Big Night Out

by Tara McCarthy

  “Alright, man. If that’s the way you want it, I’ll go by myself.”

  “That’s the way I want it.”

  “Now you’re pissed off at me?”

  “No, I’m just in a mood anyway. Don’t sweat it. I just don’t feel like dealing with Big Mike tonight. That guy’s too much work to be around. Everyone’s always trying to be so witty and cynical and talk about wacky things.”

  “Alright. Then I’m going to go.”

  “Have fun. I’ll catch you later.”

  Read on here.

  “I’ll go with you,” you say quickly. “Later, Mark.”

  “That was very restrained of you,” remarks Nick, when the two of you are picking through piles of Lindy’s CDs. “He’s the guy you like, right?”

  “Yeah, but it’s too early to be holding up a sign that says Fuck me! Fuck me!”

  “I fear you’re overestimating the male psyche, but thanks for giving us credit.”

  You’re trying to dissuade Nick from playing either Neil Diamond or an obscure salsa album when Lindy wanders in, shouting, “Where’s Mark? There’s some woman on the phone for him. Mark, who the hell is calling you here?”

  Nick nudges you. “Now that’s interesting. Wonder who it is. Aren’t you curious?”

  “Not really. Hey look, a Pulp CD.”

  “Don’t change the subject!” He grabs the CD out of your hand. “You absolutely are curious! Come on, let’s go upstairs and listen in on another extension.”

  Nick has dragged you out of the room and halfway upstairs before you can even object. On the way you pass Mark—he’s in the hallway, hunched over a phone, talking intently. “Now you’ve got to be curious,” whispers Nick as he pushes open the door to Lindy’s room. “There’s bound to be a phone in here. And voilà!”

  “Won’t he hear when you pick up?”

  “Don’t worry; I’m an expert at this. Used to listen to my older sister’s phone calls all the time. The trick is smoooooth movements.”

  “Nick, don’t do this. It’s wrong,” you say halfheartedly.

  “Too late! Ssh!” And he hands you the receiver. Reluctantly you take it, holding one hand over the mouthpiece. A woman is speaking, and she’s on the verge of tears.

  “It was just so you could feed my fish!” she wails. “That’s all! There was no one else I could ask and I was going to be out of town for three days! Mark, we’ve been together for two years, why are you being like this?”

  Then Mark’s voice, low but self-righteous. “There was more to it than that. First you’re giving me my own set of keys so I can feed the fish, next thing you’ll want to move in. I just couldn’t handle the commitment. Meg, you even put out a clean towel for me.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.” This was supposed to be said quietly to yourself, but in your exasperation you blurt it out loud.

  “Who was that?” sniffs Meg. “Is someone else on the line?”

  For a second you hesitate and then decide you have to speak. “Um, I just happened to pick up the phone and … that part’s not important. The point is, the reason the two of you broke up is because you asked him to feed the fish and he freaked out, right?”

  She snuffles affirmatively.

  “You’re such a jerk, Mark,” you say.

  “Wait a sec, who is this? What does it have to do with you?” he responds angrily.

  “Absolutely nothing, you’re totally right. But you know what? Women have to deal with this kind of male paranoia all the time, and it’s ludicrous. I mean, how selfish of her. Better to let the fish starve than that you should have to deal with the colossal pressure of owning a set of keys.”

  There’s a click on the line.

  “Did he hang up?” asks Meg.

  “I guess so,” you mutter, suddenly ashamed at your outburst. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, hell, maybe it’s for the best.” She blows her nose. “I can’t believe he made such a big deal about keys. I’ve got to go, okay?”

  You hang up and hand the phone back to Nick. “What happened?” he begs.

  “Meg and I both realized that we could do better.” You sigh.

  You pass Mark on your way downstairs, and he gives you a hostile look.

  “It was you, wasn’t it? Bitch.” He shakes his head as you walk out the door.

  The End

  You start tapping a foot, thinking maybe you’re being too harsh. There must be something redeeming about this band. You try listening to the lyrics:

  “Baby, baby, baby, maybe, maybe, maybe, that baby ain’t mine

  Baby, baby, baby, save me, save me, save me. Tell me that baby ain’t mine.”

  You decide that some sentiments—while entirely valid—just weren’t meant to be put to music. The solution: drink more. You remember once actually enjoying an episode of Home Improvement after drinking a six-pack in an hour; surely with a few more beers you’ll think this band is the greatest thing since Viagra (not that you need it, virile man that you are, but it’s nice to know it exists).

  You turn to Dave. “You want another?”

  “No, man. These guys suck. Let’s get out of here while we can.”

  He turns to leave and you follow, not speaking until you’re outside.

  “Man, those guys sucked.” He’s shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say to Jack when I see him. Maybe if I’d caught a different bus and gotten here five minutes earlier or something they would have been awesome and I would have met the girl of my dreams in the crowd.”

  You and Dave start walking, and he tells you that he had the dream again last night. It’s a recurring nightmare he’s been having ever since he saw The Truman Show many months ago. In it, his life is a TV show and he doesn’t know it; only it’s not a wildly popular show like in the movie, but one that gets canceled after three weeks. You’re not really paying attention, though, what with the possibility of seeing Sadie tonight. You’re fantasizing about tickling her, of her laughter showering you like rain.

  Suddenly, it gets darker. You look up. A dark, purplish gray cloud is rolling toward you and the wind picks up, blowing a sheet of a newspaper so that it gets caught on your leg. You turn around to kick it free just as you feel the first drop, and when you turn back, you can actually see the sheets of rain coming at you.

  “Holy shit.” Dave stops walking. “I feel like I’m on the set of Twister.”

  In under a minute you’re both soaked to the bone.

  “What are we going to do, man, look at me. Look at this.” Dave holds out his hands, and rain collects in his palms in tiny puddles. “I look like Clint Eastwood in that totally hokey scene in The Bridges of Madison County. I mean what are you supposed to take from that, that standing out in the rain with what little hair you have pasted to your forehead is a sign of true devotion? Give me a break.”

  You look around. The only establishment on this block is a strip bar.

  If you point at it and shrug, read on here.

  If you decide to head for Spinners, read on here.

  “Maybe you could show me where he is.” You smile sweetly. “And where the clean towels are?”

  She mutters something under her breath but leads the way out, waving a glass of red wine precariously as she goes.

  “Here he is!” she shrieks.

  Nick looks pitiful. He groans when he sees you and promptly throws up again.

  “You should take him home, darling.”

  “I’m sure he can make it home himself, can’t you, Nick?” You thump him softly with your boot.

  “Ugh. I need to call a cab,” he moans, reaching out to wipe his face with the nearest available soft object, which happens to be a bath mat.

  “I really think you should take him,” Lindy repeats, more icily this time. “Just to be sure.”

  “Is there some reason you don’t want me around?” you inquire.

  “I can’t imagine what you mean,” she sneers, waving her hand around for emp
hasis … the hand that is holding her glass of red wine. It lands all over the jacket you’re wearing. Suzy’s expensive suede jacket. Swearing loudly, you grab a towel and start to wipe it off frantically.

  “You did that deliberately, didn’t you?” you yell.

  “Are you out of your tiny mind? Why would I do that?”

  “Mark, maybe?”

  “Mark?” she spits. “You’re crazy, you know that? I’ve heard enough. Get out of my house. And you, too, Nick … go vomit somewhere else and take your trampy little friend with you.”

  “Lindy, she didn’t mean anything,” he starts.

  “Yes, I fucking did!” you roar.

  “Get out now!” Lindy yells, shoving you and the frazzled Nick out of the bathroom and toward the front door. “I’ll make sure Mark doesn’t get lonely without you,” she leers as the door closes in your face.

  The End

  “Sounds good,” you say to Dave as you finish the rest of your drink. “This place is dead anyway.”

  He smiles at the movie reference, and the two of you head to a new club called Plush. You exchange your flyer for free drinks at the bar, then find yourselves on the dance floor. It’s so dark you can barely see the faces of the people around you and so loud you couldn’t have a conversation if you tried. So you don’t. Instead you find yourself bumping and grinding with a scantily clad woman. She’s practically humping your leg, and you’re getting really turned on. When she pulls you to her and slides her hand down your pants you’re stunned. But almost instinctively you do the same to her. Before you know it, the two of you are fondling one another awkwardly while dancing close enough so that no one can see. Not that they’d be able to if they were looking directly at your crotches, it’s so dark. She slips a condom on you minutes before you lose it; presumably this is to avoid the mess. But after you climax, the condom and the girl both disappear.

  At closing time, you and Dave find each other on the street.

  “What the hell was that place?” Dave says.

  You can tell by the color in his cheeks he had an experience similar to your own.

  “Did something weird happen to you in there?” he asks. “A girl maybe?”

  You nod.

  “And a disappearing condom?”

  You nod.

  “You think they do something with it?”

  The End

  You nudge him in the elbow, and he glances around.

  “Please stop hitting me,” you say. Slight smile, firm tone of voice, nicely handled.

  “Did I do it again?” He shifts around in his chair to get a better view. “Sorry, really. I’m playing a round of our favorite bar game with my friend Bryan here, and he’s getting me all riled up.”

  You just give your most withering look.

  “Don’t be mad,” Bryan chimes in. “Let us make it up to you. Tell you what … you play our game and if you win, we’ll buy you and your friend, let’s see, two drinks each. And even if you don’t win we’ll buy you one anyway. Nothing weird, I swear.”

  Suzy’s still smiling inanely at Dan, and it’s clear there’s going to be no chance of moving her on to another bar for a while, so why not have a go.

  “Okay. Buy me a drink first and tell me how to play.”

  CD-thumping guy, who’s tall and burly and introduces himself as Graham, dutifully buys your drink, while Bryan, who looks unnervingly like Jon Cryer circa Pretty in Pink, explains the rules. “Okay, this game is called Snowball’s Chance in Hell, and it’s very simple. First you have to pick a category. Tonight we’re offering Spice Girls, heavy metal, or, my personal favorite, Tony Bennett.”

  Silently praying that this won’t involve removing items of clothing or doing something lewd with an olive, you pick heavy metal.

  “Good choice. Okay, here’s the deal. We all have to think of the most unlikely words to appear in a heavy metal song. Like, for example, hyacinth. The best word wins. If we can’t choose a winner between us then your friend can judge, okay? Graham, you start,” he prods his friend. “The category is heavy metal.”

  Graham opens with endocrine. Bryan counters with deciduous. The words that are springing to your mind are, for some reason, scone, and Nutella, which must be your mind’s way of suggesting that you really should have eaten something before going out.

  If you go for scone, read on here.

  If you go for Nutella, read on here.

  HOLLYWOOD NEWS

  That Ole Sinking Feeling

  James Cameron Resurfaces After Academy-Induced Breakdown

  For the first time since his labor of love—Titanic—lost all the Oscars that writer/director/producer James Cameron himself was nominated for last year, the director agreed to talk with Hollywood News. Devastated by what seemed to him—and indeed to much of the filmmaking world—a deliberate snub by the Academy, Cameron has only just begun to rebuild the life that fell to pieces starting after the March 1998 Academy Awards.

  Alright, that’s enough of that. Read on here and make another choice.

  You’re not in the mood to start an argument, so you take your drink and look for another seat while Suzy continues chatting to Dan. A couple sitting near the stage are preparing to leave, so you snag their table. Suzy gestures that she’ll be over in a minute. Meanwhile you settle in to listen to the show.

  The band is playing its last song, a slow, pretty version of “Across the Universe.” Whatever the talents of the other members, the singer’s got a certain charm. You can’t help noticing that he’s also got incredibly blue eyes, and they’re focused on you right this minute. He flashes you a quick grin, and, caught off guard, you smile back. The band finishes up, and two minutes later the singer is back onstage, packing up gear. Again you exchange brief smiles—there’s something about this guy that makes it impossible not to smile at him, even at the risk of looking like a dork. He finally climbs down from the stage, hovers around your table looking endearingly awkward for a few seconds, then takes the plunge and asks if he can buy you a drink. You say, “Sure, why not,” and soon he’s sitting opposite you.

  “My name’s Ed. I hope you don’t mind me barging in on you like this. What did you think of the show?”

  “Great,” you lie. “Well, John Lennon isn’t rolling over in his grave yet, anyway.”

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to be polite. We stink. Believe me when I say this isn’t exactly the type of music I want to be playing, but it pays the rent. I’m in another band, a lot different than this crew—maybe you’ll come see us play sometime.”

  The conversation drifts on pleasantly, and it takes a while before you register that Suzy is waving at you from the bar and beckoning you over.

  “Can I get you another drink?” Ed asks.

  If you say yes and ignore Suzy, read on here.

  If you go over to Suzy, read on here.

  You start singing at the top of your lungs.…

  “I know a guy who’s tough but sweet…”

  You pound out a drumbeat on the dashboard.

  “He’s so fine he can’t be beat.”

  Dave cuts you off as soon as you get to the “I want candy” bit. “Alright, that’s enough of that. Go get your stupid candy.” He’s pulled into the 7-Eleven parking lot. When you get out of the car you realize you’re drunker than you thought. You stumble a little as you slam the car door behind you.

  Inside you buy a selection of candy and a Coke to sober you up, if only temporarily. You pick up one for Dave, too. You pass the stuff through the driver’s-side window to Dave and tell him you’re going to check your voice mail.

  You call your answering service, punch in your mailbox number, and find a message from Mike. He tells you they’re having dinner at a place called Woody’s. But the next message is newer. “Alright buddy, I’m leaving you all these messages. I hope you’re not blowing us off tonight. We’re leaving Woody’s now and going to this bar called Spinners. You know Spinners. You took me there once. Anyway, we’ll be there until a
bout eleven, then we’ll hit the party. Hope to see you there.” You check your watch and see that you’ll just make it to Spinners in time.

  You hop in the car and tell Dave to step on it. A mile down the road he gets pulled over for speeding, and they ask him to step out of the car. He can’t walk a straight line, and they give him a Breathalyzer test, then arrest him for drunk driving. You accompany him to the police station and spend the night trying to track down his lawyer father—or anyone who can bail him out. Lo-hoo-hooser.

  The End

  You take the card from her left hand.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” The old lady, who insists you call her Millie, gives the other card to Bill and leans over your shoulder to watch you scratch.

  “Do it slowly!” she urges. “You girls go first … one panel at a time! Wait; use my lucky scratcher!”

  Her ‘lucky scratcher’ turns out to be the lid of a bottle of Tanqueray, flattened into a disc. This is getting more pitiful all the time. Millie’s gaze is glued to the card. “You need three matching numbers to win, don’t forget! Look, a fifty dollar! A ten dollar! Ooh, a five hundred dollar! Another ten! Another five hundred! And, oh dear heavens, another…”

  “Another five hundred! We won five hundred dollars!” yells Suzy. “Millie? Millie?”

  Millie is on her knees, clutching her throat. Her face is purple, and she seems to be having some kind of seizure.

  “Oh fuck, she got so excited she’s having a stroke. Or is it a heart attack? What does it mean when your face turns the color of eggplant?”

  “It means it’s time to call an ambulance, Suzy.”

  “I didn’t win anything,” sighs Bill, holding up his card.

  “Bill! Call a fucking ambulance!”

  Five minutes later Millie is being placed on a stretcher. “I’ll go with her to the hospital,” offers Suzy. “Maybe someone should stay with the dog; it’s going berserk.” Margarita is whining frantically, running around in tiny circles.