As you’re wiping your mouth with toilet paper, there’s a polite knock on the door.
“You alright in there?” It’s one of the bartenders.
“Nyeargh,” you mumble.
“You came in with that guy Peter, didn’t you?”
“Uh-hygh,” is your affirmative reply.
“Well, he’s just poured a pint over someone who complained when he picked fourteen Ramones songs on the jukebox. For his safety’s sake, it might be better if you two get the fuck out of here. You don’t sound in the best of health either.”
Two minutes later you and a contrite-looking Peter, who’s trying to shake rum and Coke out of his hair, are standing outside. It’s raining. Going to the party is no longer an option, nor is there any point. Peter’s suggesting you both go back to his place for coffee. Or maybe you should accept defeat and go for one last drink in the Pub before going home—this night seems to be turning into a catalog of disasters.
If you go with Peter, read on here.
If you go to the Pub, read on here.
“Hold up, guys. I’ve got to see this.” You back up to the corner, where Dave has stopped to look down the street. “Hey, they’re filming a movie. Let’s go watch.”
You throw a questioning shrug at Lisa, and she shrugs back. You follow Dave down the street, which is lined with huge white trailers. Bright lights are making it seem like midday halfway down the street, where cameras are pointing at the entrance to a beautiful old apartment building.
“Holy shit!” Dave grabs your arm. “It’s fucking Kevin Smith.”
“What’s fucking Kevin Smith?”
“Shut up, asshole. It’s Kevin Smith. The director.”
Uh-oh. You’re going to be here awhile. Not only is Dave the kind of film buff who actually asks his video store for a printout of all of his rentals every six months so that he can double-check his own record book—but he’s practically a disciple of Kevin Smith.
As you’re standing there, waiting for something to happen, a guy with a clipboard and a headset comes over. “Hi there, folks. I’m Liam, the extras coordinator, and we’ve had a few people walk since we’re working late. You three would be perfect fill-ins. There’s fifty bucks in it for each of you.”
“I’ll do it.” Dave steps toward the crew guy, like he’s just been picked for his kickball team.
Lisa shakes her head. “I think I’ll pass.”
If you want to be an extra, read on here.
If you want to ditch Dave and go to Spinners with Lisa, read on here.
“Maybe it’d be better if you went.” Perhaps you’re being bitchy, but the situation is likely to get complicated if Peter hangs around, looking for innuendo in everything Mark says or does.
“You’re not mad?” you add.
“Hell no. You, on the other hand, are possibly deluded, but what do I know? Here, take my jacket; it’s raining and I’m not going far.”
You initially refuse, but he’s right; it is raining pretty heavily and you don’t want to arrive at Lindy’s looking bedraggled. By the time you get to Lindy’s you probably won’t even be able to pronounce bedraggled.
Jay and Mark are waiting further up the street, and the three of you continue on to McCormick’s.
It’s so crowded you can barely make your way to the bar. Mark, who’s managed to push his way to the back with you, shouts that you should all go somewhere else—at this rate it’ll take ages just to get a drink. You’re inclined to agree with him.
You leave McCormick’s and stand outside in the drizzle, trying to think of a bar where the risk of being trampled isn’t so great.
“Ted’s house!” says Jay brightly, with the enthusiasm of someone who doesn’t have a good idea very often.
“Country Ted’s?” Mark looks dubious. As well as gorgeous. You can feel your loins clenching. “Country Ted is another high-school buddy of ours,” he says, by way of explanation. “So called because he loves Hank Williams. He still lives with his parents, not far from here.”
Mark nips back into McCormick’s to call him and appears two minutes later, grinning widely. “Guess what? Country Ted’s parents are out of town and he insists we go over for a cocktail. Then he’ll come to Lindy’s with us.”
Country Ted’s parents have a beautiful house. Unfortunately, they clearly have an idiot for a son, but those are the breaks. Ted opens the door wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a Stetson. A Stetson. In his own house. After the guys have done the customary backslapping thing, you all get cozy in the massive living room. Mark nods at a pretty blond girl, about sixteen, curled up on one of the enormous leather chairs. “My sister Alice,” says Ted.
“When do Bob and Carol show up?” you quip. A blank stare from Ted. Oh well.
He hangs your coats up in the hallway and returns to blare some Hank from the stereo and invite you all to help yourselves from the bar. “We have everything … vodka, whiskey, rum, gin, tequila…”
What, no moonshine?
Jay jumps up excitedly and you can tell he thinks he’s had another great idea. “Hey, I nearly forgot, I brought a little present for Mark that we could use right now!” He makes exaggerated snorting noises that are obviously meant to imply cocaine. “Everybody up for it?”
If you say yes, read on here.
If you say no, read on here.
You and Mike meet the rest of the crowd out front and divide into taxis to go to Spinners. Just as you’re climbing into the second cab you’ve hailed, Elizabeth comes rushing up behind you.
“Perfect timing,” she says, pushing into the cab. “So where’s the party, lads?”
Lads? What’s up with that?
“It’s someplace uptown,” Mike answers.
“Who’s throwing it? Is he or she cool?” Elizabeth has taken a mirror out of her bag and is reapplying her lipstick. “Hey!” She bangs on the divider separating the front and the backseat when the driver comes to a short stop. “Hey, you prick, would you take it easy on the brakes there.” She turns to you. “You believe this?”
You don’t know what the hell to believe. Who is this strange woman, and what has she done with that angelic figure you watched on stage for forty minutes? More importantly, why is her vocabulary peppered with English slang?
“So, I’m looking at the lot of you and I’m wondering, is this going to be some lame party filled with people who make their living bullshitting about the people that are really out there doing stuff. Publishing types, that sort?”
“Excuse me?” you ask.
She lights a cigarette, and Mike rolls down his window. Mike works in publishing.
“Oh, lighten up. Has anybody got any speed or anything? I could use a picker-upper if I’m going to be stuck with the likes of you for the next few hours.” When no one responds she keeps talking. “Come on, lads, loosen up. It’s not every night you get to hang out with a rock star.”
“You know one?” Mike says.
“Haaaa. Haaaaa.” You can’t believe this grating woman was capable of singing such heavenly songs. “For your information, wiseass, we’ve already had a hit single in the UK and a review of the band compared me to some of the greatest female lead singers of all time. There are over a thousand Web sites devoted just to moi.”
“So I guess what they say about the Internet being loaded down with a bunch of crap is true.” You’ve never seen jovial, big-personality Mike turn so harsh so fast. He’s usually like the mayor of any room he’s in.
Elizabeth elbows you. “Glad to see you’ve gone on to surround yourself with such sad little bitter people. Then again, you were doing that even back in camp, weren’t you? Who was that friend of yours? Oh, I know. Dave Scalza—the one who organized that silly mock drive-in at camp so everyone could watch a movie. I wonder whatever happened to that geek. He probably works in a video store.”
It’s a good thing Dave went ahead in the other cab. You’d completely forgotten he was at camp that summer, too.
Elizabeth’s s
till on a rant. “I bet he doesn’t have shit to show for himself. He sure as hell hasn’t had a hit record in England.”
If you say, “Alright, that’s it!” and tell the cab driver to stop so you can kick Elizabeth out, read on here.
If you say, “Alright, that’s it!” and push Mike out of the cab, get out yourself, then direct the driver to take the young lady to the airport and see that she gets on the first flight to London, read on here.
“Pierre, how long have we known each other? Too long for you to start getting melodramatic now, right?”
“Cool.” He grins. “Just watching out for you, okay?”
You catch up with the others and go into McCormick’s, but it’s mobbed and none of you feels like staying. Nick is inside though, waiting for Suzy to show—she was last seen at the Upstairs Lounge with her tongue inserted in some guy’s ear. You arrange to meet Nick, and hopefully Suzy, later at Lindy’s. Meanwhile, Peter wants to go to the Old Red for a quick drink. Mark and Jay are willing to give it a try—in fact, as soon as Peter mentions that the drinks are cheap and strong, Jay’s practically running down the street in the direction of the bar.
“He doesn’t get out much,” explains Mark as you race to catch up with him.
The Old Red is small and musty, but at least there are plenty of seats. Strings of colored lights are dangling from the ceiling and all over the bar.
“It looks like a Christmas tree just threw up in here,” Jay comments happily. “Who’s up for a shot?”
“What do you think about playing a few rounds of Jukebox Suicide?” suggests Peter.
“What the fuck is that?” asks Mark.
“One of Peter’s inventions,” you groan.
“Come on, you know it’s fun!” Peter insists. “It works like this: everyone in turn goes to the jukebox and picks what they consider to be the worst song. We get someone impartial to judge—that old bartender guy, say, the one who looks like Robert Duvall. Whoever picks the worst song for each round makes the others drink a shot or do something stupid or answer an embarrassing question, whatever takes your fancy. Also, if two people pick the same song in one round, the others win. Very simple.”
Jay solicits the services of your bartender, and he agrees to judge if you buy him a beer. You choose the first song. There aren’t a lot of truly awful CDs on this jukebox, but you pick a particularly tuneless piece of jazz that you know from experience can ruin anyone’s night, and hope that’ll do the trick. The others take their turns, and you sip drinks and wait for your songs to come on.
The jazz is a popularly bad choice, but Peter is declared the winner of the first round with an excruciatingly long Bob Marley song that has your adjudicating barman biting the rim of his beer glass in annoyance. “No more reggae, or you’re all out of here. That’s another rule,” he barks.
“Okay, my prize…” Peter’s rubbing his hands in anticipatory glee. “Something easy to start with. Jay, you can do two shots, one Jaegermeister, one tequila. Mark, the same. You, my precious, have a choice: the same shots, or whatever Robert Duvall here suggests.”
Tequila and Jaegermeister will most likely knock you senseless. On the other hand, the bartender, who introduces himself as Joe, is leering at you in a manner that suggests he might have something much more embarrassing in store.
If you do the shots, read on here.
If you do whatever the bartender suggests, read on here.
After an executive decision to bypass Spinners is made, you, Elizabeth, and Mike end up sharing a cab while Dave, Lisa, Tracy, and Will get another. You catch Elizabeth gazing at you longingly a few times during the ride and fear that Mike had it right. You + (Elizabeth + Sadie) = Trouble.
You’re only at the party half an hour before the conflict becomes obvious. You’re talking to both women and can tell they know they’re competing with one another. You wish you had mind-reading powers like that little chess-playing alien kid from The X-Files so you could figure out what to do, which one wants you more.
Or maybe you don’t need to read minds.… When Elizabeth goes to the bathroom, Sadie makes it clear—in no uncertain terms—that she’s interested in you. And when Sadie goes to the bathroom, Elizabeth makes that point equally clear. In the state you’re in—you’re drunk enough that you just promised the women that you’d go and rent The Mirror Has Two Faces—this isn’t a dilemma you can handle alone.
If you decide to track down Dave, tear him away from Lisa, and ask for advice, read on here.
If you think this situation calls for more heavy-duty advice and you want to call MTV’s Loveline, read on here.
You tap in booz and close your eyes in silent prayer. Please please please let it work.
Yes! It worked! Now you can get money. How much to take out? Fifty bucks should do it. Relieved to have cash again, you wait for a taxi and then direct it back to the Berlin, silently congratulating yourself on your ingenuity.
But Suzy isn’t in the Berlin. Nor is Dan. Another bartender has taken over, and he tells you that Dan’s shift ended ten minutes ago. The two of them went somewhere together … he doesn’t know where. They might, conceivably, have gone to Sullivan’s to find you. Tired of playing tag across the city, you order a drink and gulp it back, willing yourself to get drunk just so you don’t feel so frustrated and angry.
What to do now? Have another quick drink here, then maybe go to Sullivan’s again? Or give up on Suzy, the party, and Mark altogether for tonight and just go back to your local bar, the Pub? At least you’re sure to see someone you know there.
If you go to the Pub, read on here.
If you have another drink here, read on here.
Everything is going off without a hitch. You met up with whom you needed to meet up with where you needed to meet up with them and when. This is your destiny, to wind your way through a tangle of events to Sadie tonight.
When you step into the apartment where the party is, you feel as if there should be some kind of trumpet fanfare and red carpet. You have arrived!
The only problem is, Sadie never does.
The End
“Hayley, there’s no point trekking all the way out there if it turns out to be the wrong house. Let’s call. How good are you at impersonating AT&T employees?”
She rises gallantly to the challenge, makes her way over to the pay phone, and returns in a couple of minutes with a satisfied grin on her face. “Yes, there is a Ms. or Mrs. Lindy Graham living at that address, and no, she doesn’t want to hear about our new cheap rates to the South Pacific. I could hear music in the background—sounds like there’s a crowd there already. Better finish these drinks and start walking over, okay?”
Lindy’s house is about ten minutes away by foot. As you’re walking past a small park, a man runs across your path, knocking against Hayley’s elbow. “Hey, scuse you!” she yells, and then, picking up the wallet that he just dropped in the confusion, adds, “You lost this!”
But he’s already rushing away, completely ignoring you both.
“Should we chase after him?” you ask.
“What’s the matter with you—don’t you watch TV?” Hayley says in rebuke. “First we have to look inside and find the secret microfiche files that he’s stolen, then David Duchovny will track us down and try and persuade us to part with them, just before Scully turns up and says something like ‘Mulder, you can’t honestly be suggesting that…’ Hold on while I see what’s in here.” She opens the wallet and starts rifling through it.
“Hmm … no credit cards, no address that I can see. Photos … probably the guy’s mother, or else he’s pretty fucking desperate for a girlfriend. A few ticket stubs, couple of receipts…”
“Where from?”
“Hold your horses, Nancy Drew, I’m getting to that … nah, just grocery stores and shit. A three-leaf clover in a plastic card … who the fuck carries around a three-leaf clover?”
“That’s a shamrock, asshole.” You laugh. “Is there any money in there?”
She unfolds a small white envelope that has been crammed into the pocket. Her eyes gleam … that unmistakable Hayley gleam that used to precede stiff talks in the principal’s office and days spent in detention.
“Good gravy. Pills,” she says softly.
“What are they? Do they have a brand name on them?”
“Nope.” She hands them to you. There are two of them … large, white, unmarked tablets. “I wonder what they are. You realize we have to try them and find out.”
“I dunno, they could be anything…,” you demur, though you’re starting to feel like it’d be fun to do something reckless and stupid again. Like being a teenager again, only without the bad skin and the geography homework. “Maybe they’re harmless. They could be vitamins for all we know. What does it say on the envelope?”
She uncrumples it and squints in the half-light. “All it says is ‘For Lance.’ Come on, no one stashes pills in their wallet unless they’re a little bit naughty. I bet Lancey is a real party boy. You want one? If you don’t, I’ll take both.”
If you take one, read on here.
If you let Hayley take both, read on here.
When you get to Spinners, there’s a sign on the door: Closed for Private Party. A man with a clipboard—presumably a guest list—is blocking the entrance.
“We were supposed to meet people here,” Lisa says.
“Well, unless they were on this list, they’re not in there,” the bouncer replies. “Lots of people are going over to the Philosopher’s Club.” He points to a bar across the street.
Big Night Out Page 16
