Big Night Out

by Tara McCarthy

  “Kristy! Oh my god. How are you? What are you doing here?”

  Kristy is your ex-girlfriend. The ex-girlfriend. The only woman who’s ever tamed your wandering eyes for more than a year. In fact, she did it for two and a half years. And you would have been happy if she had kept on doing it. Kristy, you see, is it. She’s got it going on. She’s fly. She’s phat. She’s all that. And then some.

  “I just moved back. I finished school—finally—and now I’m looking for a job.”

  You can’t believe your ears. Kristy, who has been hundreds of miles away from you in law school for the last three years, is going to be in the same city as you.

  “I was going to call you.” She leans in and gives you a light peck on the lips. “Things just haven’t been the same since we’ve been apart.”

  They sure as hell haven’t, you think to yourself. For starters, you haven’t been getting steady, sweaty, loud, nail-digging sex since then. But of course you can’t say that. So you pick something else: “I’ve missed you.”

  “You don’t know how happy you’ve just made me.” Kristy runs her fingers through her long blond hair, and you think you see her chin tremble. “I mean I know there are things we’ll have to work out, but us getting back together, well, it just makes sense somehow because…”

  And she’s lost you. Who said anything about getting back together? What about Sadie? What about the fact that Kristy dumped you for another guy? But before you can protest she leans in and you can smell her—the only woman you’ve ever known who smells of aniseed. It brings back vivid memories, flashes of body parts, positions, things you haven’t done with anyone since. She whispers, “Let’s go somewhere,” then takes your hand.

  If you follow her, read on here.

  If not, read on here.

  “Damn, and I was hoping to get you drunk and make my move tonight, too,” says Peter, and though he’s laughing you sense that he’s serious. You feel like you’ve just blown your first real chance with him, and wonder if you’re going to be kicking yourself tomorrow.

  The next time you check your watch it’s almost midnight. Peter’s got no plans, and it’s pretty clear that he wouldn’t mind going with you to the party. This is apparent from the way he clutches your sleeve desperately after you’ve split the check and says, “I wouldn’t mind going with you to the party.”

  “Well, I dunno…”

  “Come on, if I go home I’ll be bored. I’ll have to wander the streets, looking forlorn and dejected, like a male version of Ally McBeal.”

  “I have a tiny skirt and a briefcase you can borrow, to complete the look.”

  Arriving at the party with your best male friend may jeopardize your flirting potential later. Although there’s also the possibility that seeing you walk in with another guy may heighten Mark’s primitive, competitive instincts—men are so dumb that way.

  You decide to come clean to Peter and tell him that you’re hoping to get lucky later.

  “That’s fine; I can help! I’ll get talking to this guy Mark and tell him how cool you are. I’ll be your very own PR company—you’ll be so glad you brought me.”

  “As glad as I was when I took you to Melissa’s beach house last summer?”

  “You’re referring to her grandmother’s antique china plate again, aren’t you? Come on, you have to admit that it looked exactly like a Frisbee.”

  If you decline to bring Peter, read on here.

  If you bring him, read on here.

  When you get to the keg, “Steve Buscemi” is being turned upside down to do a keg stand. A handful of guys gathered around him are chanting, “Bushemmmmm-i, Bu-shemmmm-i,” over and over as he guzzles directly from the tap lead. Since he’s upside-down, you still can’t decide whether you really believe it’s him.

  “Woohoo!” the scrawny little guy says, once he’s put back on his feet. “Who’s next?” He scans the faces around him and stops at you. “What are you looking at? Never seen a movie star before?”

  You say, “Not doing keg stands, no.”

  “Hey,” Steve says, elbowing the guy next to him with a chuckle. “First time for everything, right?”

  “I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” Dave cuts in. He’s apparently knocked back a beer already and is working on his second.

  “And pray tell, what would that be?” Steve says lightheartedly, rolling his bulging eyes.

  “I’m sick of you showing up when I don’t expect it. I think there should be some kind of warning on ads for movies you’re in. Warning: this movie contains a completely gratuitous appearance by Steve Buscemi.”

  “What can I say,” Steve says in that nasally voice of his. “Everybody wants a piece of me.”

  “I know what piece I want.” A girl with long, curly, brunette hair—obviously drunk—has interrupted the conversation. She steps up to Steve and he refills her cup from the keg.

  Dave steps up to the girl, who’s making eyes at Steve. “I’m sorry, but I have to save you from yourself.” He takes the beer out of her hand and sets it down on a nearby table. “Do you have a friend that can take you home before you make an even bigger fool of yourself for coming onto such a funny-looking specimen of man? And a married one, no less.”

  “Married, huh?” She mulls the situation over, teetering slightly. “Oh well. But for the record, I’d take him over some generic-looking frat boy any day.”

  There are boo’s and ooh’s and hisses.

  “Obviously, my presence here is causing some trouble,” Steve says, “so I think I’ll be on my way. But as for you”—he points at Dave—“I’m going to take as many movie parts as I want, okay? So you just keep going to movies and keep watching close, because when you least expect it, baby, expect it. I’ll be right there in your face.”

  After Steve leaves, Dave does a keg stand and spends some time catching up with friends. When you think you’ve paid your keg-party dues, you catch Dave’s eye and point at your watch. He raises his plastic cup and says, “Down in one.” You raise your cup and oblige. You can’t wait to get back to the city, back on the track that will lead you to Sadie. You grab another Jell-O shot on the way out, to make up for lost time. Only then do you wonder if Dave’s fit to drive. Hmmn …

  If you turn to Dave and say, “Give me the keys…,” read on here.

  If you let Dave drive, read on here.

  “Well, I tried. I guess I can’t blame you for ditching a dear, trusted friend, who’s stood steadfast by your side for years, and running off in search of a tawdry one-night stand instead.”

  “Glad you understand.”

  “You know I’d do the same for you, honey.”

  You say your good-byes and walk up to McCormick’s. On the way you pass a deli, and, remembering Peter’s reference to a tawdry one-night stand, you wonder if you should go in and buy condoms. You’re feeling lucky, after all. Or would that be tempting fate?

  If you decide to skip the condoms, read on here.

  If you go in, read on here.

  You say the line that popped into your head.

  “Well that blows that!” Mike throws his hands up in the air, and the rest of the group moans.

  “Why? What?” you ask.

  “Everybody else I’ve asked said, ‘Slowly walking down the hall, faster than a cannonball.’ You blew it, big guy. It was going to be ten for ten.” He shakes his head.

  “Sorry,” you say, and shrug.

  Read on here.

  That Petrol Emotion is blaring from the jukebox in McCormick’s, and a visiting Irish rugby team is taking up most of the space at the bar. You order a drink from the bartender and find standing room between two burly rugby players who are anxious to seem polite.

  “Squeeze in there now,” one says, smiling at you. “Move up, lads. Don’t want her to think we’re a shower of drunken yobs.”

  Just as you’re taking a sip, Suzy approaches you with a guy in tow, and it’s clear that she is completely bombed.

  “Baaaay-beeee!�
� she squeals, running over and hugging you.

  “Suzy! You’re … damp.”

  “Phil and I were trying to see who could pick up a shot glass with their teeth.” She nods at her companion.

  “I’m betting that Phil won.”

  “You’re sho funny, haha, yeah he did. Look, here’s Nick. Nick! My perfect cousin!” She grabs Nick, who’s been quietly minding his own business and trying to order a drink. “I love this guy! Y’know, mebbe I should have eaten something earlier,” she says, swaying gently from side to side as if caught in a summer breeze. “I’m just going’a bathroom.”

  Suzy makes her way unsteadily down the stairs, and Nick rolls his eyes at you. “I don’t know if I can take her to Lindy’s place like this. In the taxi on the way here she was trying to rest her head in the driver’s lap. I love Suzy, but letting her puke all over my friend’s living room doesn’t seem like standard party etiquette.”

  “So what do we do with her?”

  Before Nick can answer, one of the Irish rugby players approaches you.

  “Sorry, but aren’t you with that girl who just came in? She’s passed out downstairs. Completely bolloxed by the looks of her. I’ll help bring her up if you like.”

  Downstairs, Suzy is slumped, in semifetal position, against the door to the women’s bathroom. You try to wake her, but all you get is a mumbled “I shlipped” before she’s out again. The Irish guy, who introduces himself as Liam, helps you bring her upstairs, and the two of you support her while Nick and Phil shuffle uncomfortably.

  “What are you going to do?” Phil asks you in a grating English accent.

  “Me? You’re the one who’s been plying her with shots; maybe you have another bright idea now?”

  “It’s not my fault your friend can’t hold her drink,” he grumbles.

  Liam nudges him. “If stupid gobshites like you didn’t have to get women plastered in order to get a shag this kind of thing wouldn’t happen.”

  “Who are you calling a gobshite?” demands Phil, nudging him back.

  “What is a gobshite?” puzzles Nick.

  “Can we get back to Suzy now?” you ask. “Someone’s obviously going to have to take her home. She’s too out of it to get in a taxi by herself.”

  No one is enthused. Nick is whining about having to get to the party soon. Phil is glaring at Liam. Liam grunts impatiently.

  “God, you’re a useless bunch. Where does she live?”

  “Not far; about a ten-minute drive away.”

  “I tell you what, I’ve got the van outside. I can drive her home, if you come with me and show me the way. The lads are going to be here until closing anyway; we can make it back in half an hour.”

  “That’s very generous of you, but you don’t even know us,” you respond.

  “I know, but it’s no big deal. I could use a break from this crowd.”

  If you and Liam take Suzy home in the van, read on here.

  If you take her home yourself, read on here.

  “Yes!” Mike and company erupt, giving each other high fives and generally whooping it up. “That’s ten for ten,” Mike explains after the initial outburst. “I’ve asked everybody here and some other random people, and everyone’s said the same line. Hey, while we’re at it, Will here is stuck on this eighties song lyric.” He turns to Will. “See if my buddy here knows it.” Mike gestures to you.

  Will opens up a book and reads a lyric: “Several years ago I said good-bye to my own sanity.”

  “Waoh, hold on a minute. It’s in a book?” Mike takes the book, keeping Will’s place, and reads the title aloud. “Who Can It Be Now? The Lyrics Game That Takes You Back to the Eighties—One Line at a Time.”

  He looks at the place the book is open to, then turns the page. “The answer’s right here, you bonehead,” he says to Will.

  “I know, I know. Don’t tell me!” Will covers his ears and starts humming. When he stops he says, “It’s no fun if you use the answer key.”

  Mike hands the book back. “What’s the difference? You’re asking everyone you know if they know it, so if somebody does it’s like you’re looking at the answer key anyway.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “How’s it not the same?”

  “The more people I ask that don’t know it, the more vindicated I am in my belief that it’s a ridiculously obscure lyric that no one in their right mind remembers.”

  “That’s pretty sad, Will.”

  “I don’t understand what the fascination is with all this nostalgia stuff anyway,” Tracy cuts in. “Like, did you get that one rambling E-mail about how great our generation is. I mean, it’s just this long—painfully long—list of TV shows and songs and celebrities that were popular when we were kids. And whoever wrote this stupid thing just strings them all together as if, there’s enough of them, there’s going to be some meaning that comes out of it. After a while you just want whoever wrote it to stuff it. I mean, come on, just because we all had a Sit’n’Spin and a Big Wheel and watched Planet of the Apes and read Choose Your Own Adventure books doesn’t make us one big happy family. Those really aren’t the things that define a generation or a time. Other generations have toys and TV shows, too.”

  “I got that E-mail; I thought it was kind of cool,” Will says.

  “Sure, if you want to be reminded of some things from your childhood that maybe you forgot about. But there’s no meaning inherent in it. I’m just sick of being part of a generation that has to relate every experience to some supposedly commonly shared pop-culture experience for lack of any real grasp of the futility of efforts to ascribe meaning to anything.”

  “Hey,” Mike cuts in excitedly. “You sound like Daria. Didn’t she just sound like Daria?”

  “Oh my god, she totally did,” says Will.

  “I rest my case.”

  If you want to know what song the lyric is from, read on here.

  Otherwise, read on here.

  Unlikely as it might be, right now Liam seems to be the most reliable person in the bar, and at least it’ll save on cab fare. After arranging to see Nick back here in half an hour so he can take you to the party, you and Liam take Suzy out to his van.

  “Sorry there’s no seats in the back, but we can put her lying down on that rug. She’s probably too far gone to feel any bumps along the way. I just hope she doesn’t throw up back there; I’m supposed to be driving down to Florida in this thing, and I could do without the smell of vomit traveling with me.”

  Within fifteen minutes you’re parked outside Suzy’s place. You lift her out of the van and half-drag, half-carry her to the door. Rummaging around in her pocket, you locate her keys and bring her downstairs.

  Urging Liam to make himself at home, you take off Suzy’s boots, pants, and shirt and put her to bed. As you’re hanging her clothes up in the closet, silently congratulating yourself for being such a considerate friend, you spy the new suede jacket she bought last week, and finger it lovingly. You try it on—what the hell—and are admiring the effect in the mirror when Liam comes in and nods appreciatively.

  “Suits you. You should borrow it, after what she’s put you through tonight.”

  “Y’think? It cost her a fortune; she might freak out.”

  “Return it tomorrow; she’ll be too hungover to argue. It really does look good. It, eh, accentuates your best points, if you get my drift.”

  “You’re saying it makes my chest look bigger.”

  “Basically, yeah.” He laughs. “Come on, borrow it—trust a man’s opinion.”

  You hang your own jacket up in place of the suede one. Back at McCormick’s, you buy Liam a drink and thank him for his trouble, and then rejoin Nick, who’s talking to two of the rugby players. Phil is testing the seductive effects of his accent on some other poor sucker, and you’re glad to be rid of him.

  “Let’s have a shot and go, okay? Lindy made me promise to be there early, and I’ve already screwed that up.”

  You drink a shot w
ith Nick and head out.

  Read on here.

  You walk across town toward Woody’s, a hip little restaurant you’ve noticed before but have never gone into. When you pass a park on your left, two in-line skaters crash right into you—each of them clinging to you to try to keep from falling.

  “Sorry, man,” they both say, making sure you haven’t lost your footing.

  “No problem,” you say, anxious to move on.

  A few minutes later you arrive at Woody’s, where Mike’s gang is still hanging out at the bar. “You’ve got to hear this,” he says, pulling you toward him with a strong arm. “Lisa here watched so much TV when she was little that when she got her period she freaked out because it wasn’t bright blue.”

  “Oh, give her a break.” That’s Tracy, the birthday girl. “I mean those commercials brainwash women into hating their own bodies—not to mention brainwashing you into wanting a big white couch no matter how impractical it is.”

  “Watch out.” Will drapes an arm around Tracy’s shoulder. “Tracy’s really got a thing about those commercials—especially the ones where they talk about wings and channels. The only ads she hates more are the ones about makeup that doesn’t rub off on anything.”

  “Well, come on!” Tracy squirms her way out from under Will’s arm. “They’ve got wings, channels, and four walls of protection. Are these people fucking civil engineers? And those makeup commercials. They show you that your foundation won’t wear off on a litter of white puppies! And that’s supposed to be proof! Lisa, when was the last time you nuzzled a litter of white puppies?”

  “Hey, I’m on your side.” Lisa leans over to get her Heineken off the bar. “I’m still upset about the whole blue blood thing.”

  In a lull, Mike reintroduces you to his friends. Will and Tracy both roll their eyes and say, “Mike, we’ve met a thousand times before.” Lisa just smiles. She looks cuter tonight than you remember—something about the hair. Or maybe, like you, she’s tweezed her eyebrows. Something about some kind of hair, anyway. Nonetheless, it’s Tracy you’re happiest to see tonight. She’s your party connection—your luv connection.