A quiet night gets derailed by a piano-playing gypsy.
I have accomplished quite a bit in my clubbing career, much of it unsavory. There’s the time I went to Key West and got my Hottentot Venus on, exposing my bird chest to the thirsty patrons’ perverse delight. And then there’s the time I vomited on a stripper who didn’t understand that “no” doesn’t mean “do a split.”
In fact, it seems like only last week—perhaps because it was—I shared an illicit, vodka and CeCe Peniston-induced dance with a stranger with no shirt and no boundaries—as my significant other watched in horror from across the room.
The next morning, as I lamented my throbbing head and swirling stomach, I knew that ObamaCare alone couldn’t put my body—and my relationship—back together. I realized that I needed not only a health care overhaul, but also nightlife reform.
As experienced as I am in the art of getting down, one thing I've never done is simply sat down, shut up and enjoyed my cocktail. An understated night of piano music and aperitifs at Tavern On Camac seemed like the perfect opportunity for redemption. No more grinding to CeCe Peniston for this hot bod.
Despite my resolve, several ominous events warned me to stay home. As I pulled my jeans over my ashy knees—lotion is a luxury I’d rather not waste on Sunday nights, when I keep my pants on in deference to the Lord—I was disappointed to hear the rain pounding the pavement, as well as Action News announce a flash flood warning. Surely, thrashing against the doors of a Honda Civic as my lungs fill with rain water would not make for the most elegant of evenings. I said a prayer and decided to put on Jergens and clean underwear. You know, just in case.
A freshly made friend—the only one underemployed enough to accompany me on a
Sunday night—didn’t set the classiest tone when he pulled up to a gas station to urinate behind it. He then felt compelled to share an anecdote about recently beating up a married couple that harassed him at the pump. We’ll now refer to this special friend as Sunoco.
However, neither a natural disaster nor a potential psychopath could derail my plans. Nothing could stop me now.
Nothing, except for show tunes.
As I approached Tavern on Camac, my optimism was shattered when I heard a chorale of voices belting, “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes!” from inside.
“What’s going on in there?“ I asked the doorman.
“Oh, I think it’s show tunes night,” he said.
Black and under 30, I shuddered in disgust.
But I had already weathered too much to get here. There was no turning back.
I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the Broadway sing-off was coming from upstairs, the ground floor virtually empty. With the Bob Fosse fanatics out of sight, Operation Classy was still in effect.
A series of events, however, made for a rocky start to the night, beginning with our trip to the restroom
“You guys better buy a drink!” a mysterious voice yelped behind us as we stood at the urinals. The voice belonged to a strange, pint-sized white man whose lollipop kid stature startled us as much as his random reprimand. The mad hatter then disappeared as quickly as he came.
An impassioned “Oh hell naw!” roared from Sunoco’s lips, finally breaking the post-pee silence. I could read the race-related thoughts running through his mind as he dashed out of the bathroom with violent purpose.
Luckily, when I caught up with him, the bartender had already defused the situation, apologizing for the overzealous barback, and saving Tavern on Camac from the fate of Rosewood—or worse, that of a married couple at a gas station.
Shaken up by the night’s preliminary shenanigans, I ordered a cranberry and vodka and cozied up to the piano, where I figured trouble couldn’t find me.
Damn you, country line-dancing, with your impossibly smooth moves and endearingly slutty men. I wish I knew how to quit you!
A real man’s man, I didn’t want to go in drag, but I did welcome a good excuse to be bitchy.
That’s why I believe, if you want to find a real ride-or-die lover, dishonesty is the best policy—at least in the beginning.
PW's Year of Beer: Anchor Porter