Friends Letting Friends Date Drunk

Thursday, September 18, 2008

The Flabulous Fornicator: Chevy Runs out of Gas.

As the proprietor of the dirty "bodega," read: front for a crystal meth lab, hablad loudly into his phone, I slowly looked from my phone to the pint of ice-cream that was beginning to sweat in my hand, and then back to my phone once more.

The ice-cream I was holding was not so close to Ben and Jerry's Peanut Butter Pretzel as it was to a slab of under-cooked fried chicken.

What occurred in my (pea-sized) brain at this point is kind of complicated:

1. Part of me wanted to walk in with the generic ice-cream because it would be a funny story to tell later.
2. Part of me wanted to go on a search for the Peanut Butter Pretzel because
a) I looked forward to the challenge of trying to find this brand of ice-cream
b) It meant that I would be even MORE late than I already was which would make me look like I was too busy to get to his place on time and
c) When he asked me what took so long, I could think to myself "I was finding you the ice-cream you wanted to make you happy," but not actually tell him that, (which would be a lie anyway) that I would, in effect, be kind of (and here's where it gets twisted) a martyr...TO MYSELF. I know. Sick.

And part of me wanted to burst into tears and run home and call my ex-boyfriend whose favorite flavor was Cherry Garcia which is carried in every fucking bodega in New York City.

I chose option 2 because looking like a hero and being a martyr sounded like appropriate behavior for a third "date."

I was, however, faced with a few dilemmas:

1) There really wasn't another bodega within five blocks
2) Which would mean I'd be required to back-track and pass by my group of friends again which wouldn't have been such a big deal if
3) I hadn't shot my mouth off to my group of friends about how annoying it was that i was asked to get ice-cream for this guy who isn't even close to being my boyfriend, and then proceeded to cavalierly pronounce that I was going to get him a pudding pop.

So i did what any normal person would do. I went around the block the long way to avoid the awkwardness that running into the sages would incur.

This is not just a block, mind you. This is a long stretch of road. After about 10 minutes of walking i finally found a bodega that looked like it wasn't actually a front for the illegal trafficking of body parts.

I rummaged through the ice cream case to find Peanut Butter Pretzel. It, of course was nowhere to be found.

"Is peanut butter cup ok?" I texted.
"I guess. I've never had it." He replied.

WHO has never had peanut butter cup ice cream? Baby killers, maybe.

Exasperated, I pulled out the next pint of ice cream I saw.

"How about American Dream ice cream?"
"Oooh! is that the one by Steven Colbert?" He had the nerve to text.

I, at this point can't believe I'm having this conversation, even though I was the dumb one who was giving him a choice.

I ended up getting fucking American Dream ice-cream because he was so enthusiastic about the fact that an actor from a Comedy Central show endorsed it.

As i walked back up the street triumphantly clutching the pint of ice cream, who would i HAVE to run into, but one of the sages. How was i to know that these girls would be done drinking so quickly?

"Did you just walk all the way back here to get ice-cream?" she inquired incredulously.

Lie, I thought.

"Yes." I hung my head.

"Seriously?!" She inquired more incredulously.

Lie, I thought.

"Yes." I stared at my shoes and blinked twice.

"Girl, he better go down on you for hours."

Lie, and pretend that you would actually like that, I thought.

"I know, right?!" I exclaimed.

With that verbal high five, we went our separate ways.

I arrived at Chevy's apartment about an hour after I said I was going to. The only indication that he noticed was the fact that the wine had already been opened.

I proudly presented the ice-cream that he wanted, and waited for the accolades.

"Thanks," he said, and tossed it into the freezer. My heroic act was not at all acknowledged. This made me want to tell him all I had been through for him, but then I would no longer be a martyr, I would just be a complainer.

As i settled into his broken armchair from 1933 (he doesn't actually have a couch), he handed me a glass of wine an pulled up his desk chair to sit next to me. He offered me a selection of DVDs to watch, and after a bit of passive aggressive debate we settled on The office, Season 4 even though he definitely wanted to watch 'Son of Rambow,' which, let's be honest, I'm not going to watch, because, well, it's foreign.

Just as the opening credits ended and the first scene began, Chevy turns to me and asks,

"So what, are you lactose intolerant?"

"Excuse me?" I was startled.

"Well, you don't eat ice-cream."

"I never said I don't eat ice-cream. I just didn't want any.'

"Oh. Wanna smoke pot?"

So we smoked.* And we smoked. And everything started to get funnier.

Some notable funny moments:

1) The armchair repeatedly lost it's stick, effectively throwing me backward on to the floor, which although quite painful, would probably be hilarious to watch. Particularly since it happened every 15 minutes.

2) He asked me what Imodium was exactly, and he actually said the word "gas" (which I hate) out loud. But I explained and was actually thankful that he had switched his object of drunken conversation from gay people to bodily functions.

However, my humor was lost after he polished off the entire pint of ice-cream on his own, and then ate an entire bag of potato chips.

Because it was then that I realized I was about to sleep with a slightly less hot and hairier version of this guy.

Luckily for me, we both passed out before anything gross could happen. Well, that is until the next morning.


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