Big Night Out

by Tara McCarthy

  You, Dave, and Lisa all look at each other, puzzled.

  “You want to check it out?” Lisa asks. “Or maybe they just went to the party. I have the address.”

  If you want to go to the Philosopher’s Club, read on here.

  If you want to go right to the party, read on here.

  An hour later, you’ve got a nice buzz going and are rationalizing that everything’s going to work out fine. Hayley is deeply immersed in the business of drinking and making scathing remarks about everyone who walks in. Suddenly she flinches and lowers her eyes. “Something wrong?” you ask.

  “Don’t look.”

  “Why do people always say that when they know the first thing you’re going to do is turn around and look…,” you begin, but she grabs your arm.

  “No, really, don’t look; I don’t want him to see us.”

  Before you can even ask who she’s talking about, you catch a sidelong glimpse of the guy who’s just walked in. It’s Hayley’s boyfriend, Cole. “He said he was working late,” she mutters.

  “But he’s by himself,” you point out. “It’s not like he’s with some trashy blonde.”

  “No, apparently his taste runs to trashy brunettes.” She sighs as Cole, oblivious to your presence, approaches a dark-haired girl who has obviously been waiting for him.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” you say soothingly. “Maybe it’s all harmless. It’s not like they’re kissing or anything. Wait … sorry, scratch that. Can’t see any tongues though. Maybe they’re just friends?”

  “Then how come I’ve never seen her before? That slimy, weasely little bastard,” growls Hayley. “I have to leave … if I stay here another minute I won’t be able to stop myself going up there and saying something.”

  Though you don’t particularly want a scene, you don’t want Hayley to leave yet. She won’t want to go to the party in this mood.

  If you think she should say something to Cole, read on here.

  If you let her leave and resolve to go to the party alone, read on here.

  The three of you decide that because there are three of you—and you couldn’t look any more different—you’re going to sing a Thompson Twins song. After Dave and Lisa have a brief but heated argument about the merits of “Doctor! Doctor!” versus “Hold Me Now”—so now it’s obvious they’re just arguing as a means of flirting—the decision is made to go with “Hold Me Now.”

  Lisa fills in the entry form and hands it to a barmaid, from whom you order a round of beers. If you’re going to sing, you need to be even more inebriated than you already are. You’ve secured a table, and what was only ten minutes ago a half-full room has filled up so that there’s standing room only. The din of the crowd is loud enough to drown out what Dave and Lisa are saying to each other. Their suddenly intimate, exclusive conversation reminds you of Sadie. You can practically close your eyes and hear her laugh; it’s like the echo of frolicking children in a distant valley …

  “Okay, folks, listen up.” An emcee with receding dark hair and a mustache has stepped up on the stage, wearing a tux and sunglasses. “We’ve got some exciting news for yez tonight. There’s a man in the crowd tonight who’s got a wad of cash burning a hole in his pockets and he wants to see some good entertainment, so he’s doubling tonight’s prize money. That’s right, folks, doubling it. That’s times two, folks. That means tonight’s grand-prize winner will be taking home two grand.”

  “Could you imagine?” Lisa’s eyes light up.

  “So without further ado…” The emcee picks up an entry form. “Let’s get cracking. Let’s get Tracy Q up here. She’s going to be singing ‘Two of Hearts.’ Oh, I get it. Tracy Q. Stacey Q.”

  “This is going to be great,” Dave says, and the three of you settle in to watch.

  Tracy Q proceeds to do a routine she’s obviously done before, singing “Two of Hearts” with a tinny, cutesy voice. She’s dancing around, her big hair becoming a strange hot pink halo in the stage lights, her moves perfectly in synch with the song. You know she’s spent hours in front of the mirror rehearsing, maybe even performed this routine here a few times to work the kinks out of it. She’s followed by a man named Jackson Michaels, who does a rendition of “Thriller” replete with fake fangs, red leather jacket, and yellow contact lenses, and then by Tom Collins, a Tom Jones look-and-sound-alike who sings Phil Collins’s “Against All Odds.” Clearly, you, Dave, and Lisa are out of your league. When a Celine Dion look-alike takes the stage in a period costume and starts singing a pitch-perfect rendition of “My Heart Will Go On,” Dave and Lisa catch your attention.

  “We think maybe we should bag it,” Dave says, and Lisa nods in agreement.

  You can’t find the energy to respond.

  “Hey, man, come on. Let’s get out of here.” That’s Dave again, and suddenly he and Lisa have you, one by each arm, and they’re escorting you out of the bar.

  Lisa says something that sounds like, “If you’re going to throw up, just don’t do it on my new shoes.” You’re wondering whom she could be talking to. Who’s getting sick? Then it suddenly hits you—when the smell of tequila on Lisa’s breath makes your stomach churn—that it’s you. You’re very drunk. No, not just very drunk. Shit-faced. Completely and utterly shit-faced. Or at least you figure that’s the reason Dave and Lisa look like they’re creatures in some science-fiction movie. What was it? Blade Runner?

  “Hey, Dave,” you say, because Dave’ll know. “What’s that movie where there’s this thing in the forest and it’s not quite invisible but—”

  “That’s it,” Dave interrupts. “You’ve got to go home, buddy. Let’s catch a cab.”

  When you wake up the next morning you don’t remember much else. You may have asked the cab to stop so you could get sick. Dave and Lisa might have been all over each other in the backseat next to you. You might have protested going home, insisting you were fine, that you could go to Spinners, the party, wherever Sadie was. But one thing’s for certain. You went to bed alone and woke up alone. When, oh when, will Sadie ever be yours?

  The End

  You can hear Suzy calling after you angrily as you leave, but there’s no way you can stomach spending the rest of the evening in her company.

  “I’m sorry, Hayley, I really had no idea she’d done that. She never said anything before.”

  “Yeah, I believe you … don’t worry. I do know Cole’s a jerk, y’know. I’m not stupid. Something told me he’d been screwing around.… I just didn’t think his taste had sunk as low as that little conniving bitch. Sorry, I forgot, she’s a friend of yours.”

  “Whatever. Don’t think any more about it tonight.”

  “Easier said than done, babe. I guess I’ve fucked up your night, too? The party, Mark … all that? It’s not like you can go looking for Suzy’s cousin now.”

  “There’ll be other parties. No big deal.” Not strictly true, but no point making her feel worse. “Of course … we could go somewhere else. It’s still early.”

  “Hey! I know where we should go! It’s perfect; it’ll cheer us both up! Swing dancing at Zoë’s!”

  You look at her skeptically. “I dunno … I’m not really in that kind of mood.”

  “How can you not be in a swing-dancing mood? It’s always a perfect time for swing dancing!”

  “Funny, I’d never have pegged you as the swing-dancing type.”

  “Au contraire, I am full of natural rhythm!”

  “Full of something, certainly.”

  “Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  “Frequently. But what the hell, let’s go.”

  Before long you’re lining up at the bar in Zoë’s while Hayley tries to squeeze past the impeccably dressed clientele to order drinks. The band, a generic swing outfit with the obligatory “Daddy” in their name, are clearly having a ball up there, and about a dozen couples are dancing, a little too self-consciously to be truly having fun.

  “Cool, isn’t it? Almost like being in the movie!” says
Hayley when she eventually returns with your drink.

  “It’s not bad. But what the hell is this?” You sniff your glass suspiciously.

  “It’s my own concoction. Martini à la Hayley. Take a sip. Good, huh? Just don’t light any cigarettes for a while.”

  “It’s … strong,” you gasp. But tasty.

  “Hurry up and finish that; I have to dance,” she gushes. “Let’s go, baby.”

  “You want us to dance together? Don’t you usually have a male partner for this kind of thing?”

  “We can ask those two beautiful babies over there.” She points. “Not exactly Trent and Mikey, I know. More like Bert and Ernie, to tell the truth, but still…”

  If you ask them up to dance, read on here.

  If you prefer not to dance yet, read on here.

  Dave is pumped up by the idea of singing, and he and Lisa start to review the song list, looking for duets. You keep pushing for “Say, Say, Say,” and they keep telling you to shut up; it won’t work because they’re not both men. Dave’s not sure he knows the tune to “Up Where We Belong,” though he goes off for a time about what a great film An Officer and a Gentleman is. When they spot “Don’t You Want Me” by the Human League on the list, you think Lisa’s going to shit herself she’s so excited.

  “Oh my god,” she keeps saying. “Oh my god. I love that song. Oh my god.”

  “Okay, folks, my name’s Tommy Two-Tune and I’ll be your host this evening. A little exciting news before we start. Tonight, folks, someone might get a lucky break. Because right here in the front row is Tony Raymond of the Stars R Us talent agency. Tony’s looking for new clients and is going to be keeping a close watch on the performers onstage tonight, so hit ’im with your best shot, folks. So … without further ado, on with the show.” Tommy Two-Tune, who’s wearing black pants, a loud Hawaiian shirt, and several Hawaiian leis, picks up an entry form. “Let’s everybody put their hands together for, what’s this, oh, I get it—John Mellon Cougarcamp—who’s going to be singing ‘Jack and Diane.’” A guy in jeans and a white T-shirt with a bad haircut hidden under a cowboy hat gets up there and does a pretty lousy job. Your confidence in Dave and Lisa soars—especially if the little impromptu song they sang while walking here is an indication. You’re clearly not prepared for Billy and Joel, the next two contestants, who get up there with sunglasses and black suits and ties and proceed to somehow make it sound like they’re singing all four harmonies on that song “The Longest Time.” You think the disqualification of a drunken local—entered by his buddies as Kenny Lager, performing “Footloose”—bodes well for Dave and Lisa until the Mock Turtles, a wholesome-looking foursome wearing mock turtlenecks, take the stage and offer up a jovial “Happy Together.” Next up, Prints, a guy wearing every kind of plaid and stripe and tropical-print piece of clothing he could find, sings “Little Red Corvette,” and you know your friends are doomed to fail.

  You tell them you’re going to leave.

  “Come on,” Lisa pleads. “If you stay and cheer us on—they judge by clapping, you know—we’ll split the money with you if we win.”

  If you really do want to leave and go to Spinners by yourself, read on here.

  If you can’t resist the chance to make a quick buck, read on here.

  You watch Hayley leave, unsure whether to follow her but not ready to give up on Suzy yet. “I really can’t believe you did that, Suzy. How could you? Is there anyone in the state you haven’t slept with? What were you thinking?” You hand her a napkin to wipe the beer off her face.

  “What are you talking about? She’s the one who threw a drink over me.”

  “You fucked her boyfriend. I think that ranks a little higher on the scale of bitchiness than getting Heineken in somebody’s hair.”

  “Listen to Mother Teresa. I slept with someone who had a girlfriend. Big deal. Like you’ve never done something stupid.”

  “This is beyond stupid! Fine, you and Hayley aren’t that close, but I’ve never known you to do anything vindictive before.”

  “You’re damn right Hayley and I aren’t that close. And you want to know why? Because long before he caught sight of Hayley, Cole liked me. And I liked him—I was in love with him. Bet you didn’t know that. So don’t sit there getting moralistic on me when you only know half the story.”

  “You can’t blame me for only knowing half the story when you didn’t tell me the rest of it.”

  “Yeah, well, we don’t all go around talking endlessly about our pathetic crushes.”

  “Are you referring to Mark?” The night is gradually assuming the chirpy, carefree atmosphere of a Jacobean tragedy.

  “Of course I’m talking about Mark! My god, have you given a thought to anything else for the last few weeks? Have you ever asked how things are going for me? I do have a life, too, y’know!”

  You sit awkwardly in silence for a few seconds.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been selfish, but my talking about Mark too much doesn’t have anything to do with you and Cole.”

  “You just don’t care, do you! You don’t even listen to what I’m saying!” Now Suzy is crying drunkenly, actually bawling her eyes out, and what are you supposed to do? Pat her hand comfortingly or tell her she’s full of shit? Pat her hand while telling her she’s full of shit? Who knows? Who cares?

  Well, you do, a little bit. In spite of everything, you can’t leave her here looking so miserable and forlorn. Now she’s started to hiccup in between sobs, and the whole scene is so pathetic that you don’t have the heart to ditch her.

  “I guess the party’s out of the question then?” you say drolly, and laugh when Suzy shoots you a disbelieving look. “It was a joke, Suzy. We’ll go home, okay?”

  “But … what about Dan?” she sniffles.

  “Maybe we should come back another time when your mascara and eyeliner aren’t smeared all over your cheeks. I don’t know how Dan feels about Marilyn Manson.”

  Suzy nods, sniffs again, and sucks back the last of her drink, and the two of you stand up to leave. “I’m sorry, you know,” she adds. “I’ll fix things up with Hayley. It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this.”

  “Not exactly the way I pictured it either.” You sigh.

  The End

  When Lisa doesn’t return in the time it would take her to change her shoes, you get worried. About the meter. It’s adding up, so you pay, get out, and wait on the street.

  After another ten minutes—you figure maybe the shoes were an excuse and she really had to take a dump or something—you start to worry, instead, about Lisa. You enter the building and convince the reluctant doorman to escort you upstairs to check on her. Inside, you find Lisa passed out on the bathroom floor. Together, you and the doorman carry her to her bedroom. Once there, she begins to stir.

  “What happened?”

  “Well, from the looks of it you went out and got sloshed again—and brought home another random loser,” the doorman says agitatedly.

  “You don’t watch many sitcoms, do you?” she asks him, clearly drunk.

  “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t,” he says.

  “Didn’t think so.” Lisa lies down again and puts her hand to her head. “Because if you did, you’d know that you doormen are supposed to be nice to the people in your building. You know, like right now you should be making me a cup of tea and laughing to yourself about how shocked I’ll be when I walk into the surprise birthday party you’re planning for me next week. Or maybe you’d ask me how my new novel’s coming along.”

  “You’re writing a novel?” you ask.

  “No,” she says disdainfully, not even looking at you. “That’s not the point.”

  “I don’t need this shit,” the doorman says as he goes for the door. “I’m outta here.”

  “That’s okay,” Lisa says, without really looking at you. “Mike’ll take care of me.”

  Mike? You’re puzzled.

  “Lisa,” you say, “it’s me.”

  “Oh, Mike,”
she says groggily. “What would I do without you? I’m sorry I hit on your friend. I just wanted to make you jealous.”

  It suddenly hits you that you’ve been used. Lisa was after Mike all along …

  “I’m going to change into my pajamas,” she says. “You want to wait in the other room…” You poke around the living room and find, amid various half-full mugs and empty beer bottles, the current issue of Glamour, a bag of grass, and some rolling papers.…

  If you pick up Glamour and flip through it while waiting, read on here.

  If you roll a joint and put it in your pocket, read on here.

  The Apollo, a cozy Greek restaurant, is doing brisk trade this evening. As soon as you walk in, Suzy waves at two guys sitting at a table.

  “He’s here!” she trills.

  “Great,” you say, but there’s a vague feeling of unease settling upon you. Why does one of these guys, the one who isn’t Nick, look so familiar? You can’t place him exactly, but you’ve definitely met before. And the way he’s now glaring at you suggests that he recognizes you, too, and more worrying still, he’s having no trouble remembering where and when.

  Nick introduces him as James.… Somewhere in the distance, a bell is ringing. “We’ve met before. Didn’t think I’d run into you again,” James says to you.

  You’re not sure what to say and just stare blankly.

  James has clearly overindulged on the ouzo. “Did you know she was going to be here tonight?” he snaps at Nick, who shakes his head.

  “I’ve never even met her,” he says, puzzled.

  “This is the girl I told you about, remember? The one who fucked me over last month?” James is staring at you as if you’re something he just found lurking on the bottom shelf of his refrigerator. “We met at a party—you were there with some friend of yours; Carina, maybe? You were a little drunk. Anyway, we talked for a long time, we kissed, I told you I thought you were really great and asked for your number, you gave it to me, and I went to the bathroom. When I came back ten minutes later, you were making out with somebody else and when I tried calling you the next day, I realized you’d given me a fake number.”