"You decide," I sighed, deferring to Chuck. "I know nothing about steak." He gave me a look like I'd asked him if he could fix my transmission. Sometimes I forget that he was a vegetarian for more than a decade, until that fateful day that his mock duck Reuben was accidentally substituted for a real Reuben, and he licked his lips and decided meat was good.
We went with Sirloin.
We went to Pizza Luce for the Cars & Trucks show. I drank PBR and gave away free hugs. Chuck had bought 50 cents worth of facial hair for the big night, and spent some time experimenting with various looks.
A visibly drunk man rushed FScotty, damn near tackling my little friend, growling variations of "I love you man." FScotty turned and introduced him as his younger brother. This may be the most stunning incident of genetics ever recorded. FScotty is a proper young chap, a lover of literature and travel. He has a sort of 1930s sensibility that always reminds me of a scene out of The Great Gatsby. Now, take FScotty, unzip him from the tip of his forehead to his crotch, open it up and flip his skin and personality inside out to reveal his inverse. Perhaps the kind of person who could win a keg toss. That is his brother. My mind is still blown. Both are good people. They are best friends. It was cute.
FScotty drove us to an after bar at SeaDawg's. On the way up 19th Ave. E., we saw an amazingly beautiful young woman shivering on the side of the road. She was wearing a tiny black dress, about as effective against the wind and chill as an oven mitt. A very sheer oven mitt. Chuck and I coaxed FScotty into pulling over. He wasn't a hard sell; In his mind they were already honeymooning on the French Riviera.
"Do you need a ride?" he asked her.
"Um ... I'm just waiting for my sister, that bitch," the girl said in a soft precious little voice. Breathy and light, like she took out her fragile voice box every night, dusted it carefully, wrapped it in bubble wrap and put it on a very high shelf.
"Where does she live? Can we drive you?" FScotty asked.
Here I revealed myself so she would know FScotty wasn't planning to go Manson Family on her.
"Well," she said. "She lives like 7 ... blocks? Up there?" she said, climbing into the front seat.
She turned to FScotty, studied his face. "Ohhhh ... you're cute," she breathed. She turned to Chuck and me in the back seat. "Oh ... you guys are cute, too. ... Were you at Luce?"
"Yes!" I said. "Were you?"
"No," she said quietly. "There's my sister's house." She pointed out the window.
We had literally driven two houses from where we picked her up. The girl climbed out of the car, and as she walked away, she growled in a much different voice: "AMANDA! YOU BITCH!"
This, of course, made FScotty's night. He was still talking about her an hour later, considering writing a "Missed Connections."
(Today I got a text message from him:"She gets more beautiful in my mind every moment that passes by.")
Back at the afterbar, JCrew emptied the contents of her stomach into SeaDawg's toilet. A testy flusher on the can means it can only be flushed every 20 minutes or so. Chunks of lobster, and creamy potatoes mixed with guests urine. The whole thing looked like ceviche.
Today I slept until 6:45 p.m., and when I woke up I looked like I was possessed by Joan Jett. In an absence of pain reliever geared toward post-NYE relief, I was forced to take Midol to combat my headache. Readers, it worked.