9:00-?
It was about 8:40 PM when we left the library. The dank moratorium of solitude had thoroughly weighed me down, and I felt as though the word document I was composing had absorbed all of my remaining creativity like a sponge. I was rapidly approaching stir crazy, so I convinced Mad-Libs that it was indeed time to exit the premises.
(Side note: My good friend is referred to as “Mad-Libs” as a result of his circumstantial inability to find the appropriate words to express his thoughts, his consistent referencing of the library as “Libs,” and because he is an overconfident little scoundrel. - and KJ is a namesake genius - If you’re familiar with the clip from Family Guy where they interview Floyd Wetherton . . . then you know this individual. Now, I speak his unique language, can usually understand what he’s trying to say, and on rare occasions his thoughts are surprisingly insightful. It may be harsh, English is his second language, but in all fairness he’s had years to practice . . . and it’s just downright hilarious.)
After some deliberation over desired toppings, I placed an online order to Dominos and we walked out into the blustering wind. In all my wisdom I went with a t-shirt. The temperature was 55 degrees, but I hadn’t accounted for the wind. Consequently, I did isometic upper body contractions during the eight minute walk home in an attempt to keep the blood circulating. Gotta love inconsistent New England weather.
Dominos is quick with service in Boston, though not so much Papa John’s, which is quite disconcerting. I always like that the Papa designates cheese as the actual topping rather than the other stuff that usually gets haphazardly tossed on the surface. It really is a groundbreaking concept; the cheese provides a layer of protection so that things don’t fall off. I dig it, but they move at a snail’s pace. I made it up the four flights of stairs to set my bag down and kick off my shoes moments before the buzzer rang. I knowingly nodded my head, fighting the exasperation with thoughts of delicious pizza, and made my descent. The two medium pizzas were consumed within minutes and I had my head glued to the window making sure this experiment would commence without our having to wait in the line I so relentlessly mock.
By 9:30 I was on the aforementioned stoop polishing off the remnants of the ever-so-terrible Keystone Light, made more-so by its skunky essence, which had been left in my refrigerator. I was eyeing our target with grave intent. Like the true military tactician I am, I painted it as a soft target judging by the foot traffic moving that direction. One could also refer to it as a target-rich environment, gauging the undergraduate, got-drunk-at-midnight-for-my-21st-a-week-ago, talented young nubiles entering this place.
Allow me to take a moment to accurately describe the women of the Boston area from a working man’s perspective. I served my country in a Post-Traumatic-Stress, alcohol-in-one-hand-pistol-in-the-other, nightmare inducing extreme kind of way. I never back down when I know I’m right. I stand for things moral and just, and protect those I love. I have earned every dollar I have ever made, and every ounce of respect I have ever received. I consider myself to be fairly intelligent, and have almost completed a graduate degree, even though my brutal honestly and ability to voice my view of reality is occasionally not well-received. Where I come from, those characteristics make you a decently successful and upstanding young man . . . not in Boston.
I know not what these women are looking for, but I’m convinced it isn’t worthwhile intelligent conversation, a quality beverage in good company, or a wealth of expertly orchestrated sexual positions. It is all about green. As magnificently attired as they are, adeptly concealing every physical flaw with the appropriate garment, and painting their facial canvases up like Norman Rockwell had been instructing them for years, the majority of the women in the bars, clubs, and pubs at night are very skilled at developing a quality presentation. I’m a big fan of eye candy, but until I discover a way to break through that ignorant, entitled, undeserved self-assured attitude, that’s all these well constructed females will be.
If anyone ever spits to you that used up line about the game having changed while you were off getting coddled in a quality interpersonal relationship, hit ‘em right in the mouth. Do yourself a favor and watch Swingers sometime soon, even if you’ve already seen it, and tell me that mid-90’s cinematic masterpiece isn’t still on point.
We didn’t enter this place like a couple of lions stalking prey on a Saharan plane, no Sir, we just walked in like the sport-obsessed meatheads we are and grabbed a few beers . . . and then preceded to shoot some hapless digital animals stuck in the programming of Big Buck Hunter. We left the beckoning wooden bar-top initially because two of the aforementioned type of women turned their noses up at us when we positioned ourselves in close proximity. As I, in my t-shirt, jeans, and backwards Boston Red Sox hat, ordered my preferred Brick Red Ale, and set a scarred hand on the bar, the smaller one made eye contact with me, and literally jutted out her chin and let out a “Humph” as she looked away. Perhaps in my eyes she saw the fit of laughter I was trying desperately to contain upon notice of the strange compactness of her face, no telling.
As the night transpired, we relocated to a booth that adorned the back wall so that I could further observe. I began to take notice of an awkward looking pair of chaps after the third time they accosted a couple of unsuspecting girls. Immediately invading their personal space, and hosting engagements that routinely ended in two minutes flat, they were hard to miss. When our beloved bear-like compatriot arrived, Mad-Libs couldn’t resist:
“Yo, check out these two assholes over here. The one tall dude, well kinda, wearing that thing that looks like it’s made outta his mom’s drapes, and the littler dude with the too-tight shirt who looks kinda gay. These kids are terrible.”
“Which ones?”
“Yo, the douchebag with the bedazzle beads on his jeans, and the jackass with the glasses.”
“Oh, those guys, what about em’?”
“Just watch this shit.”
As if on cue, the shorter of the two guys took a gigantic sidestep into the path of these unfortunate lasses, swiftly placing a hand on the elbow of the more surprised of the two. Within moments, the girl talking to the taller individual began to take baby steps backwards, while the other merely seemed to lean away from the man who had physically apprehended her. It was a magnificent spectacle, a cyclical display that almost entirely replicated the Saturday Night Live sketch of Night at the Roxbury.
“Wow. Just . . . Bravo Fellas.”
We migrated, as dynamic alcohol consuming animals do, and found ourselves at a table towards the center of the room. We honestly never even considered braving the depths of the dance floor in the back room, I was honestly too concerned with how bad the smell might be or whether or not there would be adhesive substances on the floor. I’d seen people stumble out of here; not interested to follow their journey to drunken stupidity, we stayed in the front where things appeared relatively composed and undemonstrative. Relatively.
It must have been nearing 12:30 because Mad-Libs made a run for the train. “I’ve gotta take off, I don’t wanna pay for a cab.” KJ and I sat undisturbed for an instant before two girls assaulted our peaceful table. Apparently the unthinkable had happened, what drama could have possibly transpired? The shorter of the two was cute, a brunette with pouty lips, a white blouse, and a black skirt that fantastically accentuated her figure. She was apparently in a state of emergency and needed to commandeer a stool for her wounded companion. As she made haste towards the bathroom for some papertowels or something, her slightly taller friend appeared. Similar appearance, though softer features, she had darker hair and we’d have to wait a few minutes to find out that she had a dazzling smile. Does everyone here just use massive amounts of teeth whitener? Is there no enamel to be found?
“She sure got a purdy mouth” I mumbled, but KJ didn’t hear me. He was in counselor mode, his face just radiant with empathy and compassion, eyes almost welling with tears though he had no idea what had happened, the gentlest smile itching to be displayed to make it all better. He’s a massive stuffed animal. That’s how most guys should get when we see a pretty girl crying, but not me. I just get mad, protective instinct kicks in and I want to fix whatever’s broken. Males are predominantly solution-based creatures; don’t come to us with a problem until you’re ready to settle it.
She had approached like the girl from The Ring, paying no attention to us, hair concealing most of her face, tears running down the side of her cheeks. (I don’t understand that, how do tears only fall down the outside of some people’s faces, is it just the contour lines or what?) She sat down next to us and we quickly coaxed out the information, I for my own amusement, and my associate because, well like I said, he was in counselor mode. Her ex-boyfriend was in the place with another girl, no big deal, but he’d been with her for 3 years and broke it off because he “Didn’t want to be tied down in college.” Now aside from the obvious observation that being in a bar with someone doesn’t necessarily insinuate “Couple”, I have to ask: when are we going to learn to just tell the truth, and if unwilling to divulge said reality, maybe be more original?
Ex:
“Sorry Babe, I have no more positions I want to try out on you. I need another guinea pig, preferably one who’s been hitting the treadmill and thigh adductor machine more regularly.”
“Honestly, this thing has run its course, best of luck in all your endeavors. I’ll probably call you up drunk a few times, feel free to answer and go out of your way to come take care of business thinking there’s a chance I’m a decent dude after all.”
“Look, I’m just really bored; maybe you’re just not much fun. I’m down to slip you some caffeine pills or have you chug an energy drink and see what happens once or twice, but I think I’m all set.”
“I’m a dude, I need to spread my seed, and rubbing it around on your stomach doesn’t count . . . it is cool though, maybe we could make arrangements to keep that thing going?”
Or maybe in this guy’s case: “Uh, sorry girl, I’m way too young not to chase after some other skanks. I’m supposed to be learning new moves and defiling sorostitutes. What?”
It is a fair approach and it doesn’t leave girls hopeful and ultimately bawling their eyes out to some strange guys at a bar. Why not call it like you see it. “I’m tired of you”, “You’re not doing it for me anymore”, “I’m at a point where watching internet porn is just less effort and more fulfilling.” At first you’ll be seen as a heartless villain, but fear not, you’re in good company. Hey, if you let her go, why do you care if she still likes you? By the time she hits 30 she’ll say something along the lines of: “At least he was honest.” There’s no real way to soften the blow, and if you try to, you’re just being cruel. I’ve figured this out, and I have no desire to repeat the slung-together string of vulgar syllables I contrived to describe the guy who left this beautiful woman weeping in public.
Alas, the furry objective perspective finally made his exit, in an attempt to catch the last train headed a few chilly miles past Fenway; leaving only my calloused posture to tend to this injured young fawn. Her friend had long since vanished into the depths of the befouled back room in search of similar ventures to those of her ex. I wavered for a moment, not really knowing how to approach the “Moving on” portion of this conversation. All I could think to do was to make her smile and encourage her to accept the situation for what it is. I discovered she was a Biochemical engineer, moving to California in short order to work for Intel. Um, wow. So, why then was she so hung up emotionally?
“An intelligent gorgeous woman such as yourself, this dude must have one magnificent member to coax out so many tears.”
Biggest smile of the night.
“I tell you what, I’ve got a bottle of Jameson, two glasses, and a fire escape that I only wish was more comfortable. You want some contact comfort? ‘Cause I got that.”
A slight shake of the head, but I’d been drinking, I’m a dude, and I’d seriously been counseling in a bar for 45 minutes.
“I don’t know what else to actually say, the dude is garbage . . . I bet I’m more skilled.”
I threw her a wink, and for the first time she created an awkward silence. I don’t deal well with women that are either awkward or silent, and she had successfully combined the two. The tears had gone, and I fancied myself as fairly affable since I had made her laugh, so I was quite confused. In the midst of my perplexity I ordered a shot of Jameson, which thankfully arrived as a double. In one foul swoop I downed the shot, contorted my face for an instant, looked at her and said:
“So that’s it then? You good? . . . Well I just got used, and not in the good way.” Pointing towards the back, “I think your friend is probably stuck to the floor by now, there’s probably still time to get plastered yourself.”
She stood in shock as I threw her a peace sign and sauntered out into the glow of the streetlights.
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