Three straight days of boozing…whewwww.
Tony and I decided to party in “The ‘Side,” or Shadyside, my neighborhood in Pittsburgh. We met up with LRG at Shady Grove, my favorite bar in the area. The alcohol is reasonably priced, and on a good night both the upstairs and downstairs bars are jumping with people (many of whom are female and easy on the eyes).
Thursday was, indeed, a good night. The downstairs bar was standing-room-only; upstairs, where we found LRG and his crew, there was a healthy crowd of couples, groups of single girls, and groups of single guys circling the single girls like hammerheads. It was close to 11, and LRG was already well-marinated. Enthusiastically handing out daps and high-fives, he exclaimed, “I want to be in the blog!” Rounds of shots broke up the monotony of my Beam & Cokes (actually, each was more like a Beam & Co—), and by the time we rolled down the street to William Penn Tavern, I was drunk enough to forget my credit card. Luckily I realized the error quickly, and headed back to retrieve it.
Returning to the Tavern, I found Tony standing at the patio bar, and LRG sitting at a table with a girl. I asked Tony who she was; shrugging his shoulders, he said, “Don’t know. He just sat down next to her and started talking.” After a few minutes of what I’m sure was exquisite gaming, the girl and LRG both walked over to the bar where Tony and I were. I think she was trying to escape, but ended up standing next to LRG’s friends without realizing it (my memory of events at that point in the night are quite hazy, though, so I could be mistaken about the reason for them abandoning the table for the bar). Trying my best to wingman for him, I introduced myself to the girl. After she told me her name (Serena), we shared some small talk before I handed her back to LRG. I then sent him a text message: “Serena. Can you remember that?”
On Saturday, I got a text from him: “Who is Serena?”
I had planned on being at my buddy’s estate (no, I’m not trying to find a cute synonym for “house”; the guy is loaded) around 2 pm for his 4th of July party. I wasn’t even out of bed by then, though, thanks to a slowly growing hangover and the comforting of a friend (*less-than-subtle-wink*), who had come over after her own drunken adventures the night before. It was around 4:30 by the time I picked up Tony and headed over to the house of “Breitling” (I’m giving him this alias because he had a shiny new diamond-set Breitling Colt Oceane on his wrist that day).
Heinekkens served by a bartender hired for the event, games of Asshole and dealer-run blackjack in the card room, movies in the theater, and beer pong by the pool; it was prime partying. Esq had a special interest in one guest in particular, a very pretty half-and-half girl, and worked diligently to win her over. As he got drunker, though, he apparently became less conscious of what he was saying. While Tony and I were playing beer pong, we asked Jess, an equally-appealing petite blonde who is the other girl’s friend, if Esq’s efforts were worthwhile. “Well,” she said about her friend, “she really only dates white guys.” Then she added, “But he also said that he only dates Black girls.”
Tony and I began laughing so hard that we nearly choked on our beer. “Uh,” I stammered, hesitant to blow up my boy’s game, “His ex-girlfriend looks like YOU.”
Esq was the only one of us to pass out early, locked away in one of the bedrooms upstairs. Baby Joey, Esq’s little brother, led a group of us up to the room, where he expertly picked the lock. A chocolate chip cookie was placed squarely on Esq’s forehead, a crumpled tissue was inserted into his outstretched hand, a stuffed animal was laid on his chest, and a small bottle of lotion was positioned next to him on the bed. Then the camera flashes started popping off. He slept through all of it, and when we piled out of the room, we locked the door behind us. The next morning he awoke in that state, behind a locked door, with a million questions swirling through his head. During a text message conversation the next afternoon, I asked him where he’d gone the night before. He said, “I have no idea how my night ended.” After I sent him one of the pictures we took, he simply responded, “F**k you guys.”
Tony and I met up with Esq, our boy BAL, and two of his buddies up in the North Hills. We headed to an outdoor club called “Cabana.” To say the place was ideal would be a slap in the face of the many bars and clubs in the area that actually try. The alcohol was overpriced, the girl-to-guy ratio was much too low, and the average age of the crowd was much too high. But, for late on a Saturday, you could do worse. There were still quite a few good looking girls in attendance, though, and Tony and I decided to make the best of it. A Long Island Iced Tea had just began its attack on my central nervous system when BAL informed me that we were leaving. Disgusted by the fact that the music wasn’t loud enough, he and Esq had decided that we should all catch a cab to Station Square.
Now, I’m no master strategist, but the math just didn’t add up on this. The six of us were a solid half hour (and $60 cab ride) away from Station Square, and only about a half hour away from last call at all area bars and clubs. So instead of making due, getting drunk, and working on the targets at hand, we were going to stop drinking for a half hour to go to a club that may-or-may-not be better than the one we were at, and only have time for one drink (if that). Tony and Skip, one of BAL’s friends, agreed and wanted to stay put. But with BAL dead-set on leaving, we had no choice. We were all supposed to stay at his place, and if he left we were stranded, more or less. We had the majority, but it was minority rule.
Powerless, I sat in the front seat of the cab resigned to my fate. Then Esq and BAL decided to use their special ability to pluck at a person’s last nerve. I had spent the last of my cash at the previous bar, but was now getting a torrent of trash talk from the seats behind me about my paying for the cab ride—the same cab ride I was vehemently against taking in the first place. Upon arriving at Station Square, I got out and walked away from the cab, ignoring the stream of garbage that my boozed-up brethren were spewing towards the back of my head. As I approached the club, though, a new thought occurred to me: I had zero cash in my pocket, and would undoubtedly have to pay cover to get into the club. Not only that, but the closest ATMs were inside of the clubs. It was a catch-22.
I began walking towards the other side of the complex, where I knew there was an outdoor ATM. In doing so, I passed the guys, who jabbed, “That’s $10 you owe us!” Telling them to self-copulate, I took the 5 minute trek to the outdoor ATM. But as I was withdrawing my money, I realized how dumb it would be to even bother going into the club to not drink while listening to more of the nonsense my friends were talking.
I decided to catch a cab back home. The problem is, when you’re all alone on a Pittsburgh street at night (not to mention, when you’re the wrong shade of skin tone), your chances of a cab stopping for you are roughly the same as your chances of seeing Owen Wilson bring home the Oscar for Best Actor. Tired of it all, I strolled all the way home to my apartment, roughly a two hour walk. Sunday afternoon I received messages from BAL and Esq, both asking why I was so upset over $10.
I hate drunk people.