A half glass of Cognac and Grand Marnier continues to lose its battle with the ice cubes, while I play designated therapist to a scantily clad vixen of this upscale bar. How the conversation has shifted from “spitting game” to “my ex-boyfriend was a loser” is beyond me. The D cups that stand between my uninterested expression and the woman's rapidly moving lips remind me. Without hesitation I interrupt her banter and ask, "Are those real?" Her lips stop moving and form a scowl.
"Have you been listening to a word I said?”
“Not unless your breasts have learned to speak, in which case I’m all ears.”
My brash banter is a bit of an acquired taste. I call it daft bastard game. And there she goes, off to bore and arouse some poor bastard, fighting the classic battle of balls v. brain. Her ability to succeed is a morbidly impressive talent, I must say. This day forward I vow to never allow the hypnotic spell of chesticles to compromise my integrity. I'm convincing no one but myself with that statement, and barely me at that. With little to no influence from my wingman and nightlife companion, Stan, it was decided that we forgo a trip to our usual dive bar in search of a different venue to play host our shenanigans. How little we knew that this trendy haven occupies a more humorless lot. I could be watching the game, with my favorite libation in hand, shooting the shit about matters devoid of intellect and substance but pleasing all the same. Instead I'm missing the game, my eyes now focused on each and every bosom and bottom that passes my peripherals. I have to admit, it beats staring at a blank screen reflecting my recent creative abilities or, more to the point lack thereof. Perverted Bar Patron can be added to my list of titles. That's a proper noun if I ever saw one.
I finish my watery, over-priced concoction —cocktail is too generous — and gesture at my wingman who's putting in work to get a number from one of the bar maids. His conversation with the sexy server has been going on for damn near 20 minutes, a good 18 minutes too long. I head for the door in hopes he'll take note as a sign to wrap up his futile negotiation. It seems he took the hint as he exits only minutes later, brimming with confidence.
"Looks like we both scored tonight," he says with a beguiling smile.
"Speak for yourself," I reply, with feigned disinterest and nonchalance.
He looks confused. Rather than explain the don't-give-a-fuck attitude that spurned any shot I had at a number close I suggest an alternate location. A 15 minute cab ride and one argument with a navigationally-challenged cabby later, we end up at Sparkey's. I have no patience for cabbies trying to scam me when they think I'm blasted. Even when I'm blasted I know where I'm going. The childish moniker of this establishment is telling of the clientele it attracts: loose women and douche bags. Which came first right? Probably neither, they're both going to be shitfaced. The line to this place could rival a Justin Bieber concert, so I take the opportunity to smoke a square and admire the talent that bypass the impatient onlookers with their priority entry, fascinating again the perks that come with cleavage. We're standing next to the entrance now, IDs in hand; ready to be patted down both ineffectively and somewhat inappropriately. Following my mild molestation, I turn to see Stan searching for identification before he realizes he left it at the previous bar, credit card included. He has on his idiot-who-forgot-to-close-out-his-tab face, the one we tend to make mocking other drunken idiots. He pleads with the bouncer to grant him entry. I make my way over, seeing the conversation in need of a voice of reason.
Stan begins to get irate, which doesn't take long given his inebriated state. The moments that followed can be encapsulated in a montage of violent, drunken images Hollywood could only help to capture. Let's follow the screenshot flashback:
Bouncer #1 (later to be accompanied by four others) places hand on Stan’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him. This unlocks Mike Tyson mode in Stan’s boozed brain. He curses Bouncer #1 then takes a swing that is easily dodged. I position myself between the two; grab Stan, then feel myself grabbed from behind by Bouncer #1. My initial reaction is to preserve my person, so I slap away the grabber's hand. This prompts a retaliatory move of its own, his other hand attempting a reactionary punch. I dodge and connect with a right hook that would floor any assailant. Remind me to thank mom later for allowing boxing lessons, and allowing me to forgo the piano. Victory is short-lived as Bouncers 2, 3, and 4 have arrived. Stan is compelled to join in as he rushes Bouncer #2 only to take his fist face first. Stan played the cello growing up, hence his amateurish attempt to brawl. Bouncer’s 2 and 3 appear to be musicians in their own right, the drums I presume, playing a nice percussion duet on Stan’s laid-out body. I’m met by Bouncer #4, putting combinations together as if in a championship bout. I’m soon reminded that there's no ref here and, unlike a boxing match, 2-on-1 is allowed. Life’s unfair most times. Bouncer #1 grabs me and I can’t get out before Bouncer #4 makes his comeback at the expense of my ribs. He’s kind enough not to exclude my face. I oblige him, blocking each blow with it.
Let's fast-forward to the scene where Stan lays sprawled on the concrete a block from Sparkey’s. I had managed to still be conscious when they dragged us from the entrance to our current location, a couple of limp but heavy dummies. They left us a parting gift of phlegm wads and "fucking bitches" and "faggots." Christmas came early. I crawl over to Stan still sound asleep and attempt to wake him. He grumbles and spits out a good glob of blood. “What the fuck happened?" he asks. A recap of the epic ass-whooping we took seems not worth my limited breath. I believe I can thank a cracked rib for that.
I help Stan up and after several failed attempts a generous soul guised as a cabby decides to stop and let us rest our wounds in the backseat. “Danziger & 8th," I tell him. My place since Stan looks much the worse off, and certainly still drunk. We're not in the cab long when Stan’s cell starts ringing. With his little strength he answers, a solemn “hello.” Some words come back at him that are enough for him to perk up. “Oh hey,” then “where at,” followed by, “we’ll be there.” He turns to me with that same confident look he had when we exited the first bar. He gives me a smirk and says to the cabby, “Change of plans, we’re going to 2nd and Peabody."
I’m perplexed, and starting to get sore, give him my what-the-fuck face under the bruises. “Dude, that was the waitress from the bar, she wants me to come by.” He gestures for a high five.
“Seriously, you’re trying to get some ass after after we just got an extra helping of fuck you from those bouncers,” I say to him with a grimace. My only thought is the bottle of vics in my medicine cabinet waiting to be abused.
“Look you owe me,” he says. “If it hadn’t been for us leaving the first place, we wouldn’t look like a pair of prison bitches. And besides, she has my ID and credit card. So we’re going."
I can’t think of a suitable rebuttal so just mumble, “This is some bullshit,” and stare out the window. I pay the cab driver — apparently Stan doesn’t carry cash — and walk toward the apartment of his intended booty call. A buzzer sounds; we open the security door and walk up to the 5th floor. I'm not happy. The bartender opens the door without us knocking and looks at us as though she should call the cops immediately.
“Hey, sorry about our faces. We got jumped by some guys trying to rob us earlier," Stan tells her. A convincing half-truth which might put him on the road to some sympathy fucking…well played Stan.
“Awww come in so we can put some ice on that eye,” she says. Stan you brilliant piece of work! And I’m supposed to be the writer...
We step inside her quaint abode, very quaint, and take a seat next to each other on the sofa. That sexy little waitress grabs a tray of ice and a couple of Ziploc bags and plays nurse to Stan’s eye while I'm left holding the bag so-to-speak. I hear a door open. Stan’s nurse has a roommate apparently and it happens to be none other than my big-breasted botched conquest from before. We give each other the same what-the fuck-are-you-doing-here look. Stan's moonlighting medic introduces her roommate, “Hey Becca, sorry for the noise girl. Come meet Stan, and…I’m sorry what’s your name?”
“Chris, it’s Chris,” I say, quite reluctant. Becca, short for Rebecca I hope, is not as hospitable as her roommate and maintains her dismissive stare. “This is awkward,” she says. I’d have to agree and I just keep my mouth shut, feeling naked – still wishing she was. My nemesis sits in the chair adjacent to me, while Stan’s wounds are attended to. The girl whose name I still don't know says to Stan, “Let's go to my room so you can lie down, poor baby.”
My inner hater is brooding. The subliminal bird is now flipped. He gives me a wink and parts company, leaving me to fend for myself and answer for my douche bag ways. The awkward silence lingers while Becca sips tea and I sit upright feeling as though she’s going to call my mother. Fuck it. I break the silence.
“I just want to apologize for my behavior earlier, blame it on the ac ac ac ac ac alcohol.”
The bullshit habit I have of trying to make light of my embarrassment. She chuckles — thanks Jamie Foxx — and quips back, “Was it the Roc or the Henney.” I’m surprised at her wit.
“I should be the one apologizing," she confesses, "I tend to get chatty when I’m drinking and bare my soul to total strangers. I guess you could say I deserved it.”
"Apology accepted," I tell her, pride rejuvenated. “Kidding,” I add, trying to keep the humor going. She smiles back. An actual conversation ensues, with commentary by yours truly being charming and civil. I forget that I look like a victim of a Steven Seagal movie. At this point Becca is sitting on the couch next to me and her body language indicates my wounds only add to my handsomeness. Modesty isn’t my strong suit. My stint in the friend zone is brief when Becca feels compelled to give me an example of what any ex is missing as we lock lips. She leans in further and mounts me, and I wince a little before forgetting that my ribs are probably in need of medical attention."Ahhh damn,” I say and she laughs before she apologizes for her negligence. She eases her midsection away from mine and I sigh in conjunction with my ribs. The tongue fencing continues. Only a moment goes by before we hear a loud knock at the door.
“I swear it wasn’t me,” I spit out, acting as though the cops are at the door ready to take me away. She smiles and dismounts.
“Be right back. Let me see who this is," she says while she prances to the door. She looks through the peephole. “Oh shit," comes the alarming whisper and she waves her hands frantically, directing me to her room. I’m confused, and hard. I shoot her a perplexed look. “Who is it,” I whisper. "My ex.” I get up in a hurry, ignore the sharp pain in my midsection and retreat to her bedroom. The walls are thin. I hear the door unlock, then Becca's voice. "It's late Eric, what do you want?”
"Hey baby, I was thinking about us, and, and, and wanted to talk,” he responds in a drunken slur. I hear him stumble in as though he’s still the man of the house.
"There’s nothing to talk about. Now come on, I’ll call you a cab home,” Becca whines in response. Eric isn’t as willing to part ways just yet.
“I had a fucked up night, okay, I figured I could talk to you, like I used to...‘member?” I can feel Becca’s bleeding heart replace her animal instincts to hurry Eric out the door.
“What happened to your eye?” There's no hint of surprise in her tone.
“These fucking homo’s picked a fight with us at the bar. We fucking owned those pussies. One guy caught me off guard, but he looks worse I’m sure.” He adds an obnoxious laugh. I recognize the voice now and I can only think of returning to the living room to finish our rivalry with the three, four, three combination Willy would always drill me on.
“Eric…Eric,” Becca yells, followed by a sigh. I assume he must have passed out, which makes it twice that he’s ruined my night. I hear footsteps and rush to sit on the bed, and act as though I’ve been waiting there not listening in. Becca opens the door with a look of disappointment and inquires, “Did Eric do that to you?” I get a weird deja-vu when I say yes. Before I can explain my run in with Eric the Terrible, there's a “What the fuck?” from the living room. We run towards the scene to find Stan, naked, standing and staring in astonishment at our earlier basher slouched unconsciously on the sofa. The waitress, in her thong and see through bra, scurries to investigate the commotion herself.
“Why is Eric here,” she asks Becca while I stand next her trying to make sense of this episode of the Twilight Zone. Actually I think I saw something close on Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
“He came by but I’m calling him a cab. Apparently these two got into a fight at Sparkey’s.”, Becca remains sharp.
Stan hasn’t been listening to any of this and readies his fist for a second round beat down, winner takes his manhood back. “Come on Chris, time for payback," he says and beckons for me, his twig and berries shaking as emphasis.
“Stan, just chill, we’re not going to beat up a passed out guy on their couch.” I turn to Becca and add, “Look, we went to Sparkey’s, things got out of hand, and that’s why we showed up looking like we went through a meat grinder. We apologize...and we’ll leave.” I grab Stan’s arm and he jerks it back.
“Fuck that, I’m not letting this guy get away with that shit," he barks at me, a symptom of his little man’s complex. Mystery waitress grabs his arm and says to him in a soft tone, “Babe come on, let’s finish what we started. I don’t want to waste any more time." Sensuality defeats machismo yet again. Actually it's kind of like dick beat balls, but whatever. Stan relaxes…most of him at least — Jesus I wish he'd have put some pants on — and takes the girl's had back to the bedroom. I turn to Becca and she looks impressed?
“So you're going to let an opportunity to get revenge and save what's left of your pride pass you by," she says, putting her arms around me.
“I’m a pussy, what can I say" I give her a smirk. “Should I grab Stan and get out of here or finish what we started” She smiles and gives a cute laugh.
“I should really call him a cab." And there goes my erection, with my presence soon to follow.
I head to the bedroom to hurry Stan up and officially call and end to this night. Before I can knock Stan opens the door, fully-dressed, a look of shame on his face. “Ready dude," he says as if he just found out Santa wasn't real. In the bedroom I catch a glimpse of our hostess, typing vigorously on her laptop. I'll bet its Facebook.
“I should’ve let him kick Eric’s ass. At least I would’ve seen more action than I saw in here," she says to me.
With Stan embarrassed and me unfulfilled, I abandon the high road I'd thought about taking. Before we bid a farewell, I put my hand on Stan’s shoulder and offer up a solution to his withered ego. “The night doesn’t have to be a total loss you know.”
Our revenge is sweet. Stan feels like he can conquer the world again, sure to get us into some more bullshit, and Becca’s approval is just the icing on the cake. I’m sure his sexy waitress has found someone or something to temporarily quell her nymphomania — no end to her book of one nighters. Becca gives me a neatly folded receipt on our way out.
“Thought I was going to let you off the hook that easy, “she says, with a wink to seal it.
In the hallway I unfold the receipt to read scribbled in looping penmanship, “You owe me BIG," and her phone number underneath. I'm feeling good, other than my rib reminding me to sleep on my back tonight.
A week after our night to remember, I'm getting ready for my date with Becca. I reach for my cologne and hear a ding from my laptop to see an email from becca_love@gggmail.com. Turns out she used to work at Sparkey’s and that's how she and Eric met. Apparently she still has a friend at the bar and set up a little more retribution for Stan and myself so to sleep a little better at night. “It’s done. Be at my place at 8. XOXO."
Eric's got himself a date tonight too, one sure to be chock full of nuts. Tonight the 12 LCD monitors at Sparkey's will have a special treat. Usually they've got the game on, or photos of drunken bar patrons enjoying themselves, but tonight it's Stan's testicles resting atop Eric's chin, as soon as the DJ plays “Ebony & Ivory”, given Stan’s pale scrotum and Eric’s mahogany complexion. It’s not about revenge, but unity.
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