Operation: Jayhawk Down, Part 2


Chapter 2: The Julie Situation

At Tripod’s suggestion, I named this Operation: Jayhawk Down.  He felt it still had a nice military ring by referencing Black Hawk Down, but also highlighted the now infamous “Not Everything Is Flat In Kansas” shirt.

Canada steals all our jokes.

Fast forward to Senior Day at water polo.  Coach had planned a post-match reception so I used the opportunity to bring Tripod. I got all decked out in some of my most stylish clothes, and if I may say so, I looked pretty damn good.  The only problem was that I had conked my head on something at softball earlier in the day and had a good gash on my normally pristine shaved head, so I compensated by wearing a floppy hat that made me look either really cool or like a stoner.

After the game I was chatting with Becky, the heffer who had class with Prada and was no doubt passing along damning information to Julie, when Julie walked up with a big smile.  “What’s up?”

“Not much, what’s happenin’?”

“You goin’ out tonight?”

“Possibly,” I answered, trying to sound mysterious and not too overeager.  “Where’re you guys goin’?”

“There’s this new place opening downtown, The Local.”

“Downtown, huh?” I couldn’t really hide my disdain for the classy crowd downtown.

“No, it’s cool, it’s low key.  Jeans and T-shirt kinda place, not like you’re all decked out.  What’s up with that, tryin’ to impress the boss?”

“Yeah, I figured for the one game he showed up this year I should look good.”

“Yeah, no shit.”  No one really cared for the Athletic Director, and it’s always a good move to show ‘em I’m not one of the suits.

Big fan of swimmers changing in public.

One of the best things about water polo players is they have no problem changing right in front of you.  Julie threw a T-shirt on over her swimsuit so she could strip out of her suit.  Fighting every urge in my body, I politely turned away and withdrew.  (Of course I took a peak first.)  I found Tripod and gave him the lowdown.  “Let’s do it!” he said, always the loyal wingman.

But I wanted to wait.  I’m thinking it might seem a bit too much if we show up at this place just because she vaguely mentioned they’d all be there.  After discussing it, Tripod agreed; we should wait and see if there’s anymore opportunity to weasel our way in without being too obnoxious about it.  Lo and behold, five minutes later Julie came up to me and handed me an invitation for the club’s grand opening party that night.  We’re in!

After the reception I headed home to get ready.  I was ecstatic that we were going to a low key bar, because that meant I could wear my lucky shirt: my old white and blue Illinois ringer-T.  The same shirt I was wearing when I ascended into manhood last fall.  (Yes, I was 26 when I lost my virginity.  Quit laughing.  I’ll tell that story another time.)

The Local had been open for about two weeks but they were celebrating their grand opening that night.  It’s a nice place, a little small, but stylish without being too trendy.  The DJ was pumping out a variety of old and new rap/dance that had everyone bumpin’.  But the best part was that, although all the guys were all dressed down like myself, most of the women must have thought they were goin’ clubbing, because they were all decked out in their most whorish outfits.  Cookie cutter blondes everywhere.  I was like a kid in a candy store.

But I had learned a valuable lesson at Effin’s.  I didn’t want to be too sauced before Julie even arrived, so I was taking it easy on the gin & tonics.  This was made easier by the fact that the service was abysmally slow.  The waitresses, the bartenders, they all seemed to be on their own schedule.  But, like I said, that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing in this case.

Before too long the girls all showed up.  What’s awesome about Julie and her friends is they do not get dressed up.  Julie’s got a natural beauty that doesn’t need any makeup or platform shoes or tight black pants.  She had on jeans, Skechers and a wife beater and looked fucking ridiculous.  I rarely see her with her hair down, and let me tell you, it was a sight to see.

Playing it cool, I laid back and let the scene settle a bit.  Julie and Co. hit the dance floor and I waited.

After a couple more drinks Tripod and I made our way to the edge of the dance floor to survey the scene.  I was starting to get sufficiently buzzed to start thinking about dancing, but I didn’t want to just wade into the crowd, I wanted to wait for her to call me out.  It didn’t happen.  She saw us and didn’t even acknowledge me; she gave me a shy little smile and a wave to Tripod, then went right back to breakin’ it down with her girlfriends.

Now I’m pissed.  I can feel the air coming out of the balloon.  So, to assuage by bitterness, I started drinking heavier.  With the slow service I resorted to the tactic of ordering a drink with the waitress, then going to the bar and ordering another.  This strategy effectively doubled my drinking capacity, and at several points I was double fisted with G&Ts.

Adding to my anger, this cute chick walked by me and said, “Illinois sucks.”  Nothing else.  She had a sweet, flirtatious smile, so I didn’t know whether she was hitting on me or not.  She was a tight little brunette with a great body and pretty eyes.  Being moderately intoxicated, I looked at her semi-bemusedly and asked, “Where are you from?”

“Illinois,” she answered.  I scoffed at her stupidity, so she said, “I don’t have anything wrong with the state, I just hate the school.”

“That’s my alma mater,” I answered and walked away.  Hot or not, nobody fucks with my Illini.

(Note, this was before they killed my mascot.)

Before too long, Becky came over and insisted Tripod and I come dance with her and some friend.  Stacking drinks on top of one another, I waded into the dance floor and started working on my specialty dance move: foot shuffle, hip sway, take a sip; foot shuffle, hip sway, take a gulp.  Julie was literally five feet from me, but separated by 180 pounds of Becky.  The booze was starting to get to me, my beer balls were getting bigger, so finally I just walked up to her, grabbed her arm and said, “You gonna do a shot with me?”

“Hell yeah!”

When in doubt, alcohol is always your best wingman.

I took her by the hand and waded through the crowd to the bar.  Here at last the slow service helped me out, as we had time to engage in lengthy conversation.  We made small talk, she put her arm around me, all seemed to be going well.  Somehow she forgot where I went to school so I pointed to my shirt and she proceeded to run her hands all over my chest.

Oy!

So in the midst of all this, standing at the bar with Julie on my right, this girl on my left started nudging me, trying to strike up a conversation.  I looked over and it was the same bitch who had been bagging on Illinois earlier!  She started nudging closer, vying for my attention, talking about some such shit I wasn’t listening to.  Finally I turned to her and said, “Aren’t you the same girl who was baggin’ on my Illini?”

She tried to look surprised.  “Oh, I’m sorry!”

“So where did you go to school?”

“UCLA.”

I laughed out loud.  “You’ve just lost your talking privileges,” and I turned back to Julie, never to acknowledge her again.  Julie was impressed.

So we were still waiting to get our order in.  I swear the nearest bartender was as slow as Rain Man.  But I didn’t mind.  We started talking sports.  She loves football.  A very good sign.

We finally got our order in and now just had to wait another ten minutes or so for Rain Man to make the drinks.  We chatted some more, got a little closer, until she says, “So who do you think is going to win the national championship this year?”

Uhh…

I was dumbfounded.  This wasn’t the sort of conversation I was expecting to get involved in with this girl.  Trying to recover, I decided to try and snowball her a little bit.  “Well, I think it’s hard to bet against the defending champs Ohio State until somebody actually beats them.”  (Like I’ve even looked at a roster for next season yet; it’s only April!)

“Yeah, but no one’s repeated since Nebraska ’95, right?”

It took every bit of self-control not to drop down on one knee and propose right on the spot.  Fortunately I was saved by the arrival of our drinks, so we promptly knocked back our shots and grabbed our fresh drinks before she pulled me back to the dance floor.

Now it’s finally my time.  We’re dancin’, grindin’, gettin’ close.  But of course, Big Becky stole the opportunity to sandwich me between them, so now it’s back to a whole group dance thing.  Nothing is ever easy around here.  I just kept drinking.

Details begin to get sketchy at this point, and I don’t really recall how or why we left the dance floor, but next thing I knew I was at the bar getting drinks when Julie and four of her friends stormed the bar and climbed up to dance on the bar Coyote Ugly style.  Bedlam ensued as rookie bartenders panicked.  The whole scene didn’t last one full song, but suddenly the place was hoppin’.  I spotted Julie getting off the bar and pulled her over for another shot.

When in doubt, alcohol is always your best wingman.

Don’t really remember what all we talked about.  I brought up the “Not Everything Is Flat In Kansas” T-shirt and told her how it is already legendary in my circle (and how big breasted Country coveted the shirt).

By around 1:30 some of her friends were just sloppy drunk.  Casey, the girl who won the drink-off at Effin’s, is so belligerently drunk she wants to get in a fight with one of the bouncers, so they all decide to take off.  Casey’s already been kicked out and the bouncer is threatening to call the cops, so what does Casey do?  She whips out her cell phone and calls the police on the bouncer.  I’m sure she called 911 too.  Classic.

There was a group of about five girls walking back to their car, so Tripod and I made the two block or so hike with them.  Tripod did yeoman’s work to keep the rest of the group a safe distance ahead while I walked with Julie.  But it was pretty near impossible to keep all those drunks, especially belligerent Casey, totally out of the picture, and they kept impeding on my moment so I couldn’t really make a good move.

Finally we got to the car, everyone started piling in, and I realized this was my last chance.  Time to step up to the plate.  I took an aggressive step to pull her aside behind a concrete pillar.  “So, you’re out of town next weekend, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“When’re you leaving?”

“Thursday.”

“Shit, so Beachcomber’s out.  What about two weeks, we’ll head on down to the ‘Comber?”

“Sounds good.”

“Now, I’m not going to see you at any more games,” I said slyly, reaching for my phone, “so I’m going to need your number.”

It’s like a lightbulb went off in her head.  Her eyes lit up and a smile crossed her face.  “Are you asking me for my number?”

“Well, yeah.”  Duh.

“Okay.”

And the mission is accomplished.  I put her in the car, watched them drive off, and gave a hoot of joy.  Then we hit a late night pizza place, grabbed some grub, and chilled in my car for about an hour until I was okay to drive.  I fired off some celebratory text messages to Prada and Country, which is really pretty sad if you think about it; yeah, I finally got a 21 year old’s phone number, I’m cool.

To Be Continued…

This picture has nothing to do with my story. I just wanted to throw it in.

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1 Comment

  1. […] since I continued the sad story of my quest to bang a water polo player.  Catch up with Parts 1, 2 and […]


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