My Night at Benitos

Fifteen and a half hours. This hangover has definitely been one of my longest. Gatorade, soup, sleep, aspirin, and Season 1 of “The Wire” have been my teammates on this record-setting day.

Yesterday’s celibations (no, I didn’t spell that wrong) were rough. My friend, Tony, invited me to a party that people he works with were throwing at a bar called Benitos in McKeesport. For those of you who have never been to Pittsburgh and its greater metropolitan area, I’m not sure how better to describe McKeesport than to say that Pittsburghers look at “The Port” the same way that you probably look at Pittsburgh. Yeah—good times.

But I’ve spent a considerable amount of time in McKeesport (don’t judge me), and have many friends from there, including my roommate in college. And I know quite a few of Tony’s coworkers, since they are typically people our age who enjoy a good beer or fifteen. And, more often than not, they are female. And attractive. To summarize: a party full of young, friendly, attractive, drunk girls in a bar. Whatever madness I may enact, there’s always a method.

I stopped by Tony’s place around 7. His dad is in town for the holiday, so the three of us sat down and had a beer while discussing the world at large, as well as the college and pro football seasons. His dad preached about the might of the SEC (he holds a middle management position at the University of South Carolina), a common character flaw among people living in the Southeast. As Tony and I were about to leave, Tony gave his dad a quick lesson on how to work the cable’s On-Demand features. We then left with a Marilyn Manson video on the screen. It really doesn’t take much to amuse us sometimes, and a middle-aged man's frantic attempts to remove the hardcore Goth-rock soundblasting from a big-screen TV is more than enough to do it.

We get to Benitos, and it suddenly dawns on me that we are well behind in the intoxication arms race. Most of the party-goers had been there since their shift ended at 5, and it was now approaching 8. You could have poked some of these people in the arm with a pin and they wouldn’t have felt it. Tony must have surmised our handicap earlier than I had, because as soon as we got over to the bar he ordered two beers and two shots of Jaeger, saying “We gotta catch up, right?” There’s a reason why we’re friends.

Benitos is, by no means, a young person’s bar. The average age of a typical patron is probably around 43. But it’s cheap ($2.50 for a domestic bottle); it tends to have cool female bartenders; it has a restaurant section where a party buffet could be set up; it has a small, 15 X 15 dance floor; and it has a deejay. This means that fate had put together 40+ drunken 20somethings and another 30+ drunken 40somethings in a pot, and stirred it up with top-40 dance music.

As I stood and talked with some friends, one of the bartenders walked past and went into the storage room in the back. She smiled at me as she passed, and I jokingly asked if she needed any help. She enthusiastically said “Sure!” Damn it. That’s what I get for asking. Next thing you know, I’m carrying out two cases of beer to the bar. Madness. But I did get a free bottle out of it. Method. I have no problem with physical labor if it in any way benefits my alcoholic dependence.

Later, I was sitting in a booth with some other people, catching up on the night’s early highlights. It turns out that a friend of mine, K-Man, got into it with some guy with a ponytail, for making a sexual comment to K-Man’s girlfriend as they walked past him. I pointed to a guy with a ponytail and asked “him?” “No,” they replied, “the other one.” Yes, that’s right folks: two men over the age of 40 with long ponytails standing at the same bar. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to McKeesport.

My boy Nick eventually met up with us. He quickly got in line for the pool table, which is his thing. Nick has provided me with countless stories throughout our friendship, and a significant portion of these involve games of 8-ball. I, being a few shots and several beers into the night, declined his offer to be his partner on the table. I had already drank myself past thinking I would be of any help to him as a player. I had not, however, ruled out myself as a coach. And for the next hour or two, I often stopped by to offer my grand expertise and wisdom on difficult shots that he faced. A true friend, I am. I didn’t even let my faltering balance deter me, as I leaned to assess angles and almost fell under the table.

By now the dance floor was packed with the drunken, non-rhythmic stumbling of the masses. Let me state, for the record, that I am not a dancer. At 6’6”, 260 lbs, graceful coordination of movement is not on my list of talents. And three sheets to the wind as I may have been, I was still well-enough aware of my shortcomings to remain a spectator. This claim, however, cannot be made by one special lady at the bar.

She was in her early 30s, though her attire led one of my friends to place her in her 40s, before he saw her face in the light. Tight blue jeans, knee-high winter boots, and a tight white long-sleeved top that was just short enough to display her large tramp stamp. When a country song would come on, she would lose herself in the music, writhing back and forth, dropping her butt all the way down to the floor, her bleached-blonde hair swaying in the air. I managed to get a short video of her performance on my phone, and I may post it here some day in the near future. As great as it is—god I love modern technology—it still does not do her justice. She brought a lot of joy into the lives of total strangers last night. Judging by her choice of body adornment and inebriated state, I’m sure she brought even more joy into the life of a lucky man or two later in the night, also.

I couldn’t make it through the night without doing something outrageously embarrassing of my own, though. I’m not going to go into intense detail regarding it; but, suffices to say, a drunken text message may not be the best way to tell a girl that you like her more than just in a friends-with-their-clothes-on way. Okay, most of the time there is a method.

Just one more thing to deal with today while curled up in a ball on my couch, ignoring my responsibilities and the promises I had made to others. It’s been a painful day, but this glass of gin & lime juice is taking the edge off.

Hey, quitters never win.