Operation: Jayhawk Down, Part 3


**Part 3 of one of the sadder failures of my life.  Sometimes all you can do is shake your head at my younger self’s stupidity.**

I gave Julie a call the Monday after their tournament and left a message and she called the next night.  We talked for about five minutes (I adhered to Maxim Magazine’s advice that you should never talk to a girl longer than you can have sex with her).  It went pretty well and we agreed on a Beachcomber rendezvous Thursday night.  Finally we would be on my home turf.

Wednesday night Prada gave me a call around 11.  You’ll remember she’s friends with Big Becky.  She said during class, acting like a 15-year-old, Becky leaned over and asked her, “Have you talked to [Single White Alcoholic] lately?”

I had worked long and hard with Prada to teach her how to properly handle these situations and not make me look like an idiot, so she played along and gave a “No, what’s up?”

“He called Julie.”

“Oh really?”

According to Becky, Julie didn’t think I would call her, so she was duly impressed when I did.  Julie thought I was “a cool guy,” and wanted to get to know me better.  Becky then started pressing Prada for details.  Is he really cool?  Would you date him?  Prada came through big time, saying that it wasn’t an option since she worked for me, but under other circumstances she could definitely see herself dating me.  (What a great friend, lying through her teeth like that.)

Now, if all this sounds like something out of junior high school, well, it did to me too.  But, I must admit, it was amusing and entertaining in its own weird way.  Kind of like mixing the nostalgia of youth with the rampant alcoholism of my modern day life.

Kevin Garnett.  My favorite basketball player ever.Thursday night Tripod, Prada and I met up for dinner and the Lakers-T’wolves playoff game (I’m not a big NBA fan but Kevin Garnett is one of my favorite athletes ever) before heading to the ‘Comber.  Since the game ran late there was a long line at the door, so we went to the back door and used our connections to get in.

We grabbed a drink at the back bar and made a lap around the bar.  The place was packed.  We were at the front door talking to the doormen when Prada spotted the girls.  There were like ten of them at a table right by the entrance.  They had already spotted us and a junior high giggle session was beginning.  Prada said, “You’ve been spotted, you better go say hi.”

So I cruised over and it was all eyes on me.  Julie was right next to Becky, so I had to give the big girl a big hug before I could even say hi to my target.  It was awkward for both of us with everyone standing right there, and since I had just arrived I didn’t have the proper buzz to loosen myself up.  But we made the best of the situation.  I put my arm around her waist in a non-threatening-yet-slightly-threatening way to say hi.  She gave me some grief about my T’wolves, and I played the disappointed-yet-gracious-in-defeat role to perfection if I may say so myself.

Their table was right on the edge of the dance floor, which was spreading like an amoeba, so one of the bouncers came in and hauled the table off, and suddenly we were all standing right in the middle of a budding dance floor.  The girls were just starting to get the dance bug, but I still didn’t have enough alcohol in my bloodstream.  I was talking to Julie when Kenny, the assistant coach and only guy in the group, came up to console me on the T’wolves.  We talked playoffs for a minute before he suddenly said, “Sorry, dude, I’m fuckin’ up your game,” and disappeared.  I’m pretty sure she heard him.

Smooth.

Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” started up and the girls went nuts.  (Don’t all girls do that when that song comes on?)  I watched bemused as they started dancing.  Prada appeared at my side and started berating me, “You need to make a move!”  I explained that I needed more alcohol before I could break it down, plus I didn’t need to be hanging on her hip every second.  A little distance isn’t a bad thing.  The night was young, and my game is strictly ball control; no wide-open spread offenses here.  “But you need to flirt more,” she insisted.  I told her in no uncertain terms that I had it all under control.  (I didn’t, but her critiquing my every move wasn’t helping.)

About that time Hot Hippie and Will The Mormon both started calling, saying they were outside in line.  I sent them around back and worked my magic to get them in.  (I love the ‘Comber, it’s the only place I’ve ever felt like a big shot.)  We talked for a bit and I was about to head back towards the dance floor when I saw the girls heading our way.  I got Hot Hippie and Julie together, and it was a touching moment since they hadn’t seen each other in years.  The problem, though, was that Hot Hippie was supposed to be there to help my game; instead, she monopolized Julie’s time for a good 20 minutes as they caught up.  I tried to make myself look busy, social butterfly that I am, cruising from group to group (my students Beer Slut and Smurfette, both smokin’ hot, were there by then, and of course I had to hug and ogle them).

Eventually they migrated back towards the dance floor, and after getting myself a fresh gin and tonic I decided to make my move.  I waded into the crowded dance floor, not really sure where she was.  Kenny saw me, grabbed me, pointed her out, and pushed me through the crowd with a “Do your thing, dude!”

She was kind of in the corner of the dance floor by the DJ booth, so I was able to corner her for some serious grinding.  I kept close and intimate, making my intentions clear.  But the problem was Becky.  She kept trying to worm her way in, like she was trying to cockblock me or something.  I wasn’t happy, but I couldn’t be a dick to her so I had to take it.  Tripod, of course, was nowhere to be found to help deflect her (he was busy with some girl who would eventually give him a lap dance on a bar stool, but that’s another story altogether).  Will The Mormon was busy flirting with Hot Hippie and the other girls, so he was no help either.

Eventually, someone mentioned doing shots and I jumped at the opportunity to withdraw from the three way dance circle.  I took Julie, Becky and another friend to the bar for kamikazes.  (And I sent one across the bar to Callie, Julie’s best friend who hated the ‘Comber and didn’t seem to like me too much.)  Julie thanked me and gave me a little kiss.

Oh yeah, closin’ in for the kill.

At some point I headed for the bathroom and ran into Kenny.  While we were urinating he said, “Dude, you got Julie in the bag, dude.”  He was utterly hammered.  I pressed him for details but all he would say is, “Dude, just go work your magic.”

We went back and danced a little bit more, but Julie was fading fast.  I knew she was drunk, but didn’t realize how bad.  After a while she just disappeared.  I went to the bathroom and the bar for drinks and when I came back she was gone.  Prada and I did a lap and couldn’t find her.  We asked her friends and no one seemed to know.  Stranger still, nobody seemed particularly concerned.  Where I come from, you keep track of your friends when they’re drunk.  Especially girls.  I was concerned, and not just because I was hoping to get laid.

Prada was ready to head home, and everyone had parked in the same lot, so I decided to walk Prada to her car about two blocks away and take a look around.  Sure enough, I saw a form sitting on the curb of a little tree island in the middle of the parking lot.  I sent Prada off and went over to check on her.  Julie had her head buried in her arms between her drawn up knees.  I tried to initiate conversation but couldn’t get anything more out of her than “uh huh” or “uh uh.”  So I just sat down beside her and rubbed her back until her friends finally showed up.

No sex for me tonight.

When Callie pulled the car up and I pulled her to her feet she promptly started puking.  Hanging off the back of the car, just spewing her guts out.  That started a conversation as to when the last time anyone could remember seeing Julie puke.  The general consensus was freshman year.  I did my best to keep her hair out of the way as I witnessed history and her friends made fun of her.

Then the dumb girls realized they had left one of their friends back at the bar, so most of them piled into one car to drive back and find her.  That left just Julie, me, and Kenny and his girlfriend.  Kenny was smashed by now, leaning sideways and slurring almost incoherently.  But he was still intent on helping me out.  He told his girlfriend they had to leave right now, then came over and gave me a breath mint and said, “Do your work, dude.”

Really?  Right after she’s puked?

They drove off, leaving us alone again.  She was cold so I gave her my shirt (I had a T-shirt on underneath; I’m not that generous!) and put it over her shoulders.  It was near closing time when Tripod called me.  “Where you at?”

“In the parking lot.”

“Okay, I’ll be right there.”

“No,” I said, “take your time, dude.”

“Well,” Tripod said, sounding somewhat aggravated, “I’ve pretty much struck out here so I’ll be right there.”

“No,” I said more forcefully, “take your time.  Know what I mean?”  (Hint, hint.)

“Ohhhhh.  If you want me to stay just say ‘yes.’”

“Yes.”

“Alright, dude, call me when you’re ready.”

So we got a few more minutes of semi-intimate comatose time before the girls showed back up.  Their little tiny two-door Honda already had five people in it.  Callie hopped out and popped the trunk, grabbed a couple grocery bags and made a “double lined puke bag” for Julie.  Then we loaded her in the front seat on top of another girl and I sent them on their way.  Everyone except Callie thanked me for taking good care of her, saying such annoying things as “You’re such a great guy,” and “You’re so sweet.”

Ugh, not a good sign.

As they drove off I realized Julie still had my shirt.  Then I quickly realized that was a good thing; now I’d have to get it back from her.

Sometimes I amaze even myself.

I rounded up Tripod and we headed home.  Going into the night I had had two goals: 1) To ask her out on an actual date and 2) to make friends with Callie, because I thought she’d have to endorse me for this whole thing to work.  Neither goal was actually achieved, but I felt pretty good about things nonetheless.  During the drive back I gameplanned with Tripod; we agreed it would be a good idea to call the next day just to see how she was feeling.  How long should you wait to call someone after they’ve puked?  When I vomit I’m pretty much out of commission for a solid 12 hours, so I figured about 1 or 2 in the afternoon would be good.  We also agreed that I needed to start drinking a lot more.

When she answered the phone the next day she just started laughing.  “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it,” I responded, “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead.”

“I’m okay now.  This morning I wasn’t doing too well.  I barely made it to class.”

(Class?  My God, I would never even think of going to class the day after a binge drinking session.)  “What time was class?”

“Nine.  I barely woke up at 8:30.”

“Jesus, girl, you’re a fuckin’ trooper!”

She was on the road to Lake Havasu for a weekend of drunken debauchery in the desert, and after about five minutes she lost reception in the desert.  I left her a message saying I’d call when she got back in town.

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8 Comments

  1. You know what I love about your stories? It’s a glimpse into the mind of a man, and how the cogs fit together 😀

    I’m still laughing!!

    • Well, hopefully this is just a glimpse into the mind of the younger, more pathetic me. I’d like to think I’ve got a little more game now. But, to be honest, probably not.

      • You have a girlfriend, so my guess is you do 🙂

  2. I find it odd that I have you to thank for helping with my social awkwardness. At least I didn’t crash & burn your chances this time… Seriously, to this day I can’t figure out what Becky’s deal was. Also, I totaly forgot about that night… It’s so nice to read your vivid recelection and rimeness. 😉

  3. “Tripod”? For some reason I’m making a connection to a three legged dog…can’t recollect from where though.

  4. Nope, Tripod is my best friend in the world. He’s 4-foot-4, 240 pounds, and you can guess why he’s called the Tripod!

  5. It never ceases to amaze me that you can remember all of this stuff and the details. I remember 5 minute intervals with hours of darkness in between. Like I can remember about 30 minutes of the night of Nina’s B-day and maybe an hour of Nick’s going away party… the rest the curtains were closed. At least one of us can remember all the fun we’ve had!

  6. […] Watching the Olympics reminded me it’s been awhile since I continued the sad story of my quest to bang a water polo player.  Catch up with Parts 1, 2 and 3. […]


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