Category: In a Bar
The elevators ding open to the beeps, bells, and chimes of the MGM casino floor. We hang a left, a right, another right, then trough through throngs of tourists.
Excitement tingles in our fingertips. We could throw lightning bolts from our hands, it’s so strong.
This is how it always is. It’s become our Vegas tradition.
Our first destination is the Zuri Bar. Dark shadows criss-crossed with crisp blue lights cast an unsettling web on the walls. Deep bass boom-boom-booms into our bodies. It’s a club atmosphere meant to psyche up even the most anxious player. To us, it just adds to the soundtrack of Vegas, followed by the singing of slots and cheering at craps.
Smoke waifs our senses. Occasional puffs pollute our noses. It’s a city of all sins, especially the self-destructive and peer-destructive ones. It’s a place where one goes to die a little each day, literally, morally, perhaps even spiritually. That’s okay though. As soon as you leave, those mutilations remain. What happens in Vegas, well, you know.
We crash into the couches and survey the scenery. Some of the guys see them as prey, with their loose wallets, polished ATM cards, and optimistic naivety. Me, I like to people-watch. I make up stories for each one.
For instance, that lady in the little black dress over there, sitting by herself? She’s having a clandestine rendezvous with a high roller she met at the Mirage. Being that she was staying at the Mirage with her husband, she had to arrange this meeting at the MGM.
Little does she know that her husband is also having his own secret rendezvous… with that high roller’s… brother! Gasp.
This is all a manifestation of my mind’s meanderings, of course. Take off its leash and it will run loose in all kinds of directions. The scotch whiskey doesn’t help either.
Oh, I didn’t tell you about the scotch whiskey? Macallan. 21-year, maybe 25-year if we’re feeling especially lucky. The 50-year? Well, one day. Like mellow velvet down your throat, the water back brings out hints of toffee and cloves. It takes off the edge for those who have such a distaste, and it accentuates the flavors for those who have such a taste.
Price: a Benjamin and change.
We savor our Macallans slowly. It is a rare delicacy that we appreciate in all its elegance. The sounds, the smells, the sights… every sense is tempted as much as it is offended. Just the way we like it.
The waitress serves as eye candy we devour hungrily. Short skirt, low top, and lots of skin. The uniform designers sure know how to rile up their audience. A comment here, a joke there, and she giggles. The fact that this act increases her tip notwithstanding, we smile and feel invincible. What better way to measure a guy’s manhood than by how many times he can get a hot chick to laugh?
Then the psychology begins. We torture each other with taunts and torments. We encourage each other with enthusiasm and applause. Break ourselves down and build ourselves up. Just like in the army. Our way of becoming Vegas Strong. Fuck yea.
Once we’ve been molded appropriately, we’re off to our next destination. The high-limit slots. We’re not talking your Grandma’s slots here. I’m sure she’s a lovely lady who once made that big win of three hundred dollars. Good for her.
I’m talking about a Benjamin a pull. Feed the beast a one-hundred dollar bill, then stroke its shaft. One pull each. Maybe two or three more if we’re feeling incomprehensibly indestructible. Fortune favors the fools on Friday, we fathom. It’s the beginning of the weekend, the perfect time to lure the lustful with luxuriousness.
The first victim pulls once. Hits one-thousand right away.
The second victim pulls once. Nothing. Twice. One-thousand and two hundred.
I pull once. Nothing. Twice. Nothing. Aw shit, why not? Thrice. One-thousand and six hundred. Thank you beast, for regurgitating such regal riches.
Price: a Benjamin. Reward: ten-fold or more.
Armed with confidence, indestructibility, and optimistic naivety, we approach the tables to start our attack. The rest of the trip is dictated not by tradition, but by the tides of fate. We enter it with the full knowledge of our odds. And that, my friend, is our Vegas tradition.
“This guy is driving me nuts. He seems to be interested, yet he’s not doing anything. What the hell is up with him??”
I shrugged and stared at my beer. “Maybe he’s just a passive guy. They need a little more time to warm up.”
She shook her head. “Well, I can’t wait forever.”
I took a gulp of beer, cleared my throat, and sat up. “How much do you like this guy?”
“I like him,” she whispered into her beer. “A lot.”
“Would you be willing to put in a little more effort to see if it can go somewhere?”
She sighed. “I feel like I have been and it’s going nowhere.”
“Okay, here’s what you can do.” My voice and volume increased. I pushed aside my beer. “Flirt with him. Give him little signs to know you’re interested. Give him some openings and chances to ask you out.”
“Mike,” she said right into my eyes. “I’ve read your site. I know all about your tips on flirting.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I’ve done them all.”
“Oh.”
“Every single goddamn one.”
“Oh.”
She sighed again. “I’ve dropped hints like crazy. I told him I wanted to see I Am Legend. And he actually took me to see it! But then, a week later: No phone calls, nothing. Then I called him and he seemed happy to hear from me. We actually talked for hours.”
“Oh, how was it?”
“They were good. We talked about everything—”
“No, I mean the movie? How was I Am Legend?”
“Oh. Eh,” she shrugged. “It was okay. Don’t expect too much.”
“Too bad. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Go on.”
She cast a glance at her beer. “Well, that’s about it. We talked for hours, then nothing. Sometimes it feels like there’s chemistry, sometimes there doesn’t.”
We both went back to our beers, nursing them gently. I savored the suds and sweet, bitter taste. It was a delicate flavor, tippy-toeing on my tongue without stepping down firmly.
“Tell me about him,” I said. “What kind of guy is he?”
“Well, he’s kind of a quiet guy in groups. With me alone, he’ll talk for hours though. When he’s in groups, he’ll sit back and be more of a listener. He’s definitely passive. I think every time we’ve gone out, it’s mostly been because I nudged. And we’ve only gone out like twice so far, the movie and a lunch before that. Every other time, it’s been in group settings.”
“And what do you like about him?”
She rattled off a list of traits like she was naming favorite albums. Her eyes widened, almost swooning a little. There was a hint of a smile on her lips too. She definitely liked him.
“And you’ve flirted with him? Given him signs?”
“Everything. All of it. Making eye contact. Laughing at his goofy jokes. Sitting up close to him. Everything except straight up asking him out.”
“Would you ever?”
“What? Ask him out?”
“Yea.”
She wrinkled her brow. “I don’t want to ask a guy out. A guy should ask a girl out.”
I stretched my arms. “Ahhh yes, that age-old debate. Who should ask out whom.”
“A guy should ask a girl out.”
“I see chivalry is not dead in the new millennium,” I chided.
“It’s not just about chivalry. Guys like to chase girls, right?”
“Well, I don’t know about that for all guys…”
“Most guys do. And if a girl asks a guy out, there’s no chase. That means there’s no challenge and he’ll eventually lose interest.”
I laughed. “So if a guy gets to chase a girl, he’ll automatically fall in love with her? Just because of the chase?”
“No, no. I’m saying that guys like the chase. It adds to the excitement of dating. But if a girl gives in too easily, she’ll seem desperate or worse, a floozy.”
“A floozy?”
“A floozy.”
“I like that word. I’m going to use it from now on.”
She scowled. “You’re making fun.”
“I’m totally making fun. Not all guys like the chase. If a girl plays hard-to-get, that may work on some guys, but not all guys. And I guarantee you that this guy, since he’s so passive, would NOT react kindly if you played hard-to-get.”
She sighed and resigned into her chair. “You’re probably right. He’s done squat already. I’m already playing easy-to-get, and he’s still not getting me!”
I laughed. “At least you’re not a floozy!”
She gave me another scowl.
“Okay, here’s one theory. It’s a controversial one, but I’ve heard it from a lot of people, both guys and girls.” I cleared my throat and sat up straight again. “Some believe that one of the side effects of feminism and the growing empowerment of women is the demasculinization of men.”
She started to squirm in her seat. Her eyes lowered on me with an intense gaze. I paused for a moment. “Okay, okay, let me try to qualify what I’m saying. I don’t mean to offend at all. I’m just relating what a lot of guys, and some girls, believe. In the context of this theory, feminine and masculine refer to the stereotypical gender roles of Western society. So the demasculinization of men means a change in the traditional gender roles of men.”
She tilted her head back slightly. It was sort of a nod, but not really. I continued. “Some men supported this equalization of gender roles so much that they no longer behaved according to the traditional rules. In some cases, this is good, as seen in the workplace and in the family. You now see many more men doing housework, raising children, etc. But in other cases, this perhaps isn’t so good. Like in the case of who asks out whom on a date.”
She opened her mouth, but I continued talking. “Know the old rule that a guy should open a door for a woman? I’ve met some women who get offended when a guy does that. It’s rare, but they’re out there. And many guys don’t want to offend or come off insensitive to women’s rights. So what happens? They switch roles. They stop opening up doors for women, they let women ask them out, etc etc.”
Her eyes were blazing now. “Are you done?”
I gulped. “Um, yea.”
“Okay, first of all, I get what you’re saying. The twenty-first century guy wants to be sensitive to gender equalization. But that’s not the same as a passive guy.”
“Maybe not, but they’re related in this particular case. There are passive guys and passive girls; passivity is not gender specific. When you pair up a passive person and an assertive person, it’s generally the assertive person who dominates, right? So look at you and this guy. Who’s the assertive one? Clearly, you are. Therefore, it’s up to you to make the first move.”
“But…”
I shook my head. “There are no buts. The whole gender equalization discussion basically says that you should strip out traditional gender roles from your situation. He’s no longer the guy and you’re no longer the girl.”
“Great, thanks.”
“Sure, anytime. So without gender roles, what we’re left with is a passive person and an assertive person. And that means the assertive person is the one who has to make the first move.”
She sighed and slowly let her head drop. Her hand lazily grabbed her beer and drew it towards her. “I guess you’re right. But…” She looked out the window. I followed her gaze and we silently watched a couple holding hands walk by the bar.
“But,” she continued, “I don’t want to have to ask a guy out. I like it when a guy asks me out. It shows… I don’t know… It shows that he’s a man.”
“So much for equalization of gender roles,” I muttered.
“Maybe I’m just an old-fashioned girl, I don’t know.” She watched the couple until they disappeared from view.
“Personally, I think we just happen to be living in a time where all kinds of traditional stereotypes are being questioned. Whenever convention wisdom is confronted, there’s always an awkward period of confusion. It’s like puberty for social evolution. Before we can settle down on whatever it is we should, we’re going to have to deal with deepening voices, hair in funny places, and wet dreams.”
“Great analogy Mike, thanks,” she smirked with an eye roll.
“As for you, I think you’re going to have to ask yourself: ‘Do I like this guy enough to get past his passiveness, risk rejection, and ask him out? Or is he not worth it, because he’s not being a man and asking me out?’”
She shrugged and kept her eyes out the window. “This is why dating sucks.” She took a monstrous gulp of beer, finishing off her glass until only suds remained. Then she ordered a new beer. “Maybe I will ask him out.”
I scowled at her. “Ew, you floozy.”
“You want to hear a really nasty story?” asked Christina. We all leaned in close. She noted our silence and continued.
“One day, this young teenage girl comes into the hospital. She’s a peasant from a village outside the city. I could tell she grew up on a farm because she had a dark tan and tattered clothes. She was maybe only fourteen or fifteen years old.
“She complained of nausea and dizziness. So I put her through a bunch of tests. At first, I thought maybe she was malnourished, but she seems healthy enough. Well, relatively healthy for a poor peasant girl. Then I thought maybe she has some kind of virus or bacteria infection, since villagers aren’t known for their hygiene. But she looks okay.”
“Maybe she has SARS!” Ben chuckled.
“No…” Christina waved him off impatiently. “This happened several years ago. SARS hadn’t gotten around yet.”
Ben grabbed his beer and stared at it.
“So anyways,” continued Christina, “this girl checks out with every test we gave her. No viral or bacterial infections. There wasn’t anything drastically wrong with her that would give her this nausea and dizziness. As I continued asking her questions, I began to get suspicious about her condition.”
“Aren’t you supposed to ask questions first?” asked Eric.
“Well, of course. I was asking them all along. But some villagers are afraid of doctors and don’t say very much. So I just go right into tests while asking questions.”
“Oh, okay, that makes sense.”
“I ask the little girl about what time of day she has this nausea, how frequent it is, stuff like that. She tells me it’s usually in the morning and that she sometimes gets really hungry and eats all kinds of food, but doesn’t know why.”
“Oh shit,” I muttered. “She’s pregnant?”
“Yes!” Christina slapped the table. “She’s pregnant! So I ask her if she has a boyfriend and she says she doesn’t. I ask her if she’s ever slept with a boy and she says she hasn’t. I ask her if maybe her father or an uncle ever did anything uncomfortable with her. She says they haven’t.”
“Um, so then how did she get pregnant?” asked Eric.
“That’s what I was wondering too. So I keep on asking her questions like this. I tell her it’s okay to tell me and that I won’t tell her parents if she doesn’t want me to. I tell her that she can trust me. She’s shy and scared, but also seems really confused about all this. She insists that she’s never slept with a boy before.
“Then, and here comes the nasty part, I suddenly realize what happened. Get this: since her family is so poor, all of her siblings sleep in one bed. She has a bunch of brothers. She’s the only girl in the family. So all of her brothers sleep in the same bed as her. And—”
“Oh no!” we shouted.
“Right! So apparently her brothers will sometimes ‘play around’ in bed. She had no idea what sex was or what they were doing. But in their playing, they would essentially have sex with her!”
“Daaaaaamn!” All of us cringed and grimaced. A collective groan shook our table. “That IS nasty!”
“I told you! You wanted to hear it!”
We nodded solemnly. We asked for it. We sat back in our chairs, turned to our beers, and tried to drown the story with alcohol.
Christina took a sip of her beer and regarded the foam. She looked around the table at our dour faces. She took another sip. Then she cleared her throat. “Do you guys want to hear another nasty story?”
We all leaned in close again.
. . .
Do you have any nasty stories?
“What’s the most significant thing you’ve gotten out of this trip?” Masako asked.
I scratched my chin. “Hmmm.” There was so much. It was my first trip ever to Hong Kong and Tokyo; heck, it was my first trip ever to Asia. I struggled to find the right answer. Unfortunately, the first answer I gave her was a lie.
“I got to see how different people are. People in Hong Kong are so driven, maybe even a little selfish. People in Tokyo are so polite, maybe even a little repressed. The food is so different, the lifestyles are so different, everything is so… different.”
I took another sip of cold sake. Its cool, soothing flavor trickled down my gullet.
“In Hong Kong, there are crowds everywhere. Manhattan is a crowded city too. But there are crowds in just a few areas: Times Square, Midtown, Wall Street during the week, etc. All of Hong Kong seems to be one big crowd. Causeway Bay, Central, Wan Chai, they’re crowded all the time.
“Same for Tokyo too. When I first got into Shinjuku, I was hit in the face with what looked like Penn Station during rush hour. Except that this is how Shinjuku station is all the frigging time. Same for Shibuya, Roppongi, all the stations.
“Also, Hong Kong is like one big mall. Everywhere you go, there’s something you can buy. There are stores everywhere. They should call it Hong Kong Mall instead of Hong Kong Island.
“And in Tokyo, everything’s so small too. The portions are smaller, the drinks are smaller, the buildings… well, the buildings are tall. But the space inside is much more compact, as if they’re trying to squeeze more into less.”
Masako nodded. “When my Japanese friends describe America to me, they always remark how big and spread out everything is. They say, ‘Wow, America is so, AMERICA!’ As in, it’s so grand and big.”
I scratched my chin again. Took a longer sip of sake. And regarded the answer I just gave. It wasn’t a full lie, but it wasn’t the right answer, the honest answer.
“But…” I paused. Masako and Pavan looked on expectantly. “Well, I feel like I just gave you the typical US tourist answer. To be honest, what I really got out of this trip is… how small the world is.”
“Really? What do you mean?” asked Masako.
“The differences aren’t what really struck me. It was the similarities. How everyone’s really alike. People here aren’t really all that different than people in the States. I don’t really know how to explain it well. There are surface differences, like speaking a different language and eating different foods. But everyone still has to communicate and eat.”
I looked down at my sake. “I’m probably not making much sense here.”
Pavan smiled. “After my first time working in Tokyo, I had to give a presentation to my colleagues in India about my experience here. And what I told them was that the Japanese are no different than you or me. We’re all alike.”
“Yes, exactly!” I nodded. “There are more similarities than differences. It’s not like the Chinese or Japanese are totally different than Americans. I don’t feel like I’m on another planet or something. There are still cars and restaurants here. I see people telling jokes and laughing together, running because they’re late for work, and just living life normally, just like Americans do.
“I usually hear Americans talking about how other countries and cultures are SO different than ours. But that’s not really true. Perhaps if I spent time with an Aborigine tribe in Australia or something, I’d feel more of a difference. But it’s not like the Chinese or Japanese are aliens or something. Americans, Chinese, Japanese, Europeans, Russians, Aborigines, we’re all on the same planet, right?
“We all want the same things: to have a good, happy life with good friends, good food, and good TV shows. We’re all bombarded by ads the same way. We all have to deal with global warming and pollution. We all have to go to work and earn a living.
“To be fair though, I just spent my time in two of the world’s largest cities. Having lived in New York City, I see a lot more similarities than differences.
“I… I don’t know if I’m explaining this well. I’m beginning to feel the sake.”
Masako and Pavan both smiled. “We know what you mean. People are more alike than different.”
“Yup. So the most significant thing I got out of this trip,” I concluded, “was how it’s really a small world after all.” Then I chugged the rest of my sake.
. . .
What do you think of Hong Kong and/or Tokyo?
“You know what I hate? Flakers.”
Tim nodded. “Oh man, me too.”
“I thought people in New York were flaky. But damn, there are some flaky people in California.” I shook my head and stared at my beer.
“You think so?” Tim shook his head. “Well, I don’t know about New York, but yea, there are a lot of flaky people here.”
We took slow sips and stared across the bar.
“For the record though,” Tim added, “I don’t flake. I just don’t commit at all.”
I laughed. “Yea, that’s true. You can’t flake, ‘cuz you never agree to do anything.”
He nodded. “That’s why, see! Because I never commit to do anything, no one can ever call me a flaker!”
I sat back in my chair and held my beer up. “Cheers to that, man!”
We clinked glasses and downed some beer.
“You know who are flakers?” I rattled off some names.
“Oh, yea, totally. They totally are.”
“It’s funny that you agree. It seems like flaky people are just generally known to be flaky by all their friends.”
Tim nodded. “They should just never to commit to anything like I do.”
“I think you’re on to something here, man.” I took another gulp. “I wonder what makes people flaky though?”
Tim shook his head. “I dunno.”
“Is it they have no respect for their friends’ time? They’re so self-absorbed that they’ll do things only if they feel like it, without a damn for others?”
Tim shrugged.
“Or are they just so busy all the time that they forget about their commitments? Are they chronic over-committers?”
“That kind of sounds like it for some people.”
“Or do they just forget? Maybe they have a poor memory and just forget about their promises?”
Tim took another chug. “Maybe all of the above?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
We both finished our beers. I ordered a second round.
“You know what sucks? Every time someone flakes on me, I trust them less. For chronic flakers, I gotta admit, I barely trust them at all.”
“Man, you’re really pissed about this flaky thing,” Tim chuckled.
“No shit I’m pissed! I hate it!”
“So you don’t trust them anymore?”
I looked down the bar. “Well, maybe it’s harsh to say that I don’t trust them at all. But I’m not very apt to invite them to do anything anymore. Or at least not expect much out of them.”
Tim nodded. “Yea, I know what you mean.”
Our beers arrived. We took our glasses and took hearty gulps.
“See?”
“See what?” I asked.
“See, that’s why I don’t commit to anything. So I’ll never flake!”
I laughed. “You know, that’s not necessarily the answer. It’s not about not committing, it’s about not flaking. You should still make promises and be good about keeping them.”
“No way man, too much pressure.”
“Heh.” I raised my beer. “Well, then, here’s to not flaking then!”
We clinked glasses and downed some more beer.
There are Pale Ales on the table. The lighting is dim. A chilly draft brings in much-needed fresh air. The other patrons provide gentle murmurs for ambiance.
“What really gets me,” Ken says as he grips his beer tightly, “is that she can say one thing, and then do something else.”
I close my eyes and nod. “Or she can tell you she isn’t the kind of girl who’d do something, but then in an argument, tell you that she really wants to do it.”
Lisa clears her throat. “Or who you thought was a friend can betray you and take your man.”
“Well,” he grins and shifts in his seat, “I don’t think I’d have to worry about anyone taking my man…”
“Shut up,” she smiles and throws a rolled up napkin at him.
“Heh. Sorry, couldn’t resist.” He looks back down at the table. “What I’m saying is I hate mixed signals. All weekend, we were cool. She seemed interested, she was flirting, everything. Then come Monday, BAM, she’s someone else.”
We nod and watch our friend silently. His eyes become glassy.
“I mean, is that too much to ask for? A little consistency?” He takes a messy gulp of his beer, dribbling it down his shirt. “It just gets me how cold she can be. How she can change into someone else so quickly. What happened to this weekend? What was that all about then? Was that not the real her?” He pauses, then adds in a whisper: “And if not, who IS the real her?”
Several beats pass in silence. We all take swigs of beer and study the swirls on the wooden table.
“How about you?” he asks me.
“I just want a girl who…” I pause and regard my beer. “I just want a girl who isn’t just rebounding.”
“Ah, oh yea. You really liked her, huh?”
I scratch my chin. “You know, not that much. I could tell there were going to be issues between us. But what really upset me was being cheated on.”
Lisa pats my hand. Kevin nods. Another silence overtakes the table. We all savor our beer and fiddle with the mugs.
“How about you?” I ask Lisa.
“I want a guy who won’t fall easily for my friends. I hate losing my boyfriends to my friends.” She narrows her brow. “I’m worse than both you guys, because in my case, I not only lose a boyfriend, but I lose a friend too! I lose two people!”
“Damn. I think you win,” Ken mutters.
“Win what?”
“The Misery Contest. You’ve got us beat.”
She chuckles. “Yea, and for my Thank You speech, I would like to thank you both.”
“Thank us?” I arch my brow.
“Yea. Without hearing your stories, I wouldn’t have told mine.”
“Ah,” I nod. “Well, yea, that’s because misery loves company.”
Ken and Lisa smile. Then we all stare silently at our beers again.
. . .
What are you miserable about?
“You ever wonder about those missed chances?”
I scratched my chin. “What do you mean? Like Missed Connections on Craigslist?”
“No, no,” Tim shook his head. “I mean, like, you meet someone briefly, but you don’t really follow through. What if that person was The One for you? And now you lost your chance?”
“Hmm… Are you thinking of a specific incident here? Or just in general?”
“Just in general.” He looked off in a distance with a pause. “Well, so when I’ve gone clubbing, I’ll get all drunk and start talking to random chicks, you know? What if one of them could have been The One, or at least, a good friend?”
I took a deep breath to take in the question. Tim ordered another beer.
“I think it’s all Fate. If you weren’t meant to connect with that person, then it’s not going to happen. It wasn’t meant to be.”
Tim took two large gulps. “Yea. But what if, you know? What if that chick was The One?”
“How are you to ever know? The grass always seems greener on the other side, right? I think you’re idealizing a missed connection too much.”
“Idealizing?”
“Yea. It’s easy to think about What Ifs about everything that’s ever happened to you. If you look back into your past right now, I’m sure you can pick out a dozen things that could have turned out differently.”
“Shit, yea. Let’s see, there was that receptionist chick. And that boring but cute chick. And that other chick. Oh man, my life is a mess! It could have been so much better! Thanks man, now I’m all depressed!”
I laughed and snorted up some beer. “Ha! Funny, dude.”
“Heh heh. I know what you mean though. It’s easy to look back on some random chick and wonder if she could have been The One, but you will never really know, right?”
“Right. And if you believe in Fate, if she really was The One, then you would have connected.”
“Yea…” We both took several gulps in silence.
“Man, that was a deep topic,” Tim added. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Okay.” I looked around the bar. “Let’s talk about chicks.”
“Sweet.”
And we wondered no more.
. . .
You ever wonder about those missed connections?
“Why do so many girls go for assholes?” Ken asked.
I shrugged and took a swig of beer. “Maybe it’s not as simple as that.”
“Huh?” Ken shifted in his seat. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe those girls don’t think those guys are assholes.”
Ken sighed. “I don’t know. I’ve seen some girls with guys who are very obviously assholes. The asshole factor runneth high in them.”
“True, true. I’ve seen that too.”
We both stared at our beers and watched the bubbles drift around our glasses. An attractive brunette entered the bar with a tall, muscle-bound guy holding her hand. As the brunette found them a table, the guy surveyed the scene and ogled the other women in the bar. Another, rather buxom girl smiled at him and he winked at her.
“Case in point,” Ken muttered.
“That was a rather uncanny and timely example.”
“So why do you think that girl is with him? He seems to be flirting with other girls in the bar, even though he’s with her. What’s up with that?”
I sat back in my chair. “Well, I can only think of two reasons why a girl would date an asshole. One: She likes the bad-boy type. She likes assholes.”
Ken scoffed. “Why in the world would anyone willingly want an asshole?”
I took a swig of beer and paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Well, in a girl’s eyes, a bad-boy type is generally more fun. They’ve been around the block a few times and that experience makes them more mysterious, enticing, and exciting.”
“That’s such bullshit.”
“On the flip side, a nice-guy type, in a girl’s eyes, is more boring. They haven’t explored much of life yet and don’t have that aura of mystery and excitement. They’re more conservative and wholesome, which translates to less fun.”
Ken tossed back a mouthful of beer. “I think that’s total bullshit, man. I mean, I know you’re right because I’ve heard the same crap before. But I think that’s such fucking nonsense.”
“Your outrage is well-placed, my friend. I think these bad-boy and nice-guy stereotypes are just that – stereotypes. And they end up hurting guys who don’t fit into either stereotype.”
“Stereotypes suck…” Ken muttered.
“The girls who go for bad-boy types also believe they can change the guy. They want to believe that they are the ones who can turn a bad-boy around into a nice-guy.”
Ken shook his head and stared at his beer. “So how is a nice guy supposed to win? Should I be an asshole then? Is that what girls want? For me to treat them poorly and cheat on them and make them feel like shit?”
“Not all girls are like this, man. Like I said, these are just stereotypes. You want a girl who likes you for who you are, right? Then the type of girl who goes for a bad-boy type wouldn’t be the type of girl you’d want.”
“I still think it’s nuts that girls would actually want assholes.”
“Each to his own, right?” I took another gulp of beer. “Okay, reason number Two: She doesn’t know he’s an asshole. Maybe she isn’t that experienced herself and the guy is a player and has her fooled.”
“I’ve heard girls deny up and down that they’re with an asshole.”
“Because they just don’t realize it, right?”
“Yea. It’s like, they just don’t see through his bullshit.” Ken shook his head. “And even if you tried to tell them that they’re with an asshole, they wouldn’t believe you. They’d argue with you until your face is blue.”
“Love is blind.”
“Good God I hope it’s not love. More like lust, I would say. Because, like you said, the guy is an experienced player and has her fooled.”
“I think girls in those kinds of situations eventually know. And if they don’t, the guys don’t stay with them very long, because the challenge of getting that girl is over and they’ll want to move on.”
“This kind of stuff kills me!” Ken sat up in his chair and shook his head defiantly.
“Remember man, that we’re talking in absolutes here. Labeling someone an ‘asshole’ is a pretty strong statement. Every one of us has good and bad aspects to our personalities. You may be 10% bad-boy and 90% nice-guy, or 40% bad-boy and 60% nice-guy. But the traits that we see as being ‘assholic’ in nature exist in all of us.”
Ken scoffed again. “Okay, fine, so I’m partly an asshole too. But I would never treat a girl poorly. I would never look around at other girls while I’m with her in a bar, like that guy.”
We looked over at the muscle-bound guy and attractive brunette. As if on cue, we caught him glancing at the female bartender.
I chuckled. “Heh, right, okay. But you do curse like crazy.”
“What?!” Ken barked. “And you don’t? You curse like a goddamn New Yorker!”
“I am a fucking New Yorker.”
“Was. You was a fucking New Yorker.”
I chuckled again. “Oh yea. Shit, you’re right. So I’m partly an asshole too.”
Ken sighed and slide back in his chair. “I still think it’s messed up that girls date 100% assholes. Or even 90% assholes. I can understand why, but I still think that’s messed up.”
We stared at our beers and watched the bubbles drift around our glasses again, lost in a moment of thought.
. . .
Why do you think so many girls (or guys) date assholes?
It was my first ever alcohol-induced black-out. I’ll never forget it. Except for the black-out itself, which, well, I’ll never remember.
It was my last day of work at Ernst & Young. My coworkers took me out to celebrate, NYC-style, with excessive amounts of shots, beer, and more shots. We spent a good three hours at the neighborhood bar liquoring up. And I quickly reached my limit.
I would call myself a fairly smart drinker. I’m aware of my limit and generally know to slow down. Sure, I’ve been sick plenty of times in public. Those guys at St. Marks Ale House probably never want to see my face again after I decorated the jukebox with my pasta dinner.
So I called it a night when I reached my limit with my coworkers. By this time, they were pretty well liquored up too. We all said our last goodbyes, then I headed out.
This is when Jayne, one of my coworkers, convinced me to join her and her friends for another party in the city. I was ready to head home, but I think she said something like, “there will be a lot of really cute girls there” that finally turned me.
She ordered the cab over to Apple, a bar near NYU. This was strange. I didn’t know her to be a person who hung out in this neighborhood. That’s where my college friends and I hang out.
“You hang out at Apple?” I asked her.
“Sure,” she nodded. I was in no state to question, so I just nodded back and tried to still the spinning in my head.
Then we arrived, walked through the doors, and over to a large table in the back.
“SURPRISE!!!!”
I jumped backwards. Seated at this table were a bunch of my college friends. They all cheered and shouted. My eyes popped out of my head and everything spun around even faster.
Jane, one of my college friends, had apparently organized this with Jayne, one of my coworkers. I guess that means you should never trust a girl whose name rhymes with rain, regardless of its spelling.
I took a seat and proceeded to fill up with even more alcohol. The first was a shot of Three Wise Men. That’s Johnny Walker, Jim Bean, and Jack Daniels. The second was a shot of Four Horsemen. That’s Jagermeister, Goldschlager, Rumplemintz, and Barcardi 151. Evil, evil drinks.
The next thing I remember, I’m sitting in my college buddy Eric’s bathroom, apparently taking a dump in his toilet. I blinked and looked around. The first rays of sunlight were coming through the window. My head was pounding like a jackhammer. And I had a hangover the size of Sammo Hung.
I finish my, er, duties, then walk out of the bathroom. In the bedroom are a few of the guys from last night, all passed out on the floor. I apparently was in a sleeping bag.
Still disoriented and totally confused, I found my digital camera by my sleeping bag and picked it up. Then I started going through each shot, one by one.
I saw pictures of my coworkers and pictures of my college friends at Apple. Then I saw a picture of me doing a Tequila shot with two girls. I don’t remember that. Then I saw a picture of my friends and I in another bar. I don’t remember that either!
The rest of the pictures were the same. Me in unfamiliar locations, but always with a different shot in my hands. How much did I fucking drink last night? I wondered.
It was a surprise that I didn’t puke my brains out. Usually, when I surpass my limit, my dinner is coming out the wrong end of my digestive tract. But this time, I didn’t. That’s probably why my memories are all gone; my body had to dump something from my body—either my dinner or my memories.
Blacking out is frightening. I don’t like being in a situation where I’m not in control of myself. Well, except for alcoholic drunkenness. But blacking out and not remembering the entire night felt different.
And what a way to celebrate my last day in NYC! I fucking blacked out! Woo hoo! Thanks Jayne and Jane, for the memories (or lack thereof)!
. . .
Have you ever blacked out after drinking too much?
Before coming to the West Coast, I’ve never experienced an earthquake. Which is no big surprise, since the East Coast is nowhere near a fault line.
So it was a huge shock to me when the lights suddenly started blinking on and off.
I was in a SOMA bar with some friends. I forget which one it was exactly, but it was an average neighborhood bar.
We arrived around 9:00pm. Still accustomed to life as a New Yorker, 9:00pm was still really early. But it seemed normal to the San Franciscans in the group. So, trying to adapt myself, I kept my mouth shut and came along.
It was a lot colder than I thought it would be. Everyone outside of California seems to assume that the entire state is always sunny and hot, both SoCal (Southern California) and NoCal (Northern California). So I stupidly left my coat in my hotel.
Of course, now I know better. The key, I’ve been told, is Layers. Wear layers of clothing that can incrementally keep you warmer (by putting on more layers) or cooler (by removing layers).
And 9:00pm in San Francisco, as I now know, can get chilly.
The next shock came at 1:00am.
I had a new beer in my hands, having ordered it just minutes before. Suddenly, the lights began blinking on and off.
Due to numerous shots, my mind was in an advanced form of intoxication. So I slurred out, “Holy shit, it’s an earthquake!” I could feel the whole bar moving. I suddenly found it difficult to keep upright and fell against a table.
“Damn, Mike, what’s wrong with you?” one of my friends asked.
“Wha?” I slurred. “It’s an earthquake!” I couldn’t believe how calm and upright everyone else in the bar was.
“Mike,” my friend calmly stated, “it’s not an earthquake. It’s last call.”
I blinked. “Wha?”
“Last call. It’s the last call for drinks. The bar’s going to close soon.”
I rubbed my eyes and looked at my watch. It read 1:00am. “Last call?” I asked. “It’s only 1:00am…”
“Yea, I know, Mike. Most bars here close at 2:00am.”
I climbed back to my feet. The bar still felt like it was moving, but maybe that was because of the alcohol and not the shifting of the continental plates.
I looked at my watch one more time, sighed, and downed my beer. “Goddamn last call…” I muttered as the San Franciscans laughed and hollered at this displaced New York City boy.
