Okay, Beth, it’s done. Sorry it took so long.

It’s really weird that I’m finally getting around to writing an update about what happened last Saturday. Beth documented it very well in her post and it was a pretty interesting evening.

Anyway, read the above link so you know what I’m talking about or just take my words for it.

Beth and I ended up at the bar on Saturday and did not see THE BOY or Pete. After receiving an order of soda from the waitress (might I say that the Diet Coke was awful and the lime slices indifferent (yes, in my spare time I critique Diet Coke. Bobby serves the best. There’s no question about it)), we sat and watched the interactions between the bar patrons.

I enjoy spending time with Beth. She’s a great friend and it’s always fun to be around her. But this setting is not my favorite. I’m not a bar person. I don’t like them much. This is because I used to drink a lot when I was in my 20’s and now I don’t. So, unless there’s karaoke involved, I don’t much see the point. There was no karaoke. After a bit, while trying to have a conversation over the noise, we decide to play darts.

I suck at darts. Just so you know. This game is shaping up to be the longest game in the world. And there are too many people here. Rude, drunk people. I don’t like them.

Almost at the end of our game when we see Pete. Just Pete. He is BOYless. The bastard. We are wondering if there was a bit of bait and switch going on. Pete pretty much ignores me and concentrates on Beth. I have no idea of the conversation that is going on because all I can hear is the loud music and the screams of flirtation from the drunk people. Yet, oddly, whenever Beth directs a comment to me, I can hear her.

Have you ever been friends with that one person who can read your mind? When one look can exchange an entire conversation? There’s that connection that few people ever get to experience. I’ve been lucky enough to have that connection with a few people. Keem is one. Beth is another. So even though I can’t really hear what she’s saying and I’ve never learned to read lips, everything she is saying to me is crystal clear. How did she end up on a date with Pete? We are asking each other that telepathically. What the hell is going on?

We start playing another game of darts with Pete. We were wrong about the previous game. This is now the longest game of darts ever. EVER. Dude, what is up with the bumping of the knuckles? It is so not bringing me any luck. If it was, THE BOY would be here and you would be handsome and debonair and in to me. And quite possibly English with a witty sense of humor. Since your sense of humor seems to consist of calling all of your friends assholes, you’re not that amusing. Well, at least to your face.

Pete wanders off. Beth and I have a quick conversation about what we’re going to do to end this evening. I ask her if I should fake an asthma attack. We decide this is a good idea. After this game is over, I’m going to fake one. It’s not like I haven’t had enough of them in my past to know what they look like.

A million hours later, we are still playing darts. Some guy wanders over and starts talking to Pete. He asks Pete if he wants to go to the neighboring bar, Pig’s Lung. I panic. Why do I panic? Many years ago, my bar of choice was the Pig’s Lung. My friend Becky and I used to go there every night. I haven’t been there in years and I don’t want to go back. Not tonight. Not ever.

Pete asks me if I want to go to the Pig’s Lung. I tell him to ask Beth. He does. They have a conversation about going. She is not excited about the prospect but he is clueless and doesn’t get it. He gives her this inane argument about how she’s the prettiest girl there. Um, she’s not there. Idiot.

I start coughing. Hard. Beth looks at me in panic. She’s not expecting this because the dart game is still going on. Pete is turned the other way when she asks me if I’m okay. I say, in a normal tone of voice (or telepatically because Pete doesn’t hear me), “Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” I start coughing even harder. Commencing (fake) asthma attack.

When Pete figures out that I am in distress, he is concerned. I am not feeling overly guilty about this because I know that he’s only concerned because his BOY free access to Beth is going to be cut off if I get sick. He offers me a glass of water. I want to ask him if he’s ever known of a time that water has stopped an asthma attack. Because, really, it won’t work. Unless the water is being served by Bobby. But that would be beautiful and there would be karaoke and Perfect Diet Coke with lime slices and Bobby and Bryan and Michael and the beautiful, beautiful Chalet. And THE BOY would be there as well.

Anyway, long story short, we manage to convince him that I am inhalerless and need to go get my inhaler. We leave. And then go and play pool.

The next night, we are at karaoke, oh thank you, God. We are telling Bryan the story. When we get to the part about how he wanted to go to the Pig’s Lung, I say “I am not going to the Pig’s Lung. I used to hang out at Pig’s.”

Bryan laughs. “I love the fact that you have your own little name for it even. Pig’s.”

I continue. “I had sex with a bouncer from Pig’s.”

The entire table stops and looks at me. Do I shut up? No, I continue. “Yes. In my Grandmother’s driveway. While my mom is flashing the porch light. What am I going to do? Go in there and see if he still works there and ask him if he remembers me?”

Later on, when THE BOY shows up, he makes a comment to me after I’ve finished singing whatever I sang. But I rocked.

He says, with that half smile on his face, that knowing half smile “You sure sing a hell of a song for someone with asthma.”

He knows I faked the asthma attack. He has to know. Especially since I’m sitting there with a cigarette. Not that I smoke. Because that would be wrong. HE KNOWS I FAKED THE ASTHMA ATTACK! And he doesn’t care. He thinks it’s funny. How cool is that?

There’s more to this post but I don’t have time to finish it right now. I will leave you with this little tidbit. On Saturday night, when Beth and I were heading to the pool hall and laughing about the fact that I faked the asthma attack, I said this “You know, I wish I would have thought of this the time the really annoying guy was hitting on Becky.”

Beth says something like “You didn’t?” Or “What happened?”

I continue. “Yeah, this would probably been a better idea than sleeping with him.”

Don’t you hate it when I leave you hanging like this? Aren’t I a bitch?

Okay, to finish my story.

Many years ago, back when I hung out with my friend, Becky, and we used to go to the bar a lot, we ended up at a bar in Stillwater. There we consumed many kamikazes (evil, evil drink that it is).

Some guy named Jim started hitting on Becky. Hard. She tried to be polite and dissuade him. She tried to be nice and convince him she wasn’t interested. It didn’t work. We then tried telling him that we were lovers and I was annoyed that he was hitting on my woman. That didn’t work. In fact, that intrigued him even more. We tried getting up and walking away. He followed us.

At one point, we mentioned that we were married (not to each other) and had children. Becky said she had 3, I said I had 5. I’m not sure where that number came from. This is how persistent this man was. He told me I had a great body for someone who had 5 kids. Now, I was thinner then but still, it’s a cheesy line. I know I try to get his attention away from Becky because she’s my friend and I’m trying to protect her.

The rest of the evening is vague. Probably because of the amount of alcohol I had consumed. Plus, this was a long time ago. I know it was before we moved to Madison but I’m not sure when exactly. I do know it was during the late 80’s. I met Becky when I was going to college so that was either 1985 or 1986. We moved to Madison in 1989 or 1990. I’m not good with this math thing. Or the memory thing. You may have noticed this before.

I do know that, at one point, this guy and I ended up walking through the streets of Stillwater. I have no idea where Becky is. I have no idea where we are. Suddenly we end up at this partially constructed building. Somehow he talks me into exploring it.

Then we are kissing. Why? He’s not the best looking guy I’ve ever seen. I’m really not that interested in him at all since I have this horrible, heart-wrenching crush on some guy named Tim (who now I can barely remember but at the time, well, he was absolutely wonderful and I adored him). But I’m lonely and Tim’s not interested (gay, not that I knew it at the time) and this guy is there so what the heck. What’s a little kissing going to hurt?

The next thing I know, Jim has lifted me up onto one of the planks in the construction area. This gives me an idea that he’s pretty strong because even though I was thinner then, I probably weighed about 200 pounds (how weird is it that I would love weighing 200 again?). I don’t know about you but I certainly can’t lift 200 pounds. So he’s definitely stronger than me.

We continue kissing. I’m completely out of it. I don’t remember much more than the kissing. Except that, the next thing I know, I’m naked, he’s (oh, how do I say this tactfully…) visiting and it hurts. Splinters from the boards, absolutely (again, with the tact) no excitement on my part and therefore, the friction was not so pleasant. So I ask him to stop.

This is what he says to me. “I’m almost done.”

Um, hey, Mr. “Let Me Invade Your Personal Space Because You’re Drunk And Don’t Have A Clue As To What Is Going On” Jim, I don’t care that you’re almost done. This hurts. Stop now.

He doesn’t. I know that he’s stronger than me, I know that’s there not much I can do about this and quite frankly, at this point, the best that I can do is just lie back, pretend that he’s Tim and hope that he finishes quickly. Thinking about Tim brings a bit more enthusiasm on my part. At least it doesn’t hurt any more (except for the splinters).

I think I mentioned that I was extremely lonely, right? That’s about the only thing that explains what happened next. I look him straight in the eyes. “Tell me you love me,” I demand. He complies.

I then start calling him Tim. As in “I love you, Tim.” He took offense to this. “My name’s Jim,” he says. I, in my brusque, “I don’t really give a damn what your name is, jerk” fashion say “I KNOW what your name is.” And then I call him Tim again.

He finally finishes. I get up, get dressed and walk away. He calls after me “Hey, don’t you want a ride?” I keep walking, crying the entire way. I find my way back to the bar. No Becky. I ask the guy she had been talking to if he’d seen her. He says, after looking at my tear-stained face, “Are you okay? She was looking for you but when she couldn’t find you, she left.”

Great. I’m stranded in Stillwater. I’m drunk, I’ve just been through a situation that may or may not be considered acquaintance rape (due to the fact that I had asked him to stop and he wouldn’t), I’m wandering up and down the streets of Stillwater, crying and looking extremely pathetic. This is not good.

At the very depths of my despair, while I am lost (because of course I got lost), I find myself in front of the Stillwater Cemetary. I stare wistfully into the cemetery, at all of the tombstones, and start crying again. “Please help me,” I cry to the dead people. (It’s probably a good thing none of them take me up on it. I would have freaked out). I look up. There I see the light of a Super America. Oh, thank God.

I end up taking a cab home. Becky called me the next day, apologizing profusely for leaving. We had a good cry and it brought us closer together. And that, dear reader, is one of the many reasons why I don’t drink anymore. I have done stupid, stupid things under the influence of alcohol.

 

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