Midnight in the Garden of Shots and Gimlets

I didn’t expect to like Savannah. Let’s be honest: It’s a phonograph kind of town, and I’m an mp3 kind of guy. I’m bright lights, tall buildings, and self-styled fashionistas. Savannah, on the other hand, is long shadows, town squares, and sun hats.

In fact, when my team manager told me in January that he would fully support my attendance of our company’s annual North American conference, I was leaning towards a “thanks, but no thanks” response. Luckily, however, I mentioned it to Dupa first.

Me: “Savannah’s not all that appealing of a destination.”
Dupa: “It’s better than [being in] Pittsburgh in March.”

Such simplistic logic, and yet I couldn’t argue with it.

My connecting flight in Atlanta was delayed by three hours, which didn’t make me any more enthused (though the 22 oz. draughts of Cherry Wheat that I had with dinner at the Sam Adams Brew House near my gate—while watching NCAA tourney games—helped ease me through it), since it meant that I arrived at my hotel after 1 a.m. It was about 2:30 by the time I was finally asleep, and 6:30 when the alarm pried open my eyelids. Monday was a full day of forced smiles, glad-handing, phone calls to relay information back and forth between my team and coworkers back in Pittsburgh, and generally running myself ragged. And on top of it all, the weather was abnormally cold that day, never getting out of the low 50s; Pittsburgh, by contrast, was experiencing an abnormally high stretch in the upper 60s. A reception was held that night, but after drinking one measly vodka tonic (a coworker accidentally outted me with the drink in front of our company’s CEO; I decided against any further drinks during the event as a matter of self-preservation), I returned to my room to check e-mails. At 11:30 I groggily closed my laptop and fell asleep muttering, “Fuck Savannah.”

Tuesday brought a 180 degree spin to that outlook. The day itself was much more subdued, especially since I had gotten a proper night’s sleep and awoke fairly refreshed (coincidentally, it was the only morning that week where I awoke in that state—but I’m getting ahead of myself). That evening a much larger reception was held, and I skillfully maneuvered through it with multiple vodka tonics without ever crossing paths with our CEO. My work friends and I moved from the reception to an annual party thrown by one of our largest customer companies (I jokingly refer to their CEO as “My dear Papa,” because he’s as fond of cold drinks and hot women as I am—so you can understand why the party is something I look forward to). L Boogie was in attendance as usual, and earlier in the night I’d reminded her that my birthday was coming up.

L Boogie: “Well happy birthday!”
Me: “Remember Austin?” *eyes scan down to her blouse and then back up*
L Boogie: *laughing* “There won’t be any of that THIS year!”
Me: “The night is young, [L Boogie]. Never say never!”

Now, as I stood near the bar talking with a coworker, I heard L Boogie call me over. She had two shots in front of her. I cracked a smile, but before I could suggest anything she chimed in “Just a shot! No body shots!” I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, and appreciatively tossed back the glass of “Birthday Cake”. As I prepared to order myself another V&T, a coworker told me about vodka gimlets. [In the event that my unfamiliarity with them was a symptom of me being from a younger generation, and not simply my own personal ignorance, I’ll explain that a gimlet is vodka and lime juice.] I had never tried one before, but liked the prospect of trying something new; I promptly ordered a Grey Goose gimlet—or a “3G,” a shorthand I vaguely remember relying on in the later stages of the party.

Meanwhile, a Buttery Nipple had now appeared on the bar, and my friend “Ms. Purple” was calling me over to toss it back (there is a bit of history to her ordering me that shot, as it was the shot that launched me into a wild night in San Diego five years ago that I’ve referenced here on the page on a couple of occasions). And, as I snapped an ominous picture (that’s my 3G and Buttery Nipple to the right), the rolling snowball that was my night began picking up steam. Some of the people near us had asked L Boogie just what kind of shot she had bought me; when she told them that it was a “Birthday Cake,” it led to discussion about just what a Birthday Cake was. That discussion led to curiosity. That curiosity led to another round being ordered. And then another. And then another. And then…oh god…another. And, as far as I can remember—and from what I’ve been told—I had a new 3G in my right hand for every new shot that I had in my left. I had officially lost control of my night.

I somewhat remember Papa and I walking to another bar, but really my only lasting recollection of the rest of that night was one of our customers helping me into a cab after 2 a.m. And then…

I opened my eyes to a crack of sunlight. It was coming from between the curtains in my hotel room. “Well, at least I’m in my room. But…” My alarm was supposed to go off at 7 a.m., well before the sun would have fully risen. “Fuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…” I looked over at the clock radio. 11:04 a.m. “…ccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk”. My phone had several new text messages on it, including one from a coworker asking me to help with the audio equipment for that day’s keynote speech—at 8 a.m. *sigh*. I showered up and sent her an apologetic text message promising to explain at lunch.

The rest of that workday was, well, interesting. Because I was chugging water at every opportunity, explaining myself to coworkers, and weathering the storm of questions about my condition from people who had seen me the previous night, I found actual work to be a nice distraction from the mental and physical pain I was feeling. By the end of the day I was resigned to just having a quiet final night in the town. Several coworkers were going on a ghost tour of the city (Savannah claims to be the most haunted city in the US), and I readily joined them. After the tour we went to dinner, and two things happened:

1. When asked for a drink order, the only thing I was capable of saying, it seems, is “vodka gimlet.”
2. One of my senior team members—who was nearby with Papa—texted me to tell me he was at a target-rich rooftop bar.

It’s like I had no choice in the matter, really.

When I arrived at The Bohemian Hotel’s Rocks on the Roof, Papa and my team member had locked down a corner of the bar. I took a seat next to Papa and pulled out a $20 as a cute brunette bartender approached, but he put his hand on my arm and said, “Wait for the blonde. Trust me.”

Who am I to argue with my dear, sweet Papa? When Alexa finally came around, I thanked Papa for his sage advice. 5’4” with steely green eyes and curves that could make you wish for traction control, her piercing gaze was the only thing stronger than the gimlet she poured me (I’d decided switch to my old friend Ketel One that night—as if it was somehow Grey Goose’s fault that I was a blathering mess the night before). Throwing my arm around his shoulder, I mentioned that I was with my “dear Papa”; Alexa gave us both a look that saved her mouth the wasted energy of saying “Riiiiiiiiigggghhhhhhhtt.” “You don’t believe them?” my coworker smiled at her. “You hear a lot of bullshit working this job,” she countered. I started to think that this was one bartender who I was going to have a hard time winning over. But the more she stared at me, the more I realized that I was already ahead in this game. Giggity.

As I began formulating a plan of attack, Ms. Purple walked into the bar. She quickly struck up a conversation with a young brother near our corner, and soon called me over. I was introduced to Chris and his date, a cute sister. After a few short minutes of conversation with Chris, he gave me his agenda for the night; making a sweeping motion with his arm, he said, “I’m trying to have sex with every single woman in here!” Almost as an afterthought, he motioned towards his date and added, “Maybe even her.”

Me: “Ain’t that your woman, though?”
Chris: “Nah.”
Me: “Oh, I thought you were with her.”
Chris: “I mean, I’m with her, but I’m not with her. It’s not like that. You can get on that if you want. You want her?”
Me: “I mean…”

Southern hospitality is no joke. Coworker and Papa now wanted to roll to another bar, so I politely turned down Chris’ offer. And I was about to learn a beautiful thing about the city of Savannah: it has no open container law. Coworker grabbed a large plastic cup from a stack of them on the bar and said, “Here. Pour your drink in that and let’s go.” Minutes later I was strolling down the street in the heart of Savannah with a plastic cup full of Alexa’s gimlet mastery.

I guess Savannah's not so bad after all.

Fort Days 2009: Fantasy vs. Reality

Stop me if you’ve heard it before:

A guy is standing at the bar in a posh nightclub, when the bartender hands him a drink that he didn’t order. Before he can even express his confusion, the barkeep explains that a woman on the other side of the bar has sent it to him. Scanning the crowded establishment, the man spots a stunningly gorgeous woman whose eyes are doing things to him that would make Roxy Jezel blush. He smiles, and graciously lifts the glass in the air to show his appreciation. The smoldering vixen seizes the opportunity and glides over to him. Charismatic small talk ensues, and when the sun rises the next morning the two lovebirds are laying on a hotel bed, wearing nothing but perfectly-placed sheets and a smile.

Centuries of artistic license by authors, playwrights, and screenwriters has trained us to believe that this scenario actually happens to some lucky schmuck out there. The people in the story are always beautiful, their charms are always intoxicating. And the result is almost always the same: giggity.

But that’s a fantasy; the fodder of Hollywood movies, letters to Penthouse, and teenage daydreams. The reality? Well, that’s the fodder of this blog.

On the second Saturday of October I met up with Dupa and TJ at Joe’s Bar in Ligonier to celebrate Fort Ligonier Days. Sadly, the turnout this year was nowhere near the standing-room-only crowd that packed the place last year. TJ was taking in his inaugural Fort Days, though, and the experience of French and Indian War reenactors in full costume mingling with “civilians” in a smoky bar was more than enough to satisfy his recipe for a party. By the time I joined them, he and Dupa were a good three hours into pounding back drinks prepared by Prince of Ligonier and little could dampen their spirits. As for me: I was handed a Jack and Coke within mere seconds of entering the bar, so the night was instantly placed in the “win” column.

The four of us—plus Prince’s mother, his wife, and her parents; not to mention various old friends of both he and Dupa’s—drank, joked, laughed, drank, took pictures with “soldiers”, drank, and generally kept things lively. Dupa and an old high school friend left the bar to sneak into the Fort itself and drink with reenactors (roughly 5 minutes after getting in, however, some hardcore reenactor played the role of bouncer and bullied them out the doors). TJ fruitlessly cheered on his Michigan Wolverines as they were dismantled by Iowa; eventually, he resigned himself to boozing away the pain. And then, about halfway through the night… I was about to order a fresh Jack & Coke from the bartender; but when I turned to do so, I found her already standing there with a drink in hand. With a little grin she said, “This is from the woman at the end of the bar.”

Now, you can probably imagine the thoughts racing through my mind when I heard those words. As someone who grew up in front of TV and movie screens filled with the aforementioned fantastical fictional images, all I could envision was looking down to the end of the bar and seeing Rashida Jones. Or January Jones. Hell, at least Catherine Zeta-Jones. Instead I saw Bridget Jones.

Don’t get me wrong; I know I’m no Zac Efron. [Side note: I would never have used him as a random example of the Hollywood male ideal before seeing his cameo on Entourage earlier this year. Prior to that episode, his name brought on nausea in the same way that watching someone pour ketchup on a steak does. But in a mere 5 minutes of screen time, he won me over by actually showing a sense of humor about his status in the world. Zac Efron’s not a total douche—who would’ve figured?] And I would later discover that the lass—or whatever the mid-to-late-30s version of “lass” would be—was a very down-to-earth and nice woman. But I’m a guy, and therefore I’m as shallow as a kiddie pool when it comes to being hit on by strange women in a bar. And even though I was standing in a bar in Ligonier, PA, I was fully expecting to see a Playboy bunny on the other side of the room. Instead, reality bitch-slapped me.

Nice guy that I am, I tried to acknowledge the gift and thank her with the textbook raise-of-the-glass-and-nod-of-the-head. Curiously, though, she wouldn’t look my way. As it turns out, she was bold enough to send the drink, but much too shy to engage in any resulting eye contact. I asked the bartender to communicate my thanks for me, then, and went back to my friends (who were, of course, full of new stand-up material centering on this episode). After 15 minutes or so, a cougarish blonde woman approached me. She was a friend of “Bridget,” and was now pulling the high school tactic of intervening for her shy compatriot. The first full question out of her mouth? “Do you want to do a body shot off of her?”

“Uhhhhhhh…”

I’ve done body shots before, and if I’ve learned anything it’s how awkward they can be—physically, that is, not socially. Place the shot glass in cleavage, and it’s likely to tip and spill, no matter how deep the cup holder. The same happens with shots done from the booty cleavage (yes, I’ve seen this happen). The best body shots are taken from a navel; but, obviously, the size of the area around the navel is crucial. It may sound somewhat narrow-minded, but it’s a fact. How many of you ladies have looked at a guy who looks like Kevin James and have thought about drinking anything off of any part of him? Exactly.

[Another side note: What are the chances that—in the same night—you could (1.) have a strange woman hit on you by sending you a drink, and (2.) be propositioned to do a body shot off a woman…and that neither offer would be the least bit appealing to you? If I could go back in time and put money down on the Vegas odds of that night’s strange string of events, I’d be reclined in the Cote d’Azur right now.]

By this time Dupa had returned from the Fort and a stop by his friend’s apartment nearby. TJ and Prince immediately informed him of the happenings going on, which prompted Dupa to dancingly announce, “Ain’t no shot like a body shot!” TJ and Prince missed about the next 20 minutes or so of action, both having retreated to the bar’s kitchen, where they each crumpled on the floor in uncontrollable laughter.

My Polish brethren’s reappearance gave me an idea, though. I struck a deal with Bridget’s friend: I’d do a body shot off of Bridget, if the friend did one off of Dupa. She quickly agreed, and went back to retrieve her girl. I found Dave, one of Dupa’s friends, and told him about the deal. He and I then conspired to grab Dupa, throw him on the bar, and hold him down while the party started (think “The Accused,” only with less sympathy for the victim). But when the two ladies came back for the fun, Dupa caught wind of his unplanned involvement in the activities. Instead of running, he portrayed true Dupa form by suggesting that he lay on the pool table while she did the shot out of his navel. Touché.

Shots were ordered up, Dupa hopped on the table and pulled back his shirt, and Bridget’s friend went to town (it had probably been a solid 15 years since her lips had touched 28 year old flesh). I looked at Bridget with a grin and said, “My turn!” We had decided, understandably, that I would do the shot from her cleavage (which was ample, as you might expect). She deftly placed the shot, and I went in after it. Like I said earlier, though, body shots done from there can be (physically) awkward. And, sure enough, I spilled about a quarter of it down her shirt. Eager as I was to do the shot and get things over with, I had fumbled with the glass. Bridget feigned displeasure at the alcohol going down her shirt, although I’m sure she was only doing so in the hopes that I was going to personally clean up the mess. Best believe, I was not. TJ, loving every moment of what the night had become, attempted to laugh at me for fulfilling Bridget’s body shot order.

Me: “Hey, I got to do a shot and nuzzle some boobs. I’m failing to see the downside.”

Bridget tried her best to convince me to join her and her friends, as they would be moving onto another bar. I kept my feet firmly planted as far away from the edge of that proverbial cliff as possible, fully aware that Dupa and TJ would kick me over the side if they had a chance. Bridget and her blonde friend went back to the other side of the bar and collected the rest of their crew, which included an attractive brunette who my friends and I had not noticed until just then. As they packed up and left, TJ suddenly felt cheated. “Damn it,” he said, realizing that Dupa and I would likely have been handcuffed to Bridget and her friend, leaving the attractive one unclaimed. “She would’ve been mine!”

Prince’s Mom quickly countered that notion, however. “No, dear. [D.e.f.i.] was taking two.”