and, continuing to look at them in the mirror, said, "I just gotta check out their boods."
One of the girls came over to order three more drinks, blatantly looked at me, clearly begging for conversation, then glanced at Sheehan with a considerable degree of confusion as to how the guy was so hammered before midnight. At that instant, right when any cheese-dick pick up line would have been awesomely effective, Sheehan started with his ABBA singing-dancing-screaming routine again. While never known for his level of gamesmanship, he'd somehow reached a new low: This time, we didn't even get to the point of asking their names. The anti-Spanish fly strikes again.
(Sidebar: Sheehan actually admitted that he was trying to make it an early night on purpose because he had to go to his parents' house tomorrow. Seeing as it was Father's Day, every person in that bar was probably due to be somewhere on Sunday, so why not join the crowd and stay out all night, myabe get some ass, and who cares about sleep? I asked him if he had some appointment or if it was the world's first breakfast barbeque, but he was insistent that he had to be there at, apparently, the ass-crack of dawn. I told him that he could take a walk with his mom after dinner, but he refused to hear me out, even though the girls were so so so hot. Hot girls, you lost out to a non-binding start time for sitting around in the suburbs all day. What-the-fuck-ever. If I were him...well, I'm not, so I'll move on.
I considered for a moment letting him make the three block walk home alone, but I needed to go back to his house so I could use the bathroom in earnest. Along the way home he sang some fucked up New Wave song word-for-word; I told him that I never really liked Molly Ringwald movies, and where on earth did he find a CD containing all this shit music? We got to his house and I told him to play some tunes, to keep him awake so that he could lock up behind me after I finished crapping. At that point, I fully expected to go back to the table of girls. My line was going to be: "Hey, I'm Pat. My buddy just stranded me so damn early. Wanna adopt me for the night?" They would have loved it.
As if the night wasn't already devoid of any semblence of cool, Sheehan chose to blast a George Michael song--the one with all the supermodels in the video. Oh sweet mother of take! That turned out to be the soundtrack to my painful pit stop, and in a way I guess it was kind of fitting because that song is absolute shit. I walked out of the bathroom and told him that the only cool thing about that song was the video if you had the t.v. on mute, and I registered my disgust that he had a George Michael CD in the first place. We had a cig outside before I took off, and he promised to never drink Oberon again. I didn't believe him.
I started walking back toward Witt's, and I called my buddy Rick to see if he was in the city. He was sitting at home in Oak Park. No one seemed to be in the city. Lincoln Park felt so damn dead tonight, except for those three hot ladies at Witt's. Ah well.
One block away from Witt's, a brain freeze sturck me: Even though the girls were probably interested in getting laid, there was no way I could ever hook up with one of them at that moment in time. I envisioned myself taking my clothes off and rocking her world with an aggravated ass-reek from my boxers. That would have been a tough one to get around or cover up. I'm not saying I had poop in my pants, but it sure as fuck wasn't Downy-fresh down there. Plus, let's assume we fooled around for a while. Would I have excused myself the second we were done to disappear into the bathroom for an hour? How weird would that be? And what if I bombed out her place with a ridiculous gas bomb? I didn't want to find out how I might handle such a situation, and resigned myself to accept that all of my self-confidence had literally been flushed down the drain hours ago.
Defeated, I turned around and walked back to the Diversey stop. The Brown Line stops running at 1:08. It was 1:12. Even more pissed at the situation, I got in a cab and went home. I thought about going for a night cap at a local bar, but it didn't seem like it was worth it, given how bad my ass was twitching.
So now, as I sit here typing this, drinking a beer, having a smoke, I can't help but reflect on the three principal lessons learned from this episode:
1.) Sheehan is not allowed to drink Bell's Oberon any more. That shit is like a liquid fucking wrecking ball.
2.) No more dipping in bed. If I ever have to endure this again, I'm going to kill myself.
3.) Never ditch organized events, because they've got to be better than nothing at all.
And, by the way, if you happen to know or be those three hot girls who were hanging out at Witt's on Lincoln Saturday around midnight, please go back there much more often, because that place is generally lacking girls as hot as you. Also, I want all three of you naked and covered in baby oil in my bed immediately.
So there you have it: The anatomy of the worst night ever.
posted by Pat at 2:08 AM
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