STOP THE FREAK SHOW I WANT TO GET OFF
not the usual Sunday night
I’ve long since given up attempting to make sense of complex pattern variations, or even applying logical inference to seemingly random events. Or, worded more simply, you just can’t predict when the really freaky shit is going to happen.
A Sunday night in the not too distant past.
Zippers bar, 80's retro dance party. Often a weekly event for myself and a few friends. Last night, no exception. So after a couple cranberry & vodka’s, some energetic ass shaking to the likes of Madonna and The Cult, I said goodbye to my friends and found myself leaning up against the bar wall, copping a mildly disinterested cruise pose.
Aware of several things simultaneously … I’m enjoying my contentment at what has been a quality weekend, and at the same time pondering a rather sudden and high placement on the how-horny-am-I scale, when a solidly put together figure with a five o’clock shadowy vibe catches my eye. A quick but complete exercise in sexual mental gymnastics ensues, before I realize that said five o’clock shadow belongs to none other than my friend Ken, current ex patriot resident of New York City, and up and coming In Style photographer.
Several stealth maneuvers through the crowd later, and after the required number of bear hugs, Ken tells me that this was a last minute trip, and he’s only been at the bar for an hour or so. Though judging from the slightly shorter, somewhat swarthy looking accessory attached to his hip, it was an hour put to good use. Suddenly aware of what is close to becoming a socially awkward moment, Ken snaps out of it, and introduces me to someone whom I think he has just called “Zeke.”
Offering some intricate combination of fist bump gestures, the accessory attached to the hip gives me a canned “Wazup!”
Gritting my teeth until they hurt, I successfully avoid any facial reaction. A deep breath, and I lean in with, “Hey Zeke, glad to meet you. Having a good night?”
“Boner fucking city man”, is the reply that comes. Silently, I ask myself if, a) There is a possibility he really just said that? And, b) Is that really a tiny bubble of white froth at the corner of his mouth? At the center of my growing pit of dread, I realize the answer is yes. To both questions.
Those cranberry & vodkas must have been strong, since surprisingly little effort is needed as I execute a pause and smile recovery, and finish with a neatly restrained “Cool.”
Clearly not missing his cue, Ken lets me know they are “heading out.”
So when I casually suggest an early dinner tomorrow it is actually code for “I cannot wait to hear how you explain this fucking story.”
Judging by the return smile, it’s a code he still understands.
“Great, I’ll call”.
Cut to five pm Monday.
The idea that meeting Ken for a quick bite could in any way include the previous evenings accessory, managed to completely evade my cerebral pathways until I was a few blocks from Trattoria Al Forno. So really, no big surprise when, two minutes later, I’m once again doing the teeth grind.
“Hey Ken. How’s it going Zeke”.
And even though I really wanted to, I managed not to add the commentary literally screaming in my head, “That Priape emblazoned wife beater, accompanied by the gold scorpion like thing around your neck is so…unique, Zeke”.
In retrospect, I can only describe it as something akin to a nightmare. Of being caught somewhere between Twin Peaks and the Twilight Zone. Because, I kid you not, it just got more bizarre every passing minute. Between his very absent personal volume awareness tool, and that weird metal head vernacular, it was getting increasingly uncomfortable since I had no idea what was coming next. Again, I really wish I was kidding.
So, please cut me a bit of slack when I tell you that what came next, more than a few times, was a slightly too loud demonstration highlighting Zeke’s substantive knowledge of that classic Night Ranger hit, Sister Christian. It might have even been awkwardly funny, if he didn’t feel the need to include the closed eyes, followed shortly after by several in-time-with-the-beat-chin bobs. Reacting as I sometimes do when my goal is a futile attempt at refocusing others attention, the rest of my evening was a bad combination of throat clears, spastic body shifts, and poorly forced laughs.
Picture it.
Ken looking completely catatonic and shell shocked. Me reacting like some deranged seal out of water, flopping around in my chair to an occasional background refrain of:
You’re motoring
What’s your price for flight
In finding mister right
You’ll be alright tonight
So, I really don’t know. Perhaps it was the spontaneous karaoke, or maybe the very strange and too many to describe conversation flips, or, it could have been the near complete meltdown by the waiter, as Zeke requested extra butter for his “noodles”. Either way, calling it a night and bidding a hasty goodbye to Mr. Night Ranger could not have come sooner.
Waiting an agonizingly safe thirty seconds after leaving Zeke, I say to Ken, “Two thoughts. One, he better have been the poster boy for exceptionally nasty and twisted bottoms.”
Judging by the complete nonplussed reaction from Ken, I didn’t wait for that answer.
I move on to my second thought. Looking skyward, I close my eyes and with a completely straight face, manage to squawk out a pathetic:
Sister Christian
Oh the time has come
And you know that you’re the only
Quicker than lightning, Ken has me in a kind of hug slash head lock, telling me, between bursts of relieved laughter, to fuck off and die. Poor Ken!
A weirdly surreal evening if ever I’ve had one.
