Hearing you holler, Peter returns.
“Hey, why don’t we go in? It looks cool in there. The bartender said there’s a drag show on later.”
“I’d prefer to just get to the party,” snaps Mark.
“Is there a problem?” Peter asks, in a tone that’s a little too polite.
“No problem; I’d just prefer to go somewhere else.”
“Whatever.” Peter gives an exasperated shrug. “On we go.” But he grabs your arm, and when the others have walked a little ways in front, he addresses you in hushed tones.
“Am I right in thinking that Mark is the guy you like?”
“Yeah, and thanks for almost ruining it before.”
“I don’t know if you stand much of a chance anyway. Has it occurred to you that Mark might be gay?”
“What?” You laugh. “Where the fuck did you get that from?”
“I dunno, it’s just … Jay said he’s mentioned that bar Mecca, and from what I could see, it’s definitely a gay bar.”
“Then how do you explain the fact that he just broke up with a long-term girlfriend?” you counter.
“Wake up, baby; it’s not like he’d be the first guy who’s afraid to come out. Or maybe he’s bi. All I know is he reacted pretty strangely when we wanted to go in there, and yes, I’m drunk, but not so drunk that I can’t see there’s more going on than meets the eye.”
Mark and Jay have stopped up ahead and are waiting for you.
“Look, I don’t think I’m imagining this,” continues Peter. “But it’s up to you—I’ll leave right now if you like. The last thing Pierre wants is to get in the way.”
If you tell Peter to go home, read on here.
If you want him to stay with you, read on here.
Chris decides to leave; he’s supposed to meet some friends across town anyway. On your way back to see the band, you decide that you haven’t been drinking nearly enough, so you stop at the bar and do a Kamikaze shot. You also get a pint of Sierra Nevada.
You find your friends in the back and stand next to Mike, since Lisa’s making every effort to dominate Dave’s attention and is apparently succeeding. When the band comes on, you recognize Dave’s friend Jack behind the drum kit. There are two more guys onstage, and then this absolutely beautiful waif of a woman steps onstage and approaches the mike. She’s wearing this dress—god, how to describe it. You have absolutely no idea what material it is, but the way it clings to her body is amazing. And the way it changes color in the light. Is it green? Or blue? Or gold? Oh, who even cares! She’s got a body to die for and gorgeous long jet-black hair. When she starts to sing, the slightest smile appearing on her face, you’re convinced she’s the most amazing woman you’ve ever set eyes on. In a flash, you see you and her leaning in intimately in conversation, kissing timidly, perhaps even touching each others’…
And then it hits you.
That woman up there, that woman who makes you just want to take her somewhere and do all sorts of unmentionable things to her, well, she’s … Elizabeth Albern! You went to camp together when you were, like, twelve. And the two of you snuck off to the lake one night and you kissed her and groped her (though admittedly there wasn’t much to grope at the time). But then when word spread around camp that you’d kissed Elizabeth Albern you wanted nothing more to do with her. You were too embarrassed, afraid everyone would find out what you and Elizabeth knew. That was the first time you’d gotten an erection in the presence of a girl, the first time you’d even shown the goods to a girl. To this day, you still get a hard-on whenever you’re by a lake.
But lordy lord, look at her now. If you’d known back then how she was going to turn out, you would have proclaimed your love for her and bided your time, then moved to whatever state it is that allows fourteen-year-olds to get married. She’s not just hot. She’s otherworldly. And when she bends at the waist to pick up a tambourine, flashing her bra-free cleavage to your segment of the crowd—if only for a second—your dick gets hard.
You’re going to have to talk to her. You need to get another drink to bolster your courage. But right now you can’t take your eyes off of her, can’t tear yourself away to go to the bar, fearing you might miss something—perhaps another glimpse of that cleavage. Finally, when she says they’re about to play their last song, you make a mad dash to the bar. Just as you return, the heavenly music ends, and your friends turn and stare at your drink.
“What’d you get that for?” Mike points. “We should hit this party before it gets too late. And we’re supposed to stop at Spinners on the way.”
If you say, “Give me the address; I’ll catch up with you either at Spinners or at the party,” read on here.
If you say, “I know, I know. I had a silly idea about reintroducing myself to the lead singer. We went to camp together as kids. But it’s dumb. She won’t even remember me. Help me drink this, and then let’s go,” read on here.
“Sure, we’ll do it. Suzy, you go first.”
The hippie girl, whose name, inevitably, is Summer, drags a stool over, perches between both of you, and asks Suzy to select ten cards. “Can I find out about the immediate future?” begs Suzy, glancing in Dan’s direction.
Like, which street corner are you going to be throwing up on by eleven o’clock? you wonder. “Yeah, I’d like to know that, too.”
Suzy pokes you in the ribs. “Ssssshhh! I’m concentrating.”
Summer lays the ten cards out in the shape of a cross.
“Present position … three of cups … you’re feeling celebratory. The knight of pentacles is crossing you … a dark-haired male figure might cause you some problems.”
“Dan is dark,” says Suzy glumly.
“Wow, yes, you’re right,” you sigh, “and shit, he’s the only dark-haired man in town! I mean, look around you—the room is jam-packed with albinos!”
Summer just smiles sweetly and continues reading. “I sense that you’re looking for a particular person—both of you, though he’s someone closer to you perhaps?” she glances at Suzy. Your ears perk up at this.
“You couldn’t tell us exactly where he is, could you?” you plead. “No chance of seeing any particular bar names in there? An address?”
“He’s not where you expect to find him, that’s all I can see. Though I sense he’s trying to contact you, too. Hope you find him. Have a good night, ladies.”
“Hell, yeah, tonight we’re gonna party like it’s nineteen sixty-nine, right?” says Suzy happily, as Summer scouts around for another customer.
“I don’t think you should insult hippies, Suze. Bad for your karma. Anyway, she may have been helpful—what if Nick is trying to contact you? Did you think about checking your voice mail?”
“Y’think?”
“Yes, Suzy,” you say patiently. “That way, maybe we’ll find him and actually get to the party, instead of staying here, where I don’t need tarot cards to predict that I’ll spend the night wiping the drool off your chin and playing bar games with Ducky and his henchman.”
Bryan, who’s been engrossed in another round of Snowball’s Chance in Hell, arguing that the word welding would never appear in a Spice Girls song, pipes up with a good-natured “Hey, I heard that!”
“No offense, it was really nice meeting you both. Come on, Suze,” and you drag her off in the direction of the pay phone.
On your way, you pass the stage … the band is taking a break between songs and the guitarist announces that they’re about 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.
“Will you rack ’em?” Chris asks. “I’ve got to go to the bathro
om.”
The second Chris leaves, Thomas reappears.
“I bought you a drink. A peacemaking gesture.” He hands you a fancy cocktail. “Sorry I was so pissy. And do me a favor; don’t tell Chris. I’m embarrassed enough as it is.”
“Thanks,” you say, taking a sip of what proves to be a rather tasty drink.
Hours later, you wake up in your bed and feel woozy, like you’ve got seltzer pumping through your veins. Chris is at your side.
“What happened?” Your voice sounds strange to you.
“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “You just passed out by the pool table. You must have had too much to drink.”
You think back on the evening’s events. You know you didn’t have more than you could handle. Then, because it’s true—but more because you’ve always wanted to say it—you sit up in bed and shout, “Somebody slipped me a mickey!”
The End
It’s unlikely that some patchouli-scented Woodstock throwback is going to make any impression on Suzy, given her current state, so why waste the money. You decline, and the girl smiles beatifically. “I understand. You have a lovely aura, by the way.”
“She bought it in Banana Republic. Big sale on auras,” interrupts Suzy, laughing loudly at her own joke.
The hippie chick moves on to other prospective customers.
“Hey, Suzy, you’re not going to get totally wasted, are you?” Even as you’re asking you realize how pointless this question is. Suzy has already leaped over the divide between sobriety and drunkenness, and is galloping toward calamity even as you watch.
“I might be a little bit wasted already, but just a little. A soupçon. A smidgen. Un petit peu.”
Oh shit.
“Listen honeybunch,” she continues, “why don’t you go on to Sullivan’s and I’ll meetcha in a while? Ask the bartender there if Nick is around—he knows him. I’ll be there in a half hour, tops.”
Do you really have a choice? It’s not like you can force a grown woman out of the bar, and bludgeoning her with an ashtray, temporarily satisfying though it might be, isn’t an option either. You might stain your shirt.
“Fine. See you there. And you’d better turn up.” You snatch your wallet from the bar and march outside. A taxi pulls up just as you reach the curb; the first bit of good luck you’ve had tonight. It’s only when you reach Sullivan’s and go to pay the driver that you realize that, in your hurry, you took the wrong wallet off the bar. This is Suzy’s. Still, it doesn’t make much difference, you figure … she’ll be turning up soon, and there’s enough cash in here to cover your immediate expenses.
It’s only after you’ve been sitting in Sullivan’s for an hour, feeling like the most pathetic woman on the planet, with no Suzy in sight and the bartender claiming that Nick hasn’t been in all night, that you grasp the extent of your error. What were you thinking, expecting an already drunken Suzy to leave a bar where not only was she talking to a guy she liked, but he was serving her free drinks? It’s like trying to tempt a rottweiler away from a juicy steak by offering it a brussels sprout. And with Dan plying her with shots, Suzy probably hasn’t even realized that she’s got your wallet. You can take a taxi back to the Berlin to see if she’s still there … or at least you could take a taxi if you hadn’t spent the last of Suzy’s cash on drink.
Annoyed and tipsy enough by now to try anything, you find the nearest ATM machine. There’s one card in her wallet. You’ve been with her many times when she’s taken out cash and though you’re not exactly sure of the password, you do know that it’s a four-letter word that has something to do with alcohol. Beer? You try it, no luck. Not surprising; Suzy’s never been much of a beer drinker. Maybe it’s Stol, short for Stoli. You key in the word, but again, nothing. There’s one more chance before the card gets swallowed. What is that word? Not booze but … something like it? Booz! Maybe that’s it. Sounds familiar. Or is it buze? Spelling was never her strong suit.
If you try booz, read on here.
If you try buze, read on here.
“Are you serious?” Mike gets that awful glimmer in his eye, and you’re sorry you said as much as you did. A simple “Okay, let’s go” would have done the job.
He steps forward and pinches your cheeks. “We can’t leave until this little guy here gets to say hello to his little long-lost girlfriend. Come on.” He grabs you by the arm. “If we wait for you to do it, we’ll be here all night.”
“Mike, what the hell!” You protest, but Mike is pulling you toward the side of the stage, where Elizabeth is selling CDs.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” he says as he works his way through the crowd. “Man with a baby coming through!”
You’re unbelievably mortified and extra-glad you chugged about half of that last pint before relinquishing it to Dave as Mike pulled you away.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” He called her ma’am!!! “This gentleman here is a friend of mine and he claims that he went to camp with you. But I bet him ten bucks he’s full of shit.”
She looks at you, smiles, then turns back to Mike. “Looks like you owe your friend here ten bucks.”
“Shucks, lost again. Well, I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted. We’ll be just over there, ace, when you’re ready.”
“How are you doing, Elizabeth?” you manage, before letting out a huge, stinky beer burp. “Excuse me,” you add, hastily covering your mouth.
She eyes you curiously. “I always wondered what happened to you. You look great. Better than you smell.” She waves a hand in front of her face to move some air around. Then she smiles.
“No, you’re the one that looks great,” you say. “Really, you look incredible. I almost didn’t recognize you. No, that’s not what I mean. You were cute back then, it’s just that now, well, now, look at you, you’re, like, amaz—”
“Okay, okay.” She laughs and touches your arm lightly. “I think you’ve made your point. Now I’m embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed? I’m the one who should be embarrassed.”
“Why? Everybody burps. Hey, wasn’t that an R.E.M. song?”
You laugh. “I didn’t mean the burp. I mean, that’s embarrassing, too. But I meant the way I treated you back then. When we were in camp. I was a real jerk.”
“Yeah, well. We were kids.”
“I know. It’s just, well, I’ve always felt bad about it. I always hoped I’d get a chance to tell you you deserved better.” So what if you haven’t even had a passing thought about the woman in over a decade. It sounds good. And she’s buying every word. Eating it up, as it were.
“It’s really sweet of you to say so, thanks.”
“Hey E. B.!” It’s one of the guys in the band. “Quit your yapping and sell some CDs, will you?”
“Fuck you, Nat!” The reply comes effortlessly, as if that’s what she says in response to everything this Nat person says. “You know”—she squats down and starts slamming discs around, putting them all back into a box—“I’ve about had it up to here with this fucking band.” She looks up at you—again with the cleavage!—“Can we go somewhere?”
Your eyebrows practically shoot off the top of your face. “Yeah, I mean, sure.”
Just then Mike appears at your side. “You ready to go, ace?”
If you say, “Yeah, sure,” then turn to Elizabeth and say, “You want to come to a party with us?” read on here.
If you say, “You guys go ahead. I think I’ll skip it,” read on here.
You get to Sullivan’s and sit at the bar, waving to attract the bartender’s attention.
“Hi, you know Suzy Armstrong?” you ask.
“Small, dark girl, cries if we run out of Stoli?”
You nod. “I’m looking for her cousin Nick.”
“You know his last name?”
D’oh. “No, but she said he might be in here tonight.”
“If it’s the guy I’m thinking of, he’s not here. But he usually does come in on Fridays, a little later. You want to stick around a
nd I’ll let you know if he turns up?”
You nod and order drinks, feeling—and looking—royally pissed off.
“Why so glum?” asks Hayley as you fumble for your money.
“Because Suzy’s being a jerk, and Nick’s not going to show, and at this rate I’d have more luck finding Mark by using a divining rod.” You slam ten dollars on the bar.
“You’ve been listening to your old Leonard Cohen albums again, haven’t you? Woman, what happened to your enthusiasm? Your lust for life? The night’s going to go fine—you’re in the capable hands of Hayley now!”
“I guess…”
“Look at me.” She grabs your chin. “Who’s the girl who single-handedly put our prom on the front page of the local newspaper? Who managed to get us backstage passes to the R.E.M. show in the days when Stipey still had hair, before they lost the plot?”
“That was you,” you quietly admit.
“Can’t hear you.” She holds a hand to her ear and leans forward. “Who was it?”
“You, Hayley,” you say, laughing helplessly.
“Damn right it was me! So if I can do all that, not to mention the time I rubbed the principal’s bald head like a Magic Eight Ball and said ‘Answer unclear, try again later’—and got away with it—don’t you think I can locate some stupid guy for you?”
“He’s not stupid.” You pout, but you’re already feeling better.
“Whatever, whatever.” She shrugs. “No doubt he’s Mr. Fucking Wonderful and hung like Moby Dick, but the point is, you’ll never find out if you keep moping around like some helpless girlie. No offense, but Suzy’s not going to get up off her ass to help you tonight—all she’s worried about is screwing that narcissistic bartender.”
“So, what do you suggest?”
“Well, something a little more constructive than traipsing into every bar in the city hoping that Suzy’s cousin is going to appear and grant you access to the sacred sanctum of Lindy’s party. Do you know Lindy’s last name?”
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