Thursday, August 20, 2009
The Company Ink, Part 2
My friendship with Dave progressed over the course of a year into a push – pull. He would pull away when I was pushing toward him and vice versa. It suited me just fine but there was always that little nugget of curiosity about having sex with this friendly and slightly destructive drunk giant. I tested the limits one night when we jokingly went as dates to a concert together. (Well, that was the joke throughout the course of the day at work, until he decided we had apparently taken it too far and violated some sort of Male Slut Code so to cover his bets he asked if any of the other girls going with us to the concert tonight were hot and single.)
As his joke date I really couldn’t get angry with him, so I coolly let him know he would have plenty of chances for unknown sex and he shouldn’t be too worried. I still had a small kernel of determination that I was going to sex it up with him that night, and in case of rejection, I would set my sights on a member of the band or a roadie or someone standing near the band’s bus.
As was our tradition, Dave and I started drinking a full two hours before anyone else. I had three drinks and two shots by the time everyone else arrived and they started ordering boring food with their drinks. I had my old friend Vodka with me so I was not interested in any sort of solid nutrition. I licked a bit of cheese from a pile of nachos and picked up a chicken strip and threw it at Dave, hitting him directly in the face and leaving a grease stain that slid down his shirt. I promptly counted that as my dinner for the night.
To stop everyone in our group from looking at us with their Judging Eyes due to our drunken antics, we ordered multiple rounds of shots for our table. Just as the concert started, we stumbled to our seats and immediately begin badmouthing the opening act even though we hadn't heard a single note of their set. I also began hugging and high-fiving any man within a 50 yard perimeter of myself and my drink, effectively spilling it down the backs of at least half of the men at the concert. Luckily I had one drink for spilling and one drink to drink so I didn’t get too upset or waste any more time than necessary standing in silly lines.
As I settled into my seat, I looked to my left and noticed we had a minor local celebrity and genuine legend of Minnesota sports in our midst: Minnesota Viking Defensive End John Randle. Even without his trademark face paint and doggie crawl, I know exactly who it was and also knew I would be embarrassingly obnoxious and shame my parents and my family name trying to get him to be my best friend.
I made a beeline over to John Randle and gave him a hug to show my appreciation for his contribution to Minnesota. As it turned out, John is a very quiet, unassuming, SOBER guy with a beautiful wife (who, in retrospect, stood there while I molested her husband and only thought about ways she could snap my arms and legs off but didn’t actually do any of them). John did the classic sober guy’s half-laugh for about one second of my hug and then gently guided me to the other side of his wife. This neither bothered nor deterred me. I began firing slurry but pointed questions at her like she was Tom Cruise and I was Matt Lauer.
“Can he benchpress you?” “Does he cry or laugh in his sleep? Or both? Why?” “Has he ever tackled you or carried you like a football around the house?” “Do his large strong man hands ever accidentally suffocate a small kitten or bird or puppy?”
I thought these were all valid questions. She did not and they both quickly put 25 feet of space between themselves and their new biggest fan.
Luckily I didn’t need them. Dave showed up to see if I could borrow him some money for more drinks (clarification: more drinks for HIM; I was not a part of the equation or his thought process). I told him that he could have some money if he acted like a good boy, which prompted him to ask why I would ever like a good boy because the bad ones are way more fun. I concurred with this thought and toldhim that since he is a bad boy who doesn’t have any money for drinks, he really isn't in a position to negotiate. At this point our heads are practically joined as we flirt-negotiate a solution to his problem. Logistically we are in a perfect make-out position because he is sitting down and I am standing up, aligning his giant head and body with mine. (Although this isn’t my preferred way to make-out with him because I’d always imagined I’d get to climb up his giant body using my bra and underwear as a rope and pulley to reach the summit.)
I could hear the cheers of the audience as the band plays their first song, and I could also hear the cheers of our friends encouraging us to make out. This was all the encouragement we needed to begin eating each other’s faces. I think any fluids he may have passed onto me that night were composed of 75% alcohol so I knew that at the least I was now sterile and could safely have undergone any sort of surgery or procedure on my face without risk of infection.
The make-out didn't last long. After we acknowledged the cheers of the crowd for our fantastic make-out skills, we take our bows and he leaves to get another drink. I begin gathering my coat and purse so that when Dave comes back I can suggest (i.e. demand) we go somewhere and have sex, or at least complete some sort of satisfactory heavy petting drill before I make him buy us some sandwiches.
I momentarily forget my plan when the band’s signature song came on and I begin to edge my way toward the Randles so we can jam out together. They are both quite enjoying the song and I know that my presence will only enhance their concert-going experience. This time I go in to Johnny R with a high-five attempt vs a hug to show him that I can play it cool. He gives me a very brief wave and then I swear he and his wife began slowly edging away toward security. Fuddy-duddies.
In the meantime Dave has gotten his drink and picked up something else along the way back to our seats. His new friend looks like my fat stunt double. She is brunette, laughs annoyingly loud, and drapes herself all over him. He lets her and in fact encourages it. They whisper secret jokes and laugh hysterically at each other and all of a sudden are making out furiously in front of everyone.
I must have looked pissed or sad or horrified because I even got a slight look of sympathy from the Randles when they notice me, then look at Dave and his new ho, and then look back at me and see my face. I am not sure what to do. This sort of thing hasn’t happened to me since the eighth grade dance and back then I didn’t have the alcohol or the boobs to fight back. One of my friends comes up to me and asks how I am doing and reiterates the obvious fact that Dave is an Asshole of the first order.
When Dave and Ho finally took an oxygen break from their 10-minute no-rules-barred make-out session, she goes to the bathroom and he follows. I stop him along the way and ask what is going on. He shrugs and says “Nothing” and then asks if I am having fun. If I could have punted his head into the front row I would have, but it was too large and too high for me to reach. I just look at him to see if he has any reaction or emotion behind his eyes and I realize that the tenants are gone for the winter. I let him go and see that he and his new lady love go into the bathroom together, most likely to finish what they started.
I abruptly leave the scene of the crime, which pisses me off further because I really love that band and I don’t think they are even two-thirds of the way through their set. I am also pissed at myself for getting sucked into such a fucked-up relationship. As I think about why Dave would throw me into such a heaping pile of shit, I know that it isn’t because of some hidden love he has for me and that our kiss conjured up such intense feelings that he had to do something to fight them and thus kissed the first chick that crossed his path. Even if I was living in 1878 and had on a petticoat and a bonnet rather than stripper heels and a low-cut shirt, I wouldn’t believe that. I knew his thought process is quite simple (See beer, drink beer; See boobs, touch boobs) so I don’t really try and interpret his actions or search for a deeper meaning. The meaning goes as deep as the bottom of his glass of gin and tonic and that is that.
The next day he emails me right away in the morning to see how the rest of my night turned out and if I hooked up with anybody. I calmly tell him I only hooked up with him due to the fact that my Slut Resume clearly isn’t as prestigious as his but that I regret it and reassure him it will NEVER happen again. He responds and asks if I am mad about what happened, because he thought we were only making out as a joke and that we both know we aren’t into each other.
Fighting with Dave is futile, so I give up and leave it alone, hoping that he discovers he has flown blown crabs by noon. After this, I begin to distance myself from him. I decide I don’t want to compete in the Low Self-Esteem Olympics with him anymore (I was never any good at the Self-Loathing Steeplechase or the Dignity Aversion 50 Meter).
© Copyright 2009, Jennifer Cresap.