Getting even. There are times in our lives when we all want to do it. Whether it’s with a cold hearted ex, a backstabbing acquaintance, or just a rude stranger.
Rewind about 12 years to when I was an underaged undergrad. Since I was underage, I had to do all of my drinking BEFORE heading out to the bars. And by drinking, in case any statutes of limitations haven’t expired, I mean fresh coffee so I could be an alert and sober escort to my of-age friends who might have enjoyed an adult beverage or seven. Honest officer!
I went to a fairly large university with a fairly sad nightlife considering it’s size. Still, it was better nightlife than could be had back home, or anywhere in between, so friends from back home would frequently come to visit. One week, my friend Red (not to be confused with Red from my blogroll) and I made plans for a night on the town. Friday arrived, Red drove down, and we spent the better part of the evening drinking Boone’s Farm and God only knows what else in my studio apartment. By 11:30, I was tanked and knee walking toward the toilet.
I just wanted to throw up and pass out. But Red had visions of shaking her groove thing next to a muscled hottied and was ready for the club.
“I can’t go.” I said, hunching over the toilet.
“Yes you can.” Red said, stroking my hair. “Just rest a minute. I’ll get you some water and some bread.” She scuttled off to the kitchen. I puked.
She came back and offered me the bread…”Have this, it will soak up the alcohol.” I pushed it away.
“I just gotta go to bed.” I slurred.
“No, let’s go out. Come on, the cool air will make you feel better.”
“Noooooo” I moaned. Red’s patience was gone. She’d driven an hour, waited all week, and now I was punking out on her. She shoved the bread in my face.
“Just eat the GOD DAMNED BREAD!” she yelled. Crumbs fell over me. I got most of the slice down. That, and a few minutes with a cold rag on my neck actually did make me feel better–but I was a bit perturbed at Red as we made our way to the club.
As we made our way into the packed dance club, Red and I got separated. As I closed the gap between us, a hand reached out. I turned around and saw this:
Well, ok, he didn’t have on the bow tie, but he did have those coke bottle glasses.
“Hey!” he said, his shoulders rotating and index fingers pointing at a beat all their own. “Who’s your red headed friend? She’s hot!”
And suddenly, vengeance was mine. A sly grin crept across my face. “Oh, let me introduce you!” I said cheerfully. “What’s your name?”
“I’m the white Erkel!” he said. Actually, he said Brian or something, but he may as well have changed his name to the white Erkel, because that’s what he was. So he followed me out onto the dance floor, where I introduced him to Red.
“This is my friend the White Erkel!” I said, giving Red the impression he was someone I knew from school. For the next hour, Erkel horrified Red with his hideous dance moves, missed every subtle hint she sent that she was not interested, and followed us each time we hit the bar for refills. When it became clear there was no shaking him, Red decided it was time to leave.
On the short walk back to my apartment she asked with disgust, “Who WAS that friend of yours? ugh! I tried to be nice, but he was a mess.”
With a laugh, I replied, “Beats me, I’d never seen him before in my life!”
I still haven’t heard the end of that one.