Wednesday, July 14, 2010

A Last Night Out With Orange Clouds

Orange Clouds is my childhood best friend. She recently moved back to our home state, but before she left, we had a girls’ night out, just the two of us. We ordered the darkest beers on the menu Seattle’s lower Queen Anne neighborhood at a bar where couples with perfectly bland lives sat at little candlelit tables, planning their perfectly bland futures. We downed our beers as fast as we could and then headed up Queen Anne hill. I could barely stagger up the hill, I was laughing so hard. Orange Clouds was telling me how she had once been tricked into going on a date with a Polish WWII veteran who lived in her apartment building. “Did he…did he…” I gasped, literally doubled over laughing. “Did he close his eyes when he tried to kiss you?” Orange Clouds looked at me with that mischievous fire in her eyes that I adore so much. “Do you honestly think I was paying attention to his eyes?” she asked. “I mean, when a ninety-three year old man is coming toward you, lips puckered for a kiss, about all you can think of is dodging it!”

It took us a while, but we finally made it to the top of the hill. There was a blues band playing at a bar we decided to go into. We pushed our way through a crowd of melted Barbie doll women in their forties—most of which were trying to sidle up to the black men in the crowd—and then through a group of South American guys who had just attended a Sounders game. Half an hour later we were dancing with an older Vietnamese woman who seemed to be homeless, and who was wearing a floppy denim hat.

And then we encountered the douche bags. The first was this arrogant middle-aged man who was very Italian looking, and who was dancing flamboyantly with his shirt unbuttoned halfway so that everyone had to look at his hairy chest. He was prancing all the way around the room, grinding up against every man and woman he passed. He thought he was hot shit, and all the desperate, bleach blonde middle-aged women loved him, but everyone else in the bar looked really uncomfortable. He got to us, and we jumped behind a table and hid from him. We thought we were safe, but then he went on a second round through the bar. Now by this point we had had enough to drink that I was not feeling shy at all. He had been wearing a strand of silver plastic Mardi Gras beads earlier in the night, and he was now twirling them high in the air on his finger. I jumped up, snatched the beads, and attempted to toss them out into the crowd, hoping that he would go fetch them. But I tossed them too high and they got stuck in a ceiling fan. (For the rest of the night, they just spun around and around on the fan blade.) He got really pissed off and started yelling at Orange Clouds and me, calling us "ugly lesbians". She and I just kept dancing. I gave him a toothy grin and a thumbs-up. Some of the people around us started laughing, but all the desperate middle-aged women glared at me like I had ruined the whole party.

So that was the first memorable guy we encountered. Then later, toward the end of the night, there was a guy from Bellevue (Microsoft Land, east of Seattle) who tried to put the moves on Orange Clouds while I was in the bathroom. I came back and he had just bought her a Bud Light. He was trying to stroke her ass, and she was cornered up against a waist high wall. I came and stood next to her, and he started trying to grab both of our asses! We kept wriggling away, saying really sarcastic and insulting things to him, which just seemed to make him like us more. (Vomit.) I told him I was married and he didn’t even hear it. He was pretty trashed and he leaned in close to me with that groggily serious facial expression only drunk people get. “You know, I just bought a new motorcycle the other day,” he began, and launched into a self-praising story about all the money he makes in Bellevue. I leaned over the half wall, picked up a saltshaker from a table, and started salting my boobs while he was talking. He didn’t miss a beat in his conversation, but he was starting to sound hurt that I wasn’t listening to him. Then I started salting him and Orange Clouds laughed so hard she had to crouch down on the floor to keep from wetting her pants. He gave up on trying to tell his story. Instead, he started telling us we were pretty, so I told him, "Sorry, dude, we only dig yellow cock." Then he started speaking REALLY BAD Chinese, like that was going to get him in the door! He told me he does business in Taiwan (he's in it just to pick up tiny Asian chicks, I could just tell). I told him in Chinese that his Chinese sucks, and he got offended. Then he asked for Orange Cloud's phone number, after kissing her wetly on the cheek, and Orange Clouds gave him our old disconnected phone number from when we lived together six years ago. Then he told us he was going to go get his friend to introduce to us, so as soon as he walked away we went and hid in the bathroom for a while and then snuck out the door and went back to her apartment.

4 comments:

  1. I love how you salted the second guy to get him to leave, just like the snail he is!

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  2. Goddam it, this is why I find it hard to understand why people go to clubs and things, when you have to put up with sleazebags like this. Meh.
    I remember my sister telling me about creepy guys who would "accidentally" fall against her and "land" on her boobs and stuff. Her and her friends used to just say "oh well, that's what happens, I guess". ?!?
    Still, at least you folks were smart enough to see through him. Um, not sure about the salting your boobs though - was that to get a reaction? :P

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  3. Hmmm...lemme take a stab in the dark. Were you by any chance at the Paragon?

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  4. My favorite part was when you screamed like a seahorse out of water every time that freak with the plastic beads twirled near us. You put all those plastic women to shame...

    In what fantasy land is a sweating, fuzzy, chubby, teddy bear the life of a "plastic" party? If I had done all that fixing up on my own body, I wouldn't expect to be so insecure that I will take any little biscuit of recognition... No wait, I would. And that's why we don't spend 3 hours in a bathroom preparing our outer appearance before going out. I'd rather read the newspaper and have something to say.

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