You swing around to see Hayley, your high-school drinking buddy, and one of your very best friends. She was the kind of childhood friend that parents automatically, and with reason, label a “bad influence.” You and Hayley don’t see each other much since she got into a serious relationship with Cole, a possessive character who objects to her spending time with her former buddies. Still, she seems happy with him, so maybe he has hidden depths. Very well hidden depths.
Hayley hugs you and says hi to Suzy—they know each other slightly. You’re so pleased to see her you abandon the Nutella debate and go and sit at Hayley’s table, leaving Suzy engaged in happy flirtation. Hayley’s by herself; Cole was supposed to show up, but he just beeped her to say he won’t be able to make it—something came up at work—though he asked her to make sure she’s home by midnight. “So I’m free to party with you for a few hours instead!” She beams. “Like old times!”
Old times with Hayley! Ah, happy memories. Actually, your memories of nights out with Hayley tend to be not just misty and watercolored, but utterly blurred … Hangovers were so inevitable following an evening with her that you started to refer to them as “Hayleys,” as in “Man, my head is killing me. I’ve got an atrocious Hayley,” or “The only thing that cures a really bad tequila Hayley is three Advil and a can of crushed pineapple.”
In any case, you explain to her your need to find Nick, in order to see Mark later, and she suggests going to Sullivan’s right now, if you can drag Suzy away.
You try, but no dice—Suzy is drunk enough, thanks to free Stoli shots from bartender Dan, to be extremely obstinate. She wants to stay here talking to him for at least another half hour and suggests you go to Sullivan’s to try to find Nick.
“But I have no idea what he looks like,” you protest.
“Ask the barman there—he knows Nick pretty well. I tell you what, if you want to go on to Sullivan’s, I’ll follow you there in half an hour and if Nick still hasn’t shown up, we’ll try and come up with Plan B.”
If Plan B is as stunningly ineffective as Plan A, it’s going to be a fairly dismal night, but it seems like those are your only choices.
If you want to go to Sullivan’s with Hayley and hope that Suzy follows you, read on here.
If you decide to stay with her in the Berlin, read on here.
“Four sixty-seven Tenth.” You say this to yourself repeatedly as you watch Dave walk away toward home. “Four sixty-seven Tenth. Four sixty-seven Tenth.”
You’re going to go to that address and see if there are signs of a party. In the meantime, you’ve called Mike and left a message that said to leave you another message, if he gets your message, telling you where the party is because you erased his message. You’re not at your most articulate at the moment.
In your drunken haze, you decide you might as well walk up to Tenth. On the way there, you have a vague sense that people are staring at you, though you’re not sure why. What you do know is that if you don’t concentrate all your energy on walking, you’ll find yourself all over the sidewalk. When you decide to squat down in a doorway to try to clear your head and regain your balance, someone actually tosses some spare change at you. You can’t be looking too good.
Still, you press on. You have to see Sadie. This, after all, is your big chance. A girl like Sadie won’t be on the market for long. So when you discover that there is no 467 Tenth—at least not one where people live; it’s a Kinko’s—you’re crushed. Still, you’re sure the address is just slightly off.
If you suddenly remember with perfect clarity that it’s 467 Ninth, read on here.
If you suddenly remember with perfect clarity that it’s 457 Tenth, read on here.
If what Suzy wants is important, she can come over, you reason. And refusing a drink from Ed now that you’re getting along so well would be rude, wouldn’t it? Of course it would.
A little while later, you reason that refusing a third drink would be exceptionally impolite indeed.
Later still, it seems logical that refusing a fourth drink would be unforgivable. So you don’t. Suzy is still glancing over and making gestures behind Ed’s back that are no doubt supposed to be significant. Something is Definitely Going On, and if you were more sober, and if Ed wasn’t quite so cute (and getting cuter in direct proportion to the amount you drink), you might feel inclined to go over and see what it is. But, ah, fuck it.
“Look,” says Ed, as you sink the last of your fourth drink, “me and the rest of the band are thinking of going somewhere else soon—the drummer’s friend Lindy is throwing a party and…”
“Lindy? Not Lindy Graham?”
“Yeah, that’s it!” He beams. This town is really too small. “Why don’t you come along? You’re here alone, aren’t you?”
“Well actually no, I’m here with somebody; she’s over at the bar, breaking her personal record for alcohol consumption. But we were thinking of going to that party anyway.”
“Which one’s your friend?” he swivels around to look.
“Right th … wait a second. She’s gone. Maybe she’s in the bathroom. I’ll go find her.”
The bathroom in the Berlin has recently been painted, but it already hosts an impressive display of graffiti. Here are the usual inept drawings of various body parts, a couple of alcohol-related quotations, including “I’m no longer living, just looking for excuses to drink,” plus the obligatory lines of tearjerkingly bad poetry, and the equally obligatory review “Get a fucking life!”
The only person in the bathroom is an aging Patti Smith look-alike searching for somewhere to do a line of speed. Long live the eighties. No Suzy anywhere to be seen. Maybe bartender Dan knows what’s happened to her.
“Suzy? She left a few minutes ago,” he says, running a hand through his hair thoughtfully, then checking his reflection in the mirror. “But she left this for you.”
He hands you a napkin covered with Suzy’s unmistakable scrawl. It reads:
“Sorry for rushing off like this. I realized I know that guy you’re with, Ed. He’s someone I’m trying to avoid—long story, I’ll explain later. I didn’t want him to see me here tonight. If you ditch Ed and want to find me, I’ll be in Sullivan’s for a while. Or I’ll leave a message on your machine. Love, Suzy.”
Well, that’s just great. She could at least have said why she was avoiding him—what can his problem be? Psychotic tendencies? Deranged ex-girlfriend? Penis that bears a startling resemblance to Iggy Pop? Maybe you just have to take your chance.
If you stay with Ed, read on here.
If you go to find Suzy, read on here.
Playing pool at the Lunar Lounge is somewhat akin to having sex in the backseat of a car. The pool table is located in a small alcove toward the end of the bar, an alcove too small to comfortably hold a pool table. Still—and here, too, the backseat-sex analogy holds—if there’s a short stick on hand (or should that be a hand on a short stick), people generally find a way.
At the moment, two women are playing what you quickly deduce must be the longest game of eight ball in history. After watching a few shots, you start to wonder whether they’re actually trying to get balls in the pockets at all; maybe there’s some kind of boccie equivalent people play on a pool table? Regardless, beating these two is going to be a cinch. The chalkboard hanging on the wall is clear of names, so you approach and put yours up there, claiming the next game.
“Oh.” One of the women, a short stocky blonde, looks up when she sees you. “We’re just messing around. You guys can have the table.”
“Thanks.” You turn to Chris. “Guess we’re playing each other.”
Just then two guys appear in the alcove. “Well, look who it is,” one of them says to Chris. He’s tall and lean with a tight black ribbed T-shirt and deep blue jeans; he turns his gaze to you, taking you in from head to toe. “And this must be your new friend.”
“It’s not like that, Thomas,” Chris says.
“None of my business.” Thomas covers his ears
with his hands and shakes his head from side to side. “Just looking for a friendly game of pool. I see you already have a partner. Vince here will play with me.”
“Okay, I guess.” Chris looks at you and shrugs.
Thomas’s partner, Vince, starts to rack up the balls, and you take a minute to assess the situation. You’re sure this is the first time you’ve played pool with three gay men; you admit to yourself that you didn’t even think gay men played pool. As stereotypical as it is, if you associate gay men with a recreational sport it’d more likely be Rollerblading—even bowling. You wonder whether Thomas and Vince are going to be any better than the two women who spared you the hassle of wiping the floor with their butts a few minutes ago.
Chris breaks and gets two balls in—one solid, one stripe. He follows up by sinking another two stripes. Thomas pulls a cue stick out of Vince’s hands, obviously determined to go first for his team. He proceeds to sink three solids.
You take a shot on a stripe and miss.
Vince misses a solid.
Chris makes his next three shots, including a tricky combination shot.
“You always were a show-off,” Thomas mutters. Then he proceeds to sink all of his team’s remaining balls. He misses his shot on the eight ball, however.
You’re up. You sink the nine ball, the last remaining stripe, then assess the position of the eight ball. It’s almost directly in line with the cue ball, but on the opposite side of the table. About three inches off the far bumper.
If you think you can cut the eight ball into the right corner pocket, read on here.
If you want to bank the eight ball and bring it back to the pocket nearest you, read on here.
“Thanks, but I should be getting back to my friend now,” you say. “Nice meeting you.”
Suzy greets you warmly. “I had an idea!” She beams. “I’m gonna check my voice mail and see if Nick called!”
You’re genuinely impressed. Considering the amount of vodka Suzy has been knocking back, this is a master plan. On your way to the phone, you and Suzy stop to listen to the guitarist from the band onstage announce that they’re going to hold a little competition—he’ll give a mystery prize to the first person up on stage to tell him which actress, formerly linked with Woody Allen, also has a Beatles connection.
“I know this!” squeals Suzy. “It’s Diane Keaton! I’m absolutely positive! No doubt whatsoever. Though, wait a second … it might be Mia Farrow. Shit … you pick one.”
If you choose Diane, read on here.
If you choose Mia, read on here.
You explain to Lisa that your friend Dave’s supposed to be here and that he owes you money. If you don’t find him, you won’t be able to pay her back for dinner tonight. Or do much of anything. You didn’t get to the bank in time to cash your check.
“Some date you are.” She smiles coyly as she goes back inside, you trailing behind her.
Inside, the bar is packed and it’s a good ten degrees warmer than it is outside. You don’t see Dave and wonder if he’s in the back watching the band. You look at your watch and figure that it’s his friend’s band that’s onstage now. You could really use that fifty bucks—if Dave even has it on him. But you have to pay a cover to get in.
“Well, what are we doing?” Lisa’s standing really close to you, making it seem like she has to because of the crowd.
“I don’t know, he could be in the back, but I don’t feel like paying if he’s not.”
“Oh come on! Live a little. The band sounds pretty good; let’s do it. But first I think you should get me a drink, for recovering your wallet.”
“Okay, what do you want?”
“A Long Island Iced Tea. I need to get a buzz going.”
“Are you sure? Those things are pretty strong.” You know this because your personal experience with Long Island Iced Teas is rather intimately linked to your experience with puking into washing machines. On top of that, Lisa’s already so buzzed it’s a wonder she has anything more than a quarter inch of hair on her head.
“Sure I’m sure.”
Long Island Iced Teas in hand—Lisa forced you to get one for yourself—you use the rest of your cash to pay the eight-dollar cover to get in to see the band. Lisa pays her own way in with a joking huff. There’s a sizable crowd gathered, but with the exception of a few people dancing near the stage, they’re just standing there, staring at the stage. “Come on,” Lisa says. “Let’s go up front.”
If you can’t resist Lisa and head for the front of the crowd, read on here.
If you say, “No, I’d rather hang back here and look for Dave,” read on here.
No doubt the alcohol is helping to lubricate the conversation, but still, you feel comfortable with Nick. There’s a girl sitting near you, evidently waiting for someone. “She’s about to meet a blind date,” declares Nick.
“How can you tell?”
“She’s too nervous to be meeting someone she already knows. Look at the way she’s fiddling with that straw in her drink. And I bet she’s had her hair cut today … see the way she keeps reaching up to pat it, like she’s not quite used to it yet? This is definitely the first time she’s meeting someone. You ever been on a blind date?”
“Lots of blind drunk dates, if they count. You want to ask her and see if you’re right?”
“If I’m wrong I’ll buy you a drink.”
A couple of minutes later he’s back. “I was half right; she’s meeting a guy she talks to on-line. They’ve exchanged photos but never talked on the phone.”
“I guess that’s a deaf date then. Very perceptive of you all the same.”
“Yeah well.” He grins. “When I was little I wanted to be a private detective. I can tell, for instance, that Suzy and that guy over there are going to go home together tonight, but that she’ll probably never hear from him again. He’s got nipplehead written all over him. Every time Suzy’s not looking, he stares at that blond chick who’s playing pool. His eyes are glued to her ass.”
“Assuming you’re right, why don’t you say something to Suzy?”
“Why ruin her night?” He shrugs. “And I don’t think she cares that much—she’s just having fun. And as for you, young lady…”
“What have you concluded about me?”
“Well, Suzy already told me you want to see that guy Mark tonight, so I won’t take credit for noting that your thoughts are elsewhere. But can I tell you something? And it’s only because I like you, so don’t take offense.”
“Go on.” There’s a sinking feeling in your stomach.
“I know Mark pretty well. And he’s not over his girlfriend yet. They were together for two years, you know? I’m not saying you don’t have a chance with him; in fact, I don’t doubt you could get him tonight if you wanted. But if you want more than a one-night stand, you should wait till he’s got his act together. I’m not trying to interfere, honestly.”
“What happens if, in waiting till he has his act together, I wait too long and he starts going out with somebody else?”
“Why would he want to go out with someone else if he could go out with you? Alright, that sounded corny, but … I’m not saying wait for months. But don’t ruin it by rushing in.” He pauses. Then: “Come outside with me for a minute.”
“What for?”
“Just trust me.”
He’s smiling innocently, but there’s been a definite shift in the direction of this conversation. Is his concern just a thinly disguised pass? Should you be flattered or annoyed?
If you go with him, read on here.
If not, read on here.
After your first drink on Howard, you and Dave have loosened up a good deal. So has Howard’s party, all of whom seem to be knocking back drinks faster than the waitress can bring them. You end up joining their group but, unfortunately, hardly have any contact with Howard. Instead, you find yourself being monopolized by this guy whose voice you’re sure you recognize from the show; he’s that guy who’s always talkin
g, always making you want to tell him to just shut up and let somebody funny talk. Like much of the party, he strikes you as someone whose sole source of self-esteem is the fact that he works for Howard Stern.
When the guy on your other side starts to tell you what he thinks is a fascinating story about how he came to be an intern at the Howard Stern show—he’s a fucking intern!—you decide you need to start drinking faster. The next time the waitress comes by, you order two drinks for yourself and another two for Dave, who’s talking to the Baldwin.
Before long, you’re completely sloshed and big chunks of the night start to disappear. Eventually, you look at your watch, and when you see that it’s 12:30 you’re stunned. You get up to retrieve Dave from the other side of the table—you’ve got to find Mike, the party, Sadie!—but you trip on your way over and fall into Howard’s lap.
“Hey, get the fuck off me, man. Not my idea of a lap dance.”
You get up and make your apologies, then try to talk Dave into leaving, but you’re having a hard time making sense. Dave isn’t in any better shape, and Howard apparently notices. He signals over to the door, where his driver is sitting at a table alone.
Before you know it, you and Dave are in a limousine and the driver’s asking you where you live. Dave gives his address and you fall asleep. When you wake up, it’s because Dave’s getting out of the limo and poking you. “I’ll call you tomorrow, man. Do you believe how great this night was? Howard Stern, man. Howard Fucking Stern. And his limo!”
The driver asks where you live and you tell him. You pass out on your bed, fully clothed, and wake up the following morning having wet yourself.
The End
Unsurprisingly, Serge reacts keenly to the idea of moving the action to his room. In fact, you’re barely in the door before he’s grappled you from behind and is playfully tugging at your shirt while ripping his own clothes off. This is becoming more unappealing by the second. Then, he grabs you, spins you around, you look down, and …
Big Night Out Page 10
