I’m not sure this qualifies as a literal “adventure in dating,” but I found this story on my hard drive this morning while looking for my resume (where are you hiding, you stupid word document!) and it’s too funny not to post. It’s from May of 2005. I was fresh out of college, living at home, and looking for any available options of the female persuasion. I knew this girl, we’ll call her Leah. She had been expressing interest in my manhood for several months, so I called Ilya and told him we were going to meet her and some of her friends for drinks. This is part one of the saga, the calm before the storm.

***

This is straight journal without creative input. No free association, just narrative. Last night Ilya and I drove into New York intending to meet up with Leah and some of her probably slutty friends at a bar they often frequent on the weekend. We would have rather gone to any number of Manhattan bars but Leah claimed she knew the singer of the house band, and she wanted me to see them. So I bent to her will. The drive into the city was filled with Ilya reprimanding me because I didn’t bring any condoms or pot. I told him when you’re me, you go into these situations assuming you’re not going to get laid. The pot supposedly is for 1:00am, after several beers, when your girl is very drunk. You ask if she wants to smoke some pot and that’s subliminal lingo for wanting to fuck. Shit, I should have gone to a big state college. I missed out on all these incredible life lessons. In any event, it became a running theme/joke throughout the evening.

Approaching the Holland Tunnel, listening to a sampler CD from Trance Syndicate, a powerful bass line seeped through the car from outside. A few automobiles in front of us, a young African American man was blasting hip-hop music through the open windows of his vehicle. I turned down our radio slightly to figure out the source of the hip-hop, and Ilya reached over to make it louder.

“Never touch a black man’s radio!” I exclaimed, slapping at his hand.

“But…odds are it was once yours anyway,” Ilya responded. Laughter ensued for a few moments, and before we knew it we were in the tunnel crossing over state lines.

We parked at Hudson and Bank, less than a block away from the White Horse Tavern. I wanted to go in and drink some whiskey in memory of Dylan Thomas. Instead, we walked around looking for somewhere to eat. Ilya wanted Thai food and I wanted pizza. We stood outside a place called Spice for several minutes waiting for a table; Ilya tried in vain to convince me that I would enjoy the food when I knew well that my delicate palate would not allow me to. The last time I had Thai was in 2000 when I worked for at the medical center on West 14th. It tasted like grass with turds sprinkled on it, and I wasn’t too keen on trying it again. I wanted something real to line my stomach before a long night of drinking.

After a long debate about food, and dozens of beautiful women passing us on the street, we decided to hoof it over to Ray’s on the corner of St. Marks. I had pizza and drank Spaten, Ilya stuck to Bud Light. We spoke about the implications of the evening. I told him my long back-story with Leah, and the various sexual situations we found ourselves in as teenagers. Hilarious. All of them. Those American Pie movies have nothing on my youth. We agreed that the bar we were about to visit was going to suck. At one point Ilya said, “but what if it totally blows our minds and teaches us that we’re too closed minded about music and culture?”

“It won’t.” I responded, “Let’s be realistic.”

We watched crusty punk kids marching up and down St. Marks in their uniforms, high boots, tight jeans and styled hair of varied hues. We sat for a while, talking about the possibility or likelihood of him moving to Los Angeles in the near future. When I thought the conversation was turning too heavy, I’d look at my watch and tell him how many hours I was from not getting laid with the “Wanna smoke some pot?” line.

From Ray’s we walked to Kim’s. We both tried to convince ourselves that we wouldn’t buy anything, but I walked out with two used records and Ilya one. As we were preparing to pay and leave he noticed a girl he thought he recognized. He remembered her from Boston; she was a friend of an ex-girlfriend. For a while we hung back and studied her: tall and brunette with a cherubic face, big eyes and puffy cheeks. She was wearing a white dress and high boots. We initiated conversation and soon decided to invite her along for the evening. “Daisy” we’ll call her. We walked together towards our destination.

Daisy made jewelry and lived on the top floor of a brownstone in Brooklyn. As we walked we talked about Art Deco, because she had come from a lecture on the subject. I tried to define it for Ilya, but couldn’t do so without turning it into a joke. Just like everything else in my life. After Daisy made sure to call attention to my bad attempt at humor, she defined it — but not very well. Upon finding out I had just graduated college she welcomed me to the world of post-collegiate malaise. We three traded tales about our schools and what we liked or didn’t like about them, about the education and lack of actual work done for classes. We passed the bar on Great Jones Street where Mark Ibold worked, and took turns peeking through the window. I wouldn’t have minded stopping in for a drink but we were supposed to be at this other bar by 11:00 and the time was rapidly approaching for us to get there.

When we arrived at our destination, there was loud music playing inside and a good deal of people standing outside either smoking or trying to get in. We actually had to line up outside because the bar was packed. We felt it was embarrassing to be seen on a line for something, so we all turned our backs to the street. When they finally let us in we were informed of our table’s two drink minimum and Daisy quickly up and left, saying she had to be up early for something.

It didn’t take long until I realized that Ilya and I were the only white patrons in the bar. The “incredible” band that Leah had promised I would love was nothing more than an R&B cover band playing Stevie Wonder, Prince and Marvin Gaye songs with a Reggae flare. I ordered a Guinness, and Ilya had a vodka tonic. The waitress returned with our drinks, and much to my dismay my Guinness was an Extra Stout. I got through it quickly to try and kill the awful taste, and for a few moments Ilya thought we should ditch the girls and go to an old high school chum’s party in Brooklyn, because there might be hot girls and drugs there. I said no. Maybe Leah’s friends would be cute. If it sucked, we’d just convince the group to go to Lit and we’d make this a good time. Then I recognized Leah’s friend “Julie” walk into the bar and I said hello. Behind her, three more girls entered.

Leah entered behind Julie with two other girls I didn’t know. We’ll call them “Marsha” and “Sandra.” Marsha was a tall mulatto girl who instantly became enthralled with the band. Sandra was a short, full-grown girl with a large chest and a face kind of like Ashlee Simpson. Prominent chin, blond hair, sloped nose. She looked pretty good approaching, but was considerably less attractive when she got closer. Maybe I needed glasses. We all introduced ourselves. Marsha said was originally from Georgia, and Sandra was from Arizona. They both went to art school together in the Midwest. The girls all ordered Bud Lights, Julie ordered a Red Stripe, and eventually we all switched to mixed drinks. We made lots of small talk while listening to the band, and the topic of conversation quickly shifted to figuring out how many drinks it would take to get me to dance. Leah tried to sell the group on past experiences when she’d seen me dance, and then Sandra suddenly turned to me and said, “Leah tells me you’re a musician.”

“No, I’m not.” I said, matter-of-factly. “Maybe she said magician?”

“Wait, you’re not a musician?”

“Stop lying, Evan. ” Leah chimed in. She turned to Sandra and said “Evan’s a serious musician.”

“What kind of music?” Sandra asked.

“Slow music. Really slow. Very slow music.” I intoned.

“Is it like Emo?” She inquired.

“No, not really…I guess some people think so.” I hated having this conversation.

“So tell me what it sounds like.”

“Ugh. I don’t know if you’d get the references… or–”

“Just tell me!”

“Alright!” I thought long and hard. “…It’s like that self-titled Velvet Underground album, but a little heavier and more stoned. Like, too stoned to hold a guitar and play it.” That one shut her up quickly. She turned around to watch the band and I shook my head disapprovingly at myself.

We took turns sitting and standing around our small table, talking and getting to know each other. We moved closer to the stage at some point. At the rear of the club, the crowd came in droves. Even a group of sailors in town for Fleet Week passed through. A considerable amount of drinks also passed through. The Jack and Cokes tasted more like Jack on ice. Ilya and I continually giggled and made racially-charged comments, which were difficult to say stealthily. Whatever, we were being ironic! Ilya also continued downing vodka tonics. He said something about Leah having a nice ass and I gave him a nod and a thumbs up like we were in an old Mentos commercial.

After a cigarette break and more drinks, Ilya and I decided that by 1:00am (the magic hour, when I was supposed to roll a joint and put a rubber on in preparation of fucking Leah) we were moving to Lit, with or without the girls. By this point the girls were steadily growing looser around us (what with having consumed a beer or two — women are such lightweights!), and decided that the end of the band’s set they would join us on our venture to Lit, but only after stopping across the street to get some pizza. When the band played “Sexual Healing” the singer, walked out into the audience and held the microphone up to several people to sing the “sexual healing” refrain. When he got to a young Asian man with an accent the crowd roared in approval. I got up right behind Leah, leaned over, and began to sing the lines into her ear with a thick fresh-off-the-boat accent.

“Sex-shu-rar hear-ring.” She giggled, turned towards me and gave me the look. Game over. Or…so I thought.

The band closed with a flavorful “jam” I guess, maybe it was an original, but by this point I didn’t care anymore. The room was sweltering and I couldn’t wait to leave. Once the set ended, Leah introduced us all to the singer and we shook hands. After settling the final tab and finishing off the booze that the girls left behind, we left.

While the four girls ordered pizza, Ilya and I stood outside and recapped where I stood on my quest. Things were looking good. Perhaps there was to be a bit of the old penis-in-vagina before the night was through. We turned and started chatting with a girl in front of Bleeker Bob’s who sold cheap jewelry and pipes. We mentioned how New York girls will find one bar and think it’s okay to only go there, forgetting they live in a city with an infinite number of places to get drunk, hang out, meet people, do coke, and maybe fuck in a dirty bathroom. Ilya abruptly ended the conversation by inexplicably asking the woman if she sold pot. She stopped responding to us, so we went inside and watched the girls finish of their pizza.

“Where’s Lit?” one of them asked.

“2nd Ave. between fifth and sixth.” Ilya said.

“Who wants to take a cab, my heals are killing me!”

“It’s not that far. It’s like four avenue blocks.” He stated.

“No it’s not, it’s like eleven or twelve.”

“Fine,” I said. Take a cab. We’re walking.” End of conversation.

***

Stay tuned for Part 2 tomorrow. The uproarious conclusion and epilogue. Like I said earlier: this was the calm before the storm.

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