Big Night Out

by Tara McCarthy

  “What a drag,” you cluck sympathetically. And then something occurs to you. “But you must know a lot of the addresses in it by heart, right? Like, say, Lindy’s?”

  He glares at you. “No, I don’t know her address by heart; that’s what the address book is for. For addresses. Thanks for being so fucking sympathetic.”

  Yikes. “Sorry.”

  “Forget it. No point turning the night into a total disaster. I know I’ve got her address written down at home. You wanna come back with me and get it?”

  Suzy is so wrapped up in her new man, whom she introduces as Phil, that you’d feel awkward staying in the bar without Nick, so there’s no option but to leave with him. You get a cab to his place and wait while he sorts through a pile of papers on his desk to find Lindy’s address. “Got it! Knew it was here somewhere.” He beams.

  “What are all these trophies for?”

  “Those? Oh, bowling mostly. I used to be pretty good. Still am, in fact.… Hey! Why don’t we play a quick game? There’s a bowling alley right up the block! We’ll just stay for half an hour, okay? Come on, I insist. I need something to cheer me up.”

  There’s no talking him out of it; Nick is adamant. He promises to get you back to the Upstairs in time for the party, but he won’t budge till he’s played a game. Grudgingly you accompany him to Bowlorama, keeping an anxious eye on the clock.

  Nick might be a champion bowler, but his game is definitely off tonight, doubtless a result of all the Maker’s Mark he’s been throwing down his throat. You’re beating him, and he’s growing increasingly sullen and irritable. If he loses, he might sulk all night—maybe he’ll even refuse to go to the party. The male ego being what it is, you toy with the idea of deliberately losing just to make sure that doesn’t happen. But you want to win. You deserve to win. Nick’s a big boy; surely he can cope with being beaten by a woman?

  If you throw the game, read on here.

  If you play to win, read on here.

  Among those you’ve just been introduced to for the first time is Chris, and you find yourself making eye contact often as you both observe what’s going on. Something deep within you stirs. This is no ordinary eye contact, and it’s obvious the two of you need to talk.

  When you do, you can’t help but feel this is the first time you’ve ever been understood in your whole life. Chris seems to know exactly what to say to you, even seems to be able to anticipate what you’ll say in return. Is it possible that soul mates really do exist? And that you’ve found yours in this most unlikely place, on the very night you set out to end up with someone else entirely if it was the last thing you did? You’ve never before felt so strong an attraction, not like this anyhow …

  If Chris is short for Christopher, and the person arousing such strong emotions in you is, perhaps to your own surprise, a man, read on here.

  If Chris is short for Christine, and the person arousing these strong emotions is a woman, read on here.

  “A pitcher it is then, sweetie. Let’s get trashed, shall we?”

  Within half an hour you’re ordering another pitcher and feeling giddily bombed. Suddenly the world, and everything Peter says, is hysterically funny, and only the fact that a burrito the size of a torpedo is already congealing in your stomach is keeping you from slumping over the table.

  “You know,” says Peter, waving a tortilla chip in your face and adopting the trademark French accent he always resorts to after a few drinks, “Eet truly ees a gurrrrreat playzure to be een your company.”

  “Really, Monsieur, you are exqueeseetly kind.”

  “You theeenk? Non, petit Pierre ees just eeen ’onest mood. So eef there ees anything you want to ask Pierre, ask away.”

  “Any theeeng?”

  “Mais oui. To you, Mademoiselle, Pierre ees an open book.”

  You think about it for a moment, not very lucidly. By now you’re tempted to blow off the party altogether and just see what happens with Peter. He’s never seemed this interested in you before—that is, if it is interest, and not just tequila. How can you tell the difference? Hey wait a second, that’s not a bad question.

  If you ask him, “Are you interested in me or is it just the tequila?” read on here.

  If you wait and try to think of something else, read on here.

  “I Don’t Mind at All” by Bourgeois Tagg

  To resume your adventure, read on here.

  “Fine, you can come.”

  “I can? Hurrah! Pierre’s going to a party!”

  By the time you get to McCormick’s, the place is heaving with sweaty bodies, two of them belonging to Suzy and a guy she introduces as Phil. They’re pawing each other unashamedly. Somehow, though, you manage to persuade her to take her leg out from between the guy’s thighs long enough to get to Lindy’s.

  Lindy’s house is gorgeous, and she’s assembled a pretty good crowd, including—yes!—Mark. All alone! In the kitchen! Sans annoying girlfriend! Now that you’ve finally got here, you’re not going to lose any valuable time … You march right up to him and start a conversation. You’re starting to inch perceptibly closer when the sound of raised voices in the next room leads him to investigate.

  He returns a few seconds later. “There’s some asshole in there who’s taken control of the stereo and is playing ‘Sheena Is a Punk Rocker’ over and over again,” he fumes. “I don’t think Lindy even knows who he is. Why do idiots like that think they can just take over?”

  “Sheena Is a Punk Rocker”? That’s Peter’s favorite song. You don’t even need to peer out the door to know that it has to be him. The song starts up for what must be the sixth time in a row, and Mark bangs his glass down on the counter.

  “Okay, that’s it. I’m going to put an end to this.”

  It’s hard to know which is more annoying—Peter’s holding the stereo hostage or Mark’s acting like a rutting stag. You take your drink and wander into the living room just in time to see Mark punch Peter squarely in the face. Peter punches right back. It continues in this vein for a few seconds, both men aimlessly beating the crap out of each other, until Lindy hears the scuffle from the next room and tries to intercede.

  “Break it up, you morons. The little testosterone display will have to take place somewhere else.”

  Peter stands there looking sulky, and Mark makes an elaborate display of putting his arm around Lindy. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to cause a scene. But this little dork with his pathetic Ramones fixation…”

  He gets no further than that; Peter yells, “Alright, that’s it!” and swings again, but this time Mark ducks and Peter’s fist collides with Lindy’s jaw. She sinks to the floor and Peter gazes at her, horrified. You hear someone talking about calling the police. Grabbing Peter, you drag him out of the room and toward the door.

  “Wow, you’re leaving the party to save me?” he asks as you hurry with him up the street, hoping to find a taxi before someone chases after you. “Are you my best friend or what?”

  “You have no idea.” You grimace.

  The End

  You order a burger, medium well, and are surprised when Lisa places her order—“I’ll have what he’s having”— then turns to you and smiles. You’ve been out with her before and she never took notice, but just a few minutes ago she made a pretty obvious effort to sit next to you. You take this as proof that tonight is going to be your lucky night. Proof that tonight, you’re putting out the vibe. So as the conversation turns to music, you drift into your own world and start to fantasize. Because hey, if things with Sadie don’t work out, there’s always Li—

  “Well, I like Celine Dion.”

  You look at Lisa, stunned, and remind yourself that there’s always all those pictures you downloaded from the Net, and your right hand. You draw the line at Celine Dion.

  “Celine Dion I don’t get.” Tracy shakes her head as she swallows a swig of beer. “But I heard that Mariah Carey has an eight-octave range. Who can’t be impressed by that?”

  You, Will
, and Mike all raise your hands, then bust out laughing. Lisa elbows you in what strikes you as a very girlfriendy move. You’re not entirely sure whether you like it or not.

  At meal’s end, when the check arrives, you go for your wallet. Only it’s not there. You check your pockets, then think it must be in your jacket. Only you’re not wearing one.

  “What’s wrong?” Lisa’s looking at you, appearing concerned.

  “My wallet’s gone.”

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  “I had it.” You sound pretty obnoxious. “And now I don’t.”

  Mike goes for his pocket and feigns shock. “Oh my god, my wallet’s gone, too.” He winks at you deliberately. “Looks like neither one of us can pay for our dinner. Hope you folks don’t mind.”

  Everyone’s laughing except you and Lisa.

  “When did you last have it?” she asks.

  You tell her that you bought yourself a drink at the Lunar Lounge.

  She puts in extra cash for your meal and says, “Come on, I’ll go back with you.”

  “It’s a long walk,” you say. “I’ll go and meet up with you later.”

  “You stay with these guys, Lisa,” Mike cuts in. “I’ll go with him and we’ll meet you at Spinners.”

  They both look at you.

  If you accept Lisa’s offer to go with you to the Lunar Lounge, read on here.

  If you accept Mike’s offer to go with you, read on here.

  You’re feeling confident now. You look good and you’re pleasantly drunk; within a few minutes you’ll be seeing Mark at the party and it makes sense to be prepared. You give yourself a little pep talk as you stand at the counter, trying to decide what brand to buy. This is your night! Nothing can go wrong now. Mark wouldn’t want flavored, would he? Nah, that’s tacky.

  “Actually, I find the ribbed ones are best. ‘For her pleasure,’ you know?”

  That voice behind you … under any other circumstances you’d be overjoyed to hear him, especially to hear him addressing you, but right now—with a packet of featherlight Trojans in your left hand and the lime ones that you were toying with in your right—you can think of nothing worse.

  “Mark!” You put the condoms back and try to turn your grimace into a smile. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just buying beer.” Holding up a six-pack of Sam Adams as evidence, he lets out a laugh eerily reminiscent of Beavis. “Not as interesting as what you were buying, I admit.”

  “Haha, very funny.”

  “Wow, you’ve turned bright red. Hey, were they meant for me? They were, weren’t they? I’m flattered! But I usually bring my own—buy ’em in the big boys’ store.”

  Oh no, Mark, please don’t do this. Don’t turn into an asshole now, just when it was all going so well. But he’s ogling your chest, and you can feel all traces of lust fading from your loins. This is terrible. Mark continues making inane comments, and you finally put the condoms back on the counter.

  “Not buying them?” He winks. Actually winks.

  “No … I don’t think I’ll be needing them. Think I’ll have an early night instead.”

  “That’s a shame. Guess I have to find someone else to use these on.” He pats his jacket pocket and laughs again.

  “My loss, no doubt. See you around, Mark.”

  As soon as you get to McCormick’s, you push your way to the bar and order a shot. After knocking it back, you look around for Suzy. She’s already making her way toward you, looking drunk and happy.

  “Ready for the party?” she beams.

  “Can we skip it? I’d rather just stay here and get bombed.”

  “Sure, if that’s what you want. I didn’t have any reason to go anyway. Did something happen? Do you want to talk about it?”

  Shaking your head, you hold up your empty glass. “Here’s to beautiful illusions.”

  The End

  You have a couple of beers while the rest of the crowd chows down at Woody’s. The food looks awesome, and if you had more money you would probably eat. As it is, you’re too anxious to keep your buzz and get on with the evening’s main event: your seduction of Sadie, the laughing lovely.

  You’re thrilled when Mike decides that the group’s animated conversation about the greatest sequels never made—his personal favorite is There’s Something Else About Mary, but you still think I Know What You Did Two Summer Ago is kind of funny—will have to be stopped and resumed again at Spinners.

  You divide up into cabs and head for the next stop. There, in a barn of a bar filled with fraternity types, you resume your drinking. No one else seems to be keeping pace, but you don’t mind. At least not until they start complaining that they’re not feeling well. When Tracy moans about feeling sick, you panic. She’s your ticket to the party Sadie’s going to be at. Your ticket to ride, as it were.

  When she disappears to the bathroom for an inordinate amount of time, you get edgy. What if Tracy bails?

  Sure enough, Tracy comes back and says she’s got to go home. Mike, who has also been complaining of not feeling well, says he just puked in the bathroom and needs to leave before it happens again. Will is going to go home with Tracy, obviously. And Lisa decides she might as well just share a cab with Mike since he’s on the way; she’s not feeling so great either. They deduce they got some kind of food poisoning at Woody’s. Much as you’re glad you didn’t eat, this is a disastrous turn of events.

  With no one to go to the party with, you admit defeat. There will be other chances to see Sadie, surely. Under better circumstances. You head toward the Pub to see if anyone’s around and, because there’s no one you especially want to hang out with there, you put your name up to play pool and drink heavily. Last call—and the last game of pool—are called just before your name comes up. You go home alone, pissed off and positively shit-faced, having consumed almost one alcoholic beverage for every hour you haven’t eaten (sixteen). You wake up with the sensation that someone’s grabbing the front of your brain and squeezing it really, really hard. There’s not a painkiller in sight.

  The End

  “It’s very nice of you, but I think I should take her home myself.”

  “No hassle; whatever you want.” He shrugs, looking slightly offended.

  Nick says he’ll be leaving McCormick’s in half an hour, enough time for you to drag the semiconscious Suzy home and get back to the bar. A taxi is just pulling up, thankfully, and you bundle Suzy in before the driver gets a chance to see how drunk she is. The fare uses up the last of your cash, but not to worry, there’s a bank near Suzy’s place. As soon as you’ve helped her to her door, found her keys, escorted her to her room, and bid her good-bye as she cries “Thanksh for the great nishe!” you head for the ATM.

  You’ve just taken out fifty dollars and are shoving it in your purse when, in the glass of the ATM machine, you see the reflection of three girls standing directly behind you. Their gaze is practically burning a hole through your bag; it’s like they’re all looking out of the same pair of eyes. Shit.

  One of these girls you could tackle, maybe even two. But three? Not a chance. And it’s a good bet that they’re carrying something a little more dangerous than lipstick in their pockets.

  “You got any change?” One of them, the self-appointed leader, addresses your back.

  Deciding to brazen it out, you spin around to face them, say “No” in as authoritative a voice as you can muster, and start to walk away.

  “Hey, where ya going?” she persists. They’re following you now.

  “Home.”

  “I don’t think so. I think we should hang out for a while now that we’re all friends.”

  You stay silent and keep walking. They’re about three feet behind you.

  “Hey, you hear me?” she continues. “I’m talking to you! Don’t be so fucking rude!”

  The street is deserted apart from the four of you, and there’s no way you’ll be able to outrun them for very long—your new boots may look swanky, but they weren
’t bought for sprinting.

  “Just give us the money,” says one of the others. Her mouth is almost level with your ear—you can smell her chewing gum. She makes a grab for your bag, and impulse takes over. You run. You didn’t even know you could run this fast. If only there was a store nearby, something … Then you spy it—about a hundred feet in front of you, across the street, there’s the twinkling sign of the local taxi company. They’re still open. Thank God. You race over and hurtle through the doors, colliding with one of the drivers who’s hanging out having a smoke.

  “Hey, you need a taxi or an ambulance?” He chuckles, grabbing your shoulders. “Slow down!”

  Panting and sweating, you lean against the wall, loving every shabby poster and morsel of flaky paint in the place. Through the glass door you can see the trio hanging back on the corner. “I need a car to get me home,” you gasp at last.

  “Sure, two minutes. Sit down and relax, okay? We’ll get you home.”

  The End

  Dave looks at you like you’ve got two heads. “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘They suck, let’s go.’”

  “This, from a man who can’t even blow into a beer bottle and get a note out of it?”

  “Come on! You actually like this?”

  “You know what? Why don’t you just go off and do whatever it is you really want to do tonight? I know I’m only here so you don’t have to go anywhere alone and that you’ll ditch me by night’s end to be with, what’s her name again, Sadie Hawkins?”

  “Her last name’s not Hawkins.”

  “Can you be sure?”

  You can’t be. You don’t know Sadie’s last name. But surely you would, if it were Hawkins. People talk about stuff like that. And wouldn’t she have asked you out by now if that was her name?