You cross the street to the Philosopher’s Club and scout around inside for Mike. No joy. Dave, however, discovers that the “Philosopher of the Day,” written on a blackboard above the bar, is David Hume, and since he shares the same first name, Dave can drink for free all night. Lisa decides to press on to find Mike and co., but Dave wants to land at least a few free pints and insists he can sneak some in for you. Lisa gives you the address of the party and leaves.
You find a remote corner and wait for Dave to go to the bar. He returns with a pint, from which you both drink for a few minutes. Then he tells you to keep the rest of it and roots around for an empty pint glass. He goes back up to the bar with the empty glass and comes back with a fresh beer. “This is going to be a piece of cake,” he says.
“You don’t think they’ll catch on if you keep going up at this pace?”
“What are they going to do? Kick me out?”
And that’s precisely what happens when the two of you are very obviously drunk as skunks about an hour later, still not having paid for one drink. Out on the street, you search your pockets and can’t find the address of the party. You won’t find it until you do your laundry next week. C’est la vie!
The End
“Sure,” you say, and then realize that Ted is glaring at Jay in a manner that implies he’s just committed some terrible faux pas. Mark is gazing at the floor.
“I guess you haven’t seen Mark in a while, huh,” says Ted. “He doesn’t do that anymore.”
“Thank you, Ted. No, I don’t do that anymore.” Mark shrugs.
“Because of Meg, you know?” adds Ted. “The girl he just broke up with, the one who spent the last three years coked out of her head and then moved on to every other drug known to mankind before her parents found out she was ripping off money from all her friends, including Marko here, and forced her into detox…”
“Can we stop now?” implores Mark. So that’s why he and his girlfriend broke up. You had no idea. “You guys do whatever you want. I suddenly don’t feel like the party. Maybe I’ll go call Meg and see how she’s doing.”
“If you feel you should, okay,” says Ted gently. Oh wonderful, now he’s being sensitive.
“I’m sorry, I had no idea…,” you begin, feeling like the world’s biggest asshole.
“Not your problem. You couldn’t have known. I’ll see you around, okay?”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving you, Ted, Jay, and Alice listening to Hank crooning “Long Gone Lonesome Blues.”
Appropriately enough.
The End
“Whoa, dude,” Dave says, once you’ve explained the situation. “It’s like you’re Robert Downey Jr. man. How cool is that?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Only I don’t feel like spending the next two hours in a hyperactive dialogue about how I don’t see why the three of us can’t all live together in perfect harmony. So what do I do?”
“I don’t know. Let me think about how I’ve seen this handled before.”
You can only imagine what Dave’s going to come up with.
“Well, cloning’s out. Though if there were two of you that would solve everything.”
What were you thinking asking for his advice?
“You don’t happen to have an identical twin you’ve never told me about who’s less than an hour away, do you?”
You tell Dave to forget it. You’ll make the decision yourself.
At that very moment, Elizabeth comes up to you and says, “Take me home with you now.”
If you decide that you’re going to stick to the original plan and pursue Sadie, read on here.
If you decide it was fate that Elizabeth Albern came back into your life this very night, read on here.
“I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Me too; I don’t really do that anymore,” says Mark.
“No problem, more for me later.” Jay shrugs.
About half an hour goes by and the conversation has turned, inevitably, to country music. Mark has shifted seats so that he’s now beside you, one arm draped loosely on the back of the couch. You’re both laughing at Ted, who’s lambasting any band he considers “new country” while Jay pleads the case for Wilco and Son Volt, a case weakened by the fact that Jay is on his fourth whiskey and his statements don’t extend much beyond “Fuck, yeah!” and “They rock, man!” Suddenly Ted pushes his Stetson back from his head, peers around, and asks “Where’s Alice?” No one noticed her leave.
Ted wanders out of the room to look for his sister, and the next thing you hear is an earsplitting “Alice! You stupid little bitch!” that drowns out even the godlike strains of Hank.
Out in the hallway, Alice is slumped on the floor amid a pile of coats. Obviously, she went in search of some of Jay’s “present” and overdid things a little. Or a lot, judging by the state of her.
“Christ, it was only a little coke … it’s not even very good shit. What the fuck is wrong with her?” Jay is whimpering. “Hang on though,” he adds, wrenching the envelope out of her hand. “This isn’t even my stuff. What is this? Who owns it?”
Mark and Ted both plead ignorance—and you’re about to do the same when you realize that Alice is sitting on the jacket you borrowed from Peter. Whatever Alice has just shoved up her nose must have been in his pocket. Ohfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
“I’m not sure what it is but I know where it came from,” you start, but Ted cuts you off with a withering look.
“I don’t give a shit where it came from. I’m calling an ambulance and I want you all to get the fuck out of my house. Christ, Mark, couldn’t you have found a woman with a brain?”
You’re about to argue drunkenly that this is hardly fair coming from someone who wears a Stetson in his living room, but now is evidently not the time. Instead you grab Peter’s jacket and make for the door, Jay and Mark following quickly behind.
You could kill Peter. You could hit yourself. Unfortunately neither option is going to be much help right now, with Jay—Jay!—glowering at you as if you’re a prize idiot and Mark stonily silent.
A taxi pulls up and you climb in, alone. As the car passes Mark, he deliberately looks the other way.
The End
You completely piss Elizabeth off when you ask her to back off because you’ve been interested in Sadie for ages and it looks like you finally have a shot at her. She leaves the party in a huff, accusing you of being heartless for bringing her in the first place if this is how things were going to turn out.
It all seems worth it, however, as your conversation with Sadie gets progressively more touchy-feely. You know the way women get when they’ve had a few; they start leaning in real close, touching your arm—maybe even your leg if you’re sitting—to emphasize a point.
When the party starts to break up, you suggest that perhaps you and Sadie could go somewhere else to talk. She invites you back to her place and leads you to the living room. You figure she’s just playing a little hard to get, postponing the inevitable; you’ll engage in some kissing and groping awkwardly on the couch before moving somewhere more comfortable. But when Sadie doesn’t suggest moving to her room by the time you feel the urge to delve below the belt, you make your move, sliding your hand up her skirt to caress her inner thigh. She throws her head back and laughs—imagine the essence of Shirley Temple captured—and you want her more strongly than ever.
“That tickles,” she says, her warm mouth pressed against yours.
But when you head for home, she stops your hand with hers. “Not tonight,” she says.
You groan.
“I’ve got my period.”
After making out awhile longer, you get up and say, “I guess I should get going.”
“You could stay.” Sadie pulls you back toward her. “I’d like to sleep with you if I can’t sleep with you.”
The two of you go to her room and go to bed, her supple body seemingly molding to fit yours perfectly. This must be love.
Or at least you think so until Sadie st
arts to snore something fierce. You feel like you’re in bed with an eight-year-old who’s learning how to play the tuba. You don’t get any sleep whatsoever, and when you wake up, Sadie’s got the worst morning breath you’ve ever encountered. You make a swift exit and—because Mike calls and tells you he gave Sadie your number—you screen your calls for a week. To your relief, Sadie gives up after call number three.
The End
You down the Jaegermeister first. Ugh. Jay hands over the tequila, and you’re contemplating the glass when, as if by magic, the door opens and Suzy is there, one hand on the wall to support herself, the other pointing in your direction.
“You!” she yells.
“Hi, Suzy.”
“Not you. Him!” She’s pointing at Jay.
“Oh fuck…” Jay is wearing the look of a startled bunny rabbit.
“You know him?” you say to Suzy.
“I thought you were still living in Buffalo,” mumbles Jay.
“No, asshole,” she fumes. “But then I wouldn’t expect you to know that—after all, when’s the last time we saw each other? Must be, ooh, the day you ran off with my friend Belinda. A week before our wedding. A fucking week, Jay. Never thought I’d see your sorry ass again. Then tonight I met a friend who told me you were back in town, and I’ve spent the last hour combing every bar in town looking for you, you pathetic, slimy, minidicked little…”
“Minidicked, really?” interjects Peter. “See, he looks like a big fella. I guess you can never tell.”
“… conniving, back-stabbing, wanky…”
“Wanky? Is that a word?” mutters Mark.
“Shut up!” screams Suzy. You have never seen her this mad. Nor had you ever heard of an ex-fiancé, but then Suzy doesn’t talk about her past much, understandably if Jay is typical of her ex-boyfriends. She picks up an ashtray from the table and hurls it toward Jay. Who is standing next to Mark. Who gets it smack in the face.
“Don’t mess up his face!” you blurt, unthinking.
Mark clutches his head, stunned, then turns angrily to you. “Christ, can you get your insane friend out of here before she kills someone?”
“I’m leaving,” says Jay, preparing to scuttle out the door. “Suzy, I’m sorry about everything, but there’s no need to get violent.”
Suzy is clearly still of the opinion that there’s plenty of reason—you can hear her bellowing profanities and threatening grievous bodily harm as she charges out after him.
Mark holds his head and winces. There’s a cut over his right eye that’s bleeding slightly, and the beginnings of a nasty bruise. You’re just about to ask him if he wants to go to the emergency room when he answers the question for you by collapsing onto the floor, banging his head again for good measure.
“Shit,” sighs Joe, picking up the phone to dial 911.
Ten minutes later you, Peter, and a barely conscious Mark are in an ambulance bound for the nearest hospital. On the bright side, you’re definitely going to be spending the night with Mark; pity it’s going to be in the emergency room.
The End
You sneak into the back bedroom and pick up the phone. You dial information and ask for the number for MTV’s Loveline. If anyone can give you advice about your current dilemma it’s Adam Carolla and Dr. Drew—and whatever lame WB Channel “star” they have as their guest.
Once you have the number, you dial it. An operator answers, asks you for your question, your age, and your name; you tell her you’d like to use the pseudonym Oscar. Dr. Drew and Adam, she promises, will be with you shortly.
You’re put on hold and get to listen in on the show. The girl on the line is asking whether she should be worried about any of her internal organs if she has one penis in her vagina and another up her butt, both thrusting at the same time. Adam’s asked her if she’s interviewing candidates, and Dr. Drew is saying something about being worried about her heart; she doesn’t get that he doesn’t mean that her actual heart is in physical danger. Man, these people are dumb, you think to yourself.
Then there are some commercials and suddenly the volume gets louder.
“Okay, we have Oscar on the line. What’s the problem, Oscar?”
You recognize Adam’s voice.
“I’m at a party,” you explain, “and there are two women who want to go home with me.”
“I’ll repeat the question,” Adam says. “What’s the problem?”
You hear laughter.
“Oscar”—you recognize Dr. Drew’s more stern voice—“have you been drinking?”
“Yeah, I’ve had a few beers—and a coupla shots. That’s not the problem.”
“I think that may be the problem exactly.” Dr. Drew is talking, but not to you. “Can you hear him? He’s slurring his words. He’s obviously drinking more than he can handle, and I imagine it’s a pattern. Oscar, is there a history of alcoholism in your family?”
“No,” you say. “But there is a history in my family of getting laid by two women in one night and I’m not sure I want to fall into that pattern. Can you help me? Please?” You’re pretty proud of your witty comeback.
“Hey, Oscar. Oscar, you there?”—then a pause in which you say, “Yeah”—“Your parents looking to adopt another kid? ’Cause that sounds like my kind of family.”
“You hear the anger here?” Dr. Drew is persisting in spite of Adam, and you envision their guest nodding sympathetically while sitting on the couch beside them. “He’s lashing out at us—the very people that are trying to help him. That’s because of the alcohol. And he probably isn’t aware of it. A lot of people in this situation know they need help on a certain level but fear the vulnerability of admitting that.”
“Yoohoo,” you say, “remember me?”
“Yeah, Oscar, here’s the deal. You know you like one of them more than you like the other one. Am I right?” Adam’s trying to get to the root of the problem.
“Well, this might be the only chance I ever get with one of them and she’s gorgeous. The other one, though, she’s a real catch. More of a long-term interest.”
“Oscar, listen to me.” Dr. Drew’s at it again. “Don’t go home with either of these women tonight. You’ve had too much to drink. You’re at a much greater risk of having unprotected sex. And it’s just not a wise thing for you or anyone to be doing. This is an explosive situation. Get out of there now. Go home, sleep it off, and get help.”
“Come on, Drew. Give the guy a break. I say go home with both of them if you can, go home with the gorgeous one otherwise, and work your apparent charm on the long-term interest next time you see her. And whatever you do, don’t be dumb. Use a condom. Alright? And go easy on the bottle. See ya, Oscar.”
The line goes dead. You’re not any more sure about how to proceed than you were ten minutes ago. You lie back on the floor to try to compose yourself and clear your head. Maybe Dr. Drew had a point. You’ve had way too much to drink. The room is spinning, so you close your eyes to try to steady things before you get up.
Just then you hear a woman’s voice. “Come in here where we can talk in private.” Whoever it is obviously can’t see you lying down on the far side of the bed.
You lie very still so as not to reveal your presence.
“So what are we going to do?”
You recognize Mike’s voice.
“I don’t know. I mean, I’ll feel bad if we do anything tonight or even let on what’s going on.”
It’s Elizabeth. You’re kind of confused.
“Ughhhh.” It’s Mike again. “Just because you two went to camp together and kissed when you were, like, ten, doesn’t mean you owe him anything.”
Yes, it finally hits you. They’re talking about you.
“I know I don’t owe him anything.” Elizabeth sounds exasperated. “It’s just that, well, I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Not after he’s been so sweet to me tonight.”
Ouch, that hurts. You thought you’d really been putting out the vibe and you get sweet!?
&nb
sp; “You’re telling me you’re going to deny what’s going on between us.”
“No, I’m not denying there’s something there. It’s just, well, maybe we shouldn’t act on it. I can let him down easy.”
“Screw that. I want you, and I know you want me. This has got nothing to do with him.”
If you sit up just then and say, “Well, it does now,” read on here.
If you want to hear more, read on here.
“Well, little lady,” he muses, “seeing as how the last thing I want to do is spend my night mopping up these here toilets, and you already look like you’re a couple of sheets to the wind, we won’t force you to drink two shots.”
Thank god.
“You can just take your shirt off instead.”
You’re about to protest that he stands more chance of winning an Oscar than of seeing you topless when he holds up his hand, shaking with laughter. “Just kidding! Do one shot, whatever you like.”
Seeing as you’ve been hitting the tequila pretty hard tonight, you go for a shot of that. Mark winks at you, and you take the opportunity to go stand by him and engage in a little subtly flirtatious body language. Nothing too extreme; don’t want to scare him off …
There’s time for another round before you hit the party. Jay goes first this time—he picks an appalling heavy metal song that Joe automatically declares the winner. “That’s the worst goddamn song on that thing, hands down. And my word is final.”
“Okay, an easy one,” says Jay. “Either do a shot of my choosing or get someone in this bar to kiss you.”
“C’mon, Jay,” moans Mark. “There’s only five women in here. One of them has more facial hair than the rest of us put together. Two of them are old enough to be your mother—in fact, there’s a definite family resemblance. One is clearly with a guy, and he’s big, and I’m scared of him. So that leaves…” and he glances at you. Subtle.
“It’s your choice,” states Jay. He’s loving this.
Big Night Out Page 19
