A Night Out

A Night Out

The date was November 9th in the year of our Lord: 2018. I was in the middle of the daunting task that is taking out the garbage at my place of employment. The harsh wind was whipping harder than an adolescent Brad, or Christian Grey off a bean, or even Kevin Spacey in House of cards, whichever one of those analogies suits you. I baby hooked the mostly recyclable items into the dumpster and considered joining the debris because among trash is the only place I truly feel at home. However, tonight was different. It was Friday. The bars were aligned. A glimmer of Hope hit me right in the jaw (it was actually Hope Solo, that girl genuinely loves beating the shit out of dudes. Some may even compare her to the black panthers in terms of her vigilantly approach to femininity. http://www.espn.com/espn/otl/story/_/id/12976615/detailed-look-hope-solo-domestic-violence-case-includes-reports-being-belligerent-jail). Maybe the aggressive tendencies stem from her father, Han. I digress. Back to the matter at hand, ah yes, the prospect of getting tallywackered with the boys coupled with the potential for messing with pussy had me more excited than Jerry plotting on his feline nemesis, Tom.

I entered my hours in for the week and was on my way out of the store to face the weekend. Upon reaching the door, my middle-aged coworker, who surely has a contract with dockers, reminded me for the 15th Friday in a row that if I were to end up in jail… he’s not bailing me out. I mustered up a laugh as if hearing the joke for the first time and hurried through the door. I climbed in my car, synced up my Bluetooth, scrolled past my crying music, and lit the speakers up with the weekend playlist. As I sang along to Cher’s, Do You Believe in Life After Love, I couldn’t help but think “that tonight’s gunna be a good night.” (Black Eyed Peas). Proper citation saves lives.

I skerted into an open spot at my apartment with a little extra acceleration to let everyone on the block know that I am surely not to be messed with. I gathered my things and proceeded to bust down the door to my apartment. As the alpha of the house, I degraded all my beta roommates with the ever-so-classic, “What’s up pussies?!?” The boys were up to their usual routines. Ty and Ryan were struggling to let go of the past as they were playing MLB The Show ’07. Playing in career mode, their animated version of an ideal life was hitting at a .587 clip, quite impressive. Carson was heckling Ty and Ryan for playing a game that was old but not yet retro. Kurt was nowhere to be found. And last and most certainly least, Chase was waiting eagerly to switch the forecast from blue skies to cloudy with a sizeable rip off my vape and potentially acquire popcorn lung in the process. (reminder to reach out to Juul for an advertisement… may need to cut the piece about popcorn lung.) After the itinerary was discussed for the proceeding night of debauchery, I noticed my Juul, phone, and internal battery were all in the red.

At precisely 7 PM I was awoken to the sound of my alarm. The connotation of my ringer was turned on its head. Instead of the usual, anxiety in a blanket, 7 AM alarm, this was a 7 PM alarm. Post versus ante meridian is an important distinction for my mental health. I laid in bed for another 10 minutes, as we ambition-lacking people do, and mindlessly scrolled on my phone. I noticed a new match on Tinder. “Brittany. 20. Virgo. Zeta Tau Alpha. Don’t talk to me if you don’t have a dog.” I sighed and looked down at my cat, David, who seemed rejected upon hearing the news of Brittany’s bio. I reaffirmed David that her genetic makeup is similar to a Lion and Lion’s surely do not concern themselves with the opinion of Greek’s. After counseling my feline friend, I needed to sift through my dirty clothes to find the least dirty items to cover up my body-by-McDonalds.

The task of assembling an outfit was mitigated due to the volume of outfits I find deemable to be seen in. Three shirts, two pairs of jeans, and two sets of shoes make up the starting rotation of going-out-clothes. I just added a pair of Air Force’s to the collection, but they do not have the field experience necessary to handle the inside of a bar. The qualifications for bar shoes are as follows: terminally ill or Adidas. I decided to dawn the denim button-up which would need a shot of cologne to mask the smell of last weekend, followed by a pair of faded, black jeans that were purchased via student loan returns, and the seasoned Campus Adidas. I finished my ensemble with a Fossil Watch which was earned some point during a year of arguments concerning my ability to be a boyfriend. The fit was complete.

The next step was the passing of the torch from Sober Matt to Drunk Matt. My drunken, alter ego was lying dormant in my brain, making the necessary preparations for the big weekend. He had written, revised, edited and then finalized his list of girls to text when the opportunity presented itself. He was excited to receive his 395th chance after Hungover Matt convinced Sober Matt to swear the succubus off for good this past Sunday morning. Unfortunately for Hungover Matt, the Matt’s have been through this before and Drunk Matt tends to make the decisions on the weekend. Although unhealthy, Drunk and Sober Matt seemed to collude together, leaving Hungover Matt to pick up the pieces in the morning. Feeling his impending doom, Hungover Matt gave into the cause as he knows his place in this delicate ecosystem. With all the Matt’s accounted for, Sober Matt was on the hunt for a medium to allow the metamorphosis to take place. Decisions, decisions.

I hopped back in my automobile which was manufactured in the Deutschland and flipped the lights on as night had fallen on Mount Pleasant. Nestled in the middle of Michigan, Mount Pleasant’s community prides themselves on two archetypes of drunken mistakes: The Soaring Eagle Casino and the esteemed Central Michigan University. A wonderful place to raise a family, I may add. There are many draws to keep those pesky teenage sons and daughters occupied. Namely, the two-headed monster of a liquor store, where a 3 x 5-inch notecard and a Crayola can manufacturer a sufficient ID; and a nightclub that seemed to develop some sort of Open-Door Policy to maintain their diplomacy with the underaged. Together these two institutions serve more alcohol to minors than all of the unguarded household, liquor cabinets in the great state of Michigan combined.

As I have been doing for the greater part of my formative years, I pull into the aforementioned liquor store. Pulling open the door, I am enveloped in the aroma of asepsis and stale beer, which contrary to popular belief, is quite welcoming. My eyes survey the store. A couple of lads are reaching at Four Locos with the intent of fighting one another in a few hours. A younger woman, who I am certain is friends with Brittany from Tinder given her Lululemon tights, Hunter boots, and ZTA printed sweater, holds up a bottle of Cabernet to her presumable boyfriend. The man agrees. She starts her soon to be 350-second-long snap story with a picture of the chosen wine.

The atmosphere turned sour after a group of 8 jabornies sauntered in. They all seemed to be laughing, but no one was telling jokes… interesting. Not familiar with the communication techniques these creatures have developed, I made the assumption that the word “bro” was some sort of echolocation mechanism. The leader of the pack crowdsourced his contemporaries with a “well boys what are we thinking, should we sauce up another 30 racker of Natty?” One of the tadpoles whose DNA is most likely made up of intertwined vineyard vines responded, “Bro that’d be the second 30 we crushed tonight.” Yikes, Menacing vibrations were suffocating the room. I was growing uncomfortable as the shuffling of boat shoes was inching closer to me. They must have noticed another male presence within a 10-foot radius. In a panic, I wrangled up a Red Bull and his trustee counterpart, Vodka. I hurried to the counter before one of the Neanderthals engaged me in conversation, as not even Rosetta Stone would make me fluent in whatever subsect of English they speak. I hastily exited, made my way to the car, and curtailed it back home unscathed… close call.

I’ll summarize the pregame as it mostly consisted of Juice WRLD scriptures and waiting for girls that never showed. 
 
 The cab showed up around 11:00 and all of the boys at the pregame rounded up their crumpled one-dollar bills for the cab fare. We stumbled down the steps of my apartment and paid the kind lady the $3 price of admission.

The atmosphere in the cab was more electric than an outdated version of capital punishment. Wanting to include our driver in the ambiance, my left brain (now fully commanded by Drunk Matt), dug deep to come up with a creative opener for our new friend. “So you guys been busy tonight?” Nailed it. She turned my way with a surprised expression given a person of my age strung 6 words together that she understood. “Yeah, mostly drunk, college kids.” Ouch. I felt betrayed by our new friend as her passive-aggressive shot had hit its intended mark. We pulled up to the scene of the bar and piled out. I watched the cab drive away into the night, and made a promise to myself to never open up to another cab driver.

The line to the establishment was a little longer than usual. Most of the girls were nearing hypothermic states as the necessary sacrifice of warmth for cute was taken. The prospect of being overcharged for a 10/90 liquor-mixer ratio had the crowd clamoring. I glance to my right and notice a couple was in a bit of a quarrel. The female presence in the relationship was throwing her hands up in down like an air traffic controller, attempting desperately to land the metaphorical plane that is her boyfriends’ attention. The male does his best to counter in a desperate attempt to maintain an acquaintance during the trying times of cuffing season.

As I was watching the disgruntled couple disappear into the night, I was unaware that I was inching closer to the entrance. I unveiled my state issued ID to the burly bouncer, who does a bit of quick math and allows me into the bar. The bar was exceptionally busy on this Friday night. Quite frankly, I haven’t seen this much buzz since last Sunday, when I binged watched the Toy Stories and capped my night off with a documentary about the Apollo 11 allegedly landing on the moon. Amongst the buzz were creatures from all walks of life and after a quick assessment there may even be a few characters who belong to worlds outside our know stratosphere.

I could feel my BAC levels dipping lower than levels acceptable for the 12:00 AM hour, so I began to make my way through the smog-like atmosphere to the home of the drinks. The bartender approaches my side of the bar and scans the applicants. To no one’s surprise, he offers his assistance to the two females to my left who seemed to be unaware of their XX chromosome privilege. I waited patiently and ordered my drink.

Making my way back to my table of friends I was stopped in my tracks by an illumination of estrogen. In my line of sight was a girl who, on any given day, had at least 25 adolescent boys spending the greater part of their afternoons appreciating her spring break trip to Cabo. She was now the sole proprietor of my attention. Her eyes were as blue as Walter White’s meth and her hair flowed like a Garnier Fructis model, incredible. *author’s note: an effective writer fabricates stories to encapsulate their audience. With that being said, there are not enough alcohol or self-help books in the world to give me the confidence to approach a woman of this caliber. But for the sake of story-telling, I will describe the exchange as if I had the misplaced confidence of a first-team all-state middle linebacker.* As I started to approach my future ex wife, three men stood in a line, blocking my path towards her. Developing in front of me seemed to be three levels of douchebaggery I would need to defeat to talk to the fair lady.

Level 1: The Absorbed Athlete

When dealing with an athlete there are three defense mechanisms that an opposer must take into consideration. Always, always have a breathing apparatus on deck. These organisms have developed pours that secrete poisonous Axe Body spray when threatened. Secondly, you must not under any circumstance strike them as their varsity jackets are impenetrable. Lastly, do not let them charge you. After applying three and a half gallons of mega hold hair gel, the top of their heads are as dangerous as a rogue porcupine. I came prepared with a respirator, and an elaborate, female robot that is programmed to be interested in their Hudl highlights. I’m glad that the robot drew his attention because I was grossly underprepared for the razor-sharp, spiked hair.

Level 1: passed.

Level 2: The Fraternity Foe

This particular subsect of man is extremely territorial. Taking one step on their turf is an act of war. I was prepared for the altercation with a shield that was necessary to block the armor-piercing credit cards. After deflecting all 74 of his Visas, it was time to launch the counter-attack. My blue-haired, alcoholic Grandpa Rick (who is undoubtedly the smartest man in the galaxy) gave me a piece of technology that allowed me to create mirages of my choice. I set up the optical illusion in the corner of the bar. It was a Planet Fitness enclosed with mirrors that had a strict dress code of Michael Jordan jerseys. This goes without saying, but…

Level 2: passed

Level 3: The Faithful Friend

These horny little bastards are pretty difficult to deal with as their persistence rating is a 99/100. This man was running the friend zone, and anyone who knows anything about sports knows this is the most difficult zone to score on. If the sports reference didn’t resonate with you, this one most certainly will. In order to understand our Faithful Friend, we must think of him as a parasite. The only way a parasite survives is off the nutrients of a host. This particular strand of parasite prefers hosts that are out of their league. With my baseline knowledge of science, I decided to create a mirage for him as well. I recalibrated the machine Grandpa Rick gave me. I programmed in the most irresistible woman for our little parasitic patron. Attractiveness dial turned to high. Ability to lead him on dial turned to maximum. Last but not least, A father who is pulling for him dial cranked to maximum. The machine spits out the most alluring specimen for our Faithful Friend.

Level 3: passed

With all of my adversaries occupied, I finally had the chance to approach her. The cortisol floodgates were fully open as I was now facing the descendant of Venus. My tongue seemed to have reached down my throat and was strangling my esophagus as the words were trying desperately to bypass the situation. I finally untangled the mess, but now I encountered a new issue. The consciousness was dead set on saying one thing…

My brain:

Don’t say it

Don’t say it

Don’t say it

Don’t say it

Don’t say it

Me: So, what’s your major?

I did not even hear her response as I was too busy being upset with myself for regurgitating undoubtedly the WORST opener since Harvard first opened its doors in 1636. If I was fortunate enough to be in the 1600s, I would go lick a hospital floor and put myself out of my misery with a dash of Scarlet Fever. However, I was very much in the present and wallowing in my disappointment like an illiterate Muslim who just housed a BLT or an adolescent Amish boy on his way back to the settlement after a week of Rumspringa. With those 4 simple words, I had aligned myself with the Faithful Friend, tragic.

Dejected, I returned to my table of friends with my tail firmly positioned between my legs. Knowing I was going Home Alone (s/o Kevin McCallister), I decided to partake in my favorite pastime, studying the creatures of the night.

This was not a safe place for an epileptic as the flashes of cameras were coming in from all angles, as the documentation of a standard night out was of UTMOST importance.

I notice Brittany from Tinder across the bar being extraordinarily friendly with someone who clearly has a dog at home.

Two girls had a head-on collision, embracing one another like a military husband greeting his wife after a three-year tour.

The greater population of men at the bar were following women around as their heat-seeking missiles appeared to be dialed in.

Things were going as things tend to go.

As my boredom began to overwhelm me, I decided I needed to entertain myself. As someone who dances as well as Stephen Hawking, I reverted to entertainment that involved sitting down. With options narrowed, I decided to channel my inner Chris Kyle and aligned my scope on one of my unexpecting friends. The choice of ammo was ice from an abandoned drink. I pinched the bullet between my pointer finger and thumb and released the ice with the finesse of the heavy-weight, beer pong champion of the world. The ice hit my intended mark…

I glanced up and noticed a bouncer making his way towards me, who I’m sure was anxious to return home to the dinner his mother had left out for him. To any bouncers reading this, I did not mean to make a generalization towards the courageous career choice bouncing is, but this particular fella had me by my collar and was escorting me out of the bar FOR TOSSING A PIECE OF ICE 5 FEET. This should have called for a light slap on the wrist. Instead, the Captain America of bouncers who apparently signed the Oath of Alliance which states he would protect the sacred grounds of this bar against all things foreign and domestic pegged me as an enemy of the state. The hero that Mount Pleasant so desperately needs, threw me out on the streets like I was a foster kid on my 18th birthday. My night ended as abruptly as this story.

The end.