Big Night Out

by Tara McCarthy

He gives you an accusatory glare. “Why?”

  Yikes.

  “Because my idiot friend over there dared me.”

  He grins, looks over at Suzy, and waves. He is, you quickly deduce, pretty bombed. Suzy pretends to be fascinated with her empty glass.

  “It’s a Nick Hornby novel, but you can make up something more impressive for your friend if you want.”

  “No, that’s fine,” you say. “I loved High Fidelity.”

  “Me too. And this one’s also pretty good. A friend lent it to me and I’m almost finished. I was going to give it back to him tonight. But if you want, I could lend it to you.” He gives you a smile that is 65 percent Heineken. “No strings, really. My name’s Bill. I come here a lot; you could meet me next week and give it back then.”

  Even though the acrid scent of Eau de Desperation is hanging heavily in the air, you take the book, thank him, and agree to be here at the same time next week to return it. Back at your table, you fill Suzy in on what happened, and she applauds your bravery.

  “So, he was a little weird, but at least you got a pseudodate out of it. No, wait.” She closes her eyes and puts her hands to her temples in mock-psychic pose. “Don’t tell me. You don’t want a pseudodate, you want Mark. Swami Suzy knows all, tells all.” She starts flicking through the book, then jumps up in surprise. “Holy shit!”

  “What’s up?”

  “This is my cousin Nick’s book! Look, his name is on the inside page!”

  “That guy said he was going to meet up with the person who owns the book later tonight,” you remember, turning around to call out to Bill.

  Too late; he’s already gone.

  “He can’t have got far; come on.” The two of you hurry to the door and spot Bill weaving his way down the street.

  You shout his name and he glances back, then waits till you catch up.

  “Hey, you’re going to meet Nick Zorcik?”

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “I’m his cousin, Suzy. Are you going to Lindy’s party?”

  “Nah, I don’t know anything about a party. I was just gonna return the book and have a beer with the Nickster. He said he’s gonna be drinking in the Upstairs Lounge for a while tonight.”

  “Upstairs Lounge?” You glare at Suzy.

  “So I got the location wrong. At least we know where he is now, right?” She smiles sweetly at Bill. “Would you mind if we tag along with you? I need to see my cousin tonight.”

  “Sure thing, babe.” Bill makes as if to put his arms around you both, but stops when he sees the look on your faces.

  “Hey, no need to get defensive, ladies. Just being friendly.”

  “Maybe we should take a cab instead,” Suzy whispers to you. “Do we really want Lassie here slobbering all over us the whole way there?” Then, “Hey, Bill, do you want to split a taxi?”

  “Let’s walk. It’s only fifteen minutes away, and I’d prefer not to waste good beer money on a taxi,” mumbles Bill.

  “You do surprise me. Well”—she looks at you—“taxi or Bill?”

  If you want to get a taxi, read on here.

  If you walk with Bill, read on here.

  “As much as I hate to admit it, Dave’s right,” Kate says.

  “Hey,” Dave says triumphantly, raising his glass. “You watch enough B movies, you pick these kinds of skills up. Anyway, I believe we have a keg party to go to.”

  Read on here.

  “Thirty-four B it is,” Kate says.

  “No way!” Dave shouts. He hits you in the arm. “But look at her!”

  Kate walks away, and you think she’s out of earshot. “Wonderbra,” you say solemnly, raising your drink. “Can spot ’em a mile away.”

  “Watch your mouth, pinky dick, or you’ll never drink in this town again.”

  You turn, but she’s not really mad; she’s smiling. You wink at her and turn back to Dave. “The Lunar Lounge awaits.” The two of you swiftly finish your drinks, then press on … the Lunar Lounge is a short taxi ride away.

  The second you enter the place—a dimly lit, long, and narrow bar with a back room venue—Mike pulls you into a circle of people, most of whom you know. He introduces you and Dave to Tracy, Will, and Lisa, and a couple of new people …

  “Okay,” Mike says, with a firm hand on your shoulder. “You ready? Don’t think too much, just say the first thing that comes to your mind.”

  “Anal sex,” you say, without blinking.

  “No, you idiot.” Mike slaps you on the arm. “You have to wait for the question.” He turns to his friends. “You believe this guy?”

  “Sorry.” You shrug.

  “So anyway, the question is, what’s the stupidest Oasis lyric you can think of? Think fast, come on, what is it?”

  If you say, “Slowly walking down the hall, faster than a cannonball,” read on here.

  If you think it’s possible there’s another Oasis lyric stupider than that and you want to say it, read on here.

  You hail a cab. Bill climbs, unasked, into the front seat and gives the driver the address.

  “Nick said he’ll be here until nine,” he says. Then suddenly, “Hey driver, pull over on this corner for a second! Anton! Anton!”

  The car pulls over, and a short, greasy-looking guy approaches the passenger’s window. Bill leans out and starts gabbing excitedly.

  “Anton! What’s up? You wanna come to the Upstairs Lounge for a beer?”

  “You know I don’t drink beer.” Anton opens a door to climb in beside Suzy and nods briefly at you both. “But I’ll join you for a martini.”

  Introductions are made. Anton is an art director for a home-decorating magazine, and within thirty seconds he’s mentioned that he went to Yale, adores Charles Bukowski, and rarely goes to see a film unless it’s European and subtitled.

  “You’re hearing-impaired?” you ask dryly.

  Anton is unbearable. You silently calculate the bodily damage that would be sustained by one pretentious art director falling out of a taxi moving at approximately fifteen miles an hour. Sadly, it doesn’t seem worth it.

  “We’re nearly there,” you say, to shut Anton up for a second.

  “Let’s go to that new place, the Temple, instead,” interjects Anton. “I was there last week with my Chinese girlfriend, Lynn. I love Asian women.”

  “Sorry, we need to find someone at the Upstairs,” you say. “He has directions to a party we’re going to, that someone called Lindy is throwing.”

  “Lindy Graham? I heard she was having a party tonight, but her friends are too suburban for my tastes. No offense, of course. Why not have a drink at the Temple first?”

  If you and Suzy get out of the taxi to go to the Upstairs Lounge, read on here.

  If you stay with Bill and Anton, read on here.

  After finishing your drink at the Pub, you go by Dave’s place and get his car. Joe lives about twenty minutes outside the city. Loath as you are to leave the thriving metropolis you call home, the idea of seeing some trees and grass is kind of appealing. Maybe it’s Sadie bringing on such urges; this is as close as you’ve ever come to nesting tendencies. Because trees and grass mean houses and houses generally mean families. And up until now the thought of having either one of those things hasn’t appealed to you in the slightest. So why is it you’re suddenly imagining Sadie’s splendid laugh—the sound of promise—echoing through all the rooms of your suburban mansion, her hair blowing in the wind as you drive her home from a night out in the big city? In a car a lot nicer than this piece of shit, it must be said.

  After a short drive, Dave parks on a tree-lined suburban street. He walks up to the door of a house not unlike the Bradys’ and goes right in. You follow.

  “Dave-o!” someone screams immediately. “Go no further!”

  Dave stops dead in his tracks and you slam into him, then step back awkwardly. Everyone’s looking at the two of you.

  “Thou shalt not pass unless thoust doeseth a Jell-O shot.”

  This
is going to be worse than you expected. Not that you’ve got anything against Jell-O shots right now, not if it’ll help you through this. But what’s with the medieval English crap? You and Dave do your shots and are welcomed into the party. On the way to the keg, Dave stops short again.

  “Holy shit!” he says. “That’s Steve Buscemi manning the keg!”

  “Yeah.” You’re dripping with sarcasm. “And over there, look. It’s Cameron Diaz. And she’s talking to Gwyneth and Winona.”

  “I’m not shitting you, man.” Dave nods toward the keg. “It’s him. I swear.”

  “What would Steve Buscemi be doing at your friend’s keg party?”

  “I don’t know. But that guy’s everywhere these days. As a matter of fact, I’ve got a bone to pick with him. You coming?”

  “You’ve got a bone to pick with Steve Buscemi?” You obviously don’t know Dave as well as you thought you did.

  “Yeah,” he says. “You coming?”

  If you say, “No way,” read on here.

  If you accompany Dave over to the keg to pick a bone with Steve Buscemi, read on here.

  Climbing out of the taxi, you spy the Upstairs Lounge across the street. Woohoo!

  “I have a good feeling about this,” says Suzy. “He’s definitely here. I know it.”

  You walk in and Suzy gives a little whoop when she sees a floppy-haired guy playing pool. She was right; he’s not bad for a cousin. Not bad at all.

  You leave them chatting for a moment while you get drinks. It’s time you got a little buzz going, so you drink yours pretty quickly and order another before Suzy and Nick are finished. Better remember to take some money out before you go to the party or you’re going to be stuck. And maybe you should check your voice mail later.

  Then, in the corner, you spy Clara Merton.

  Clara, your high-school nemesis. Clara, the girl who stole your first serious boyfriend from under your nose. Clara, who was nicknamed Angel of Doom on account of her knack of always seeing the cloud behind the silver lining. (“You’re going to San Francisco on vacation? Aren’t you worried about the earthquakes?” “Your grandmother just gave you five hundred dollars? I’ve heard that old people often start giving away their possessions when they sense they’re going to die.”) Clara, who spread rumors about everyone, including that completely unfounded one about you and Joey Shipenberg getting caught behind the bicycle shed. You never went anywhere near the bicycle shed with Joey Shipenberg. It was Brian Christiansen behind the chemistry lab.

  If you want to talk to her, read on here.

  If not, read on here.

  You ask the woman next to you if she’ll watch your seat for a minute, then you go to the phone. You dial your voice-mail number, punch in your password, and listen to the animated voice. “You have two new messages. To hear—”

  You hit 1.

  “Hi sweetie. I figured you’d be out—”

  You hit 2 to save your roommate’s message, and wait for the next one.

  “Mike here. Listen, we’re not going to make it to the Lunar Lounge, but we should definitely try to catch up at some point. Tracy wanted to go out for dinner since it’s her birthday, so we’re here at Woody’s and we still haven’t gotten a table. We’ll be here, and then we’re stopping at Spinners to meet some other people—Alyssa and Sadie and those guys—then we’re going to this party maybe eleven, eleven-thirty. Try to catch up with us somewhere, okay? Later.”

  You return to your seat and think.

  If you want to go straight to Woody’s for fear you’ll miss them all later, read on here.

  If you want to wait for Dave at the Lunar Lounge, read on here.

  You decide to take a break and go to an ATM. The cool air makes you realize just how many drinks you’ve had, and you’re glad to be outside for a while. After taking out fifty dollars, you wander back into the bar, stop at the pay phone, and check your voice mail.

  One saved message. You hit 1. It’s your old, dear, and crazy friend Peter.

  “Hi sweetie. I figured you’d be out, but maybe you’ll get this message in time. One of the bands playing Busters tonight fired its rhythm guitarist because of musical differences—basically he was always playing a different rhythm than the rest of the band—and they called and asked me to fill in … we go on at ten-fifteen. I know it’s short notice, but it’d mean a lot if you could get your ass down there and lend little Pierre some moral support. I’ll even let you buy me a drink afterward. Hope to see you later.”

  You erase the message and go to the bathroom, pondering the situation as you reapply your lipstick. Peter has been your friend for years. In fact, until you developed an interest in Mark, there was always a lingering hope that someday Peter would rethink his whole “women make such great friends!” policy and try going out with one of them, namely you. Though it’s a good bet that he doesn’t even know you’d be interested.

  You join Nick at the bar and check your watch. It’s a little after ten now.

  “I guess we’re going to hang out here for a while,” he says. “Or if you want to go somewhere else, we can just meet you at McCormick’s around midnight.”

  If you’d prefer to go see Peter and arrange to meet the others later, read on here.

  If you decide to hang out in the Upstairs Lounge, read on here.

  You smile at the woman next to you just as she orders her next drink. That’s all it takes.

  “And another for my friend here,” she says to the bartender while looking right at you.

  “Thanks,” you mutter, unsure of how to proceed. She’s crossed her legs to give you a better view of a pair of thin, shapely calves. She’s got to be at least forty, but she’s still got a great body. Even from this distance you can tell she smells good, too. When she takes an olive from her martini and puts it in her mouth seductively, you feel yourself getting turned on.

  “What’s a nice-looking boy like you doing out alone on a Friday night?”

  You laugh nervously, then say, “I’m meeting some friends.” Because you are. And you can’t really ditch them to go off with some forty-year-old. Can you?

  “Oh, that’s too bad.” She sighs exaggeratedly and takes a sip of her drink. “I was hoping to find a nice young strong man like you to mow my lawn while my husband’s away.”

  You practically spit out your beer. Stuff like this doesn’t really happen. Not to you anyway.

  She brushes her leg against yours as she shifts in her seat, and it’s clear it was intentional. You know it’s crazy, but you’re really turned on now. She knows this. She’s just looking at you seductively, licking her lips. She kicks off one of her pumps, and you can feel her foot running up and down your calf.

  After a few minutes she leans in close, her lips practically touching your ear. “What do you say, you up for the job?”

  If you say, “After you,” and make a sweeping gesture toward the door to lead your lady away, read on here.

  If you feel like you need another drink before you make a decision like this, then read on here.

  You take a cab to Busters—this is proving to be a more expensive night than you bargained for, but you’d feel guilty if you missed the show. The band has already started when you arrive, and for once Peter seems to have found a group with a shelf life longer than warm milk. You recognize Peter’s roommate, Doug, in the crowd and go stand next to him, chatting between songs. Peter looks nervous, but toward the end of the set he sees you and smiles, making a thumbs-up sign.

  “I believe that’s international guitarist’s sign language for ‘Order me a beer; I’m almost done,’” says Doug. “Can I get you one?”

  A couple of minutes later Peter, sweaty and very happy, is downing his beer and yapping excitedly. “That was the best! I screwed up a couple of times, but considering we only rehearsed once I think I was awesome! They’re gonna ask me to join, I can feel it. Thanks for showing up.” He kisses you on the cheek. “You look great. What are you doing later? I feel like Mexican and ma
rgaritas to celebrate.”

  “I have to be at McCormick’s at twelve. I’m meeting some friends and we’re going to a party. But that gives me an hour, so … sure, why not?”

  “Excellent. You coming, Doug?”

  “Nah, I’m gonna hang out here for a while and see if I can convince that girl drummer to come home with me.”

  “Doug, you know she hails from the island of Lesbos, right?” Peter’s shaking his head and laughing.

  “I got a definite vibe earlier tonight.”

  “That would be her ‘Stop staring at me, pathetic horny straight guy. I’m gay’ vibe. This isn’t The Real World; lesbians do not change their sexual preference overnight to make for better TV.”

  “Fuck it, it’s not like I can do any worse with gay women than I usually do with straight ones. Have a good night, you two. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” And he gives Peter a look that almost—no, that definitely—means something.

  “You mean don’t drink twelve pints, complain to the bartender about not getting laid in six months, hit on her, and then crawl home alone, waking up covered in cigarette ash in the clothes I went out in. Okay, I can promise you that.” A nice rebound, Pierre.

  You go to Julio’s, a Mexican restaurant that Peter loves because the margaritas are particularly strong, and he nabs his favorite table by the window for both of you. And now you have to make a judgment call. Based on prior experience, two of these babies, especially on top of the variety of drinks you’ve consumed so far, can knock you out.

  Peter suggests getting a pitcher, and the idea is very tempting. But maybe you should just get a glass and play it safe.

  If you have a glass, read on here.

  If you go for the pitcher, read on here.

  “Hi there, stranger.”