This took place in May of 2000.

When I think of the prospect of one day becoming a father, nothing scares me as much as the job of naming my child. Think about it. There is a lot of weight in a person’s name. It is the first thing you find out about someone. An individual’s name – in most instances – seems to identify them in one way or another. Some names are plain. Others are odd. A few are just unfortunate

For instance, I once knew a guy named Richard Head. I know what you are thinking and, yes, he went by Dick. I would watch him walk around at parties and say, “Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Dick Head.” I could not figure out if he was (a) putting up a front to convince people there was no stigma attached to his name or (b) he was truly clueless to the fact that he shared a name with a commonly used insult that is uttered nationwide a minimum of a million times a day. I never had the heart to ask him which was the case.

I couldn’t understand what exactly was wrong with his parents that they would give him that name. What precisely was their thought process? Did they have a logical reason, some way to justify naming the poor guy the way that they did? Were they some slap-happy idiots who giggled inanely every time they said it aloud? Were they hopelessly addicted to hallucinogenics? Or were they just rotten people capable of hating their own infant son? Most likely I’ll never know.

One thing I do know, however, is that my parents got it right. Joshua James LeJeune. I like my name. There is a flowing quality to it. At dinner last week, I asked my mother how my name came to be. I was expecting some great story. What she told me didn’t live up to my expectations. It wasn’t uninteresting, though. Turns out I have gone 34 years without ever knowing that my middle name – James – was the first name of my paternal grandfather. I always thought it was Alfred and I think that is the name he went by. As for my first name – Joshua – that story is less interesting. My mother wasn’t exactly sure how that came about. Kind of a letdown. She remembered coming up with it and liking it and that was about it. She seemed puzzled about my inquiries. She was obviously not as impressed with herself for giving me the name as I was impressed with her for giving it to me.

One drawback of a name like mine is that no one ever forgets it. It has been the source of some annoyances, as a matter of fact. People who normally would never remember me seem to do so because of my name’s unforgettable nature. Often, I get approached by someone. “You’re Josh LeJeune, right?” In every one of those instances, I can honestly say not one entertaining or constructive conversation has come of it.

To come to the point, I am rarely mistaken for someone else. There was one time, though, where I was a victim of mistaken identity.

Here is what happened.

We were all sitting in a bar in Fell’s Point. My family and me. We were in Baltimore for my younger brother’s graduation from Loyola College. My parents, some of my siblings and I were gathered on the second floor of a bar called The Salty Dog. It was Friday night and the bar was not yet packed with people. We got there around 9pm and most everyone else seemed pretty drunk – probably the result of after work happy hours.

For being in their 50s, my parents were unusual in that they never minded going into a bar with me and my brothers and sisters. Hell. I think they enjoyed it more than us sometimes. While The Salty Dog was not a “dive bar”, it was not the kind of bar that you imagine sitting in with your mother on a Friday night.

When we all walked in – there were about ten of us – we found a booth that was big enough to accommodate our large group. I have five siblings and three of them were married. Jer and I got up to get the first round. That’s when I saw him. Walt. I turned to my brother. “Oh, Christ.” “What?” “There’s a guy over there I know from college.” He craned his head around. “Who? Where?” “Stop, asshole, I don’t want the guy to see me.” “I thought you said you knew him from college.” “I knew lots of people in college. Doesn’t mean I liked lots of people in college.” “You didn’t like the guy?” “I guess he was fine. I didn’t really know him all that well. He lived with some guys from my fraternity. I saw him around.” “Is he coming over here?” “I don’t think so. Probably hasn’t seen me.” “How do you know that he will recognize you?” I pointed up to my face. “No one forgets this. It’s too memorable.” “You really do have a high opinion of yourself, you know?” We got our drinks and went back to the booth.

As we sat down, Walt and I made eye contact. I looked away, pretending I didn’t see him. I hated to be rude. He really wasn’t a bad guy. If push came to shove, I could talk with him for a few minutes – idle chatter – and move on. I looked back over at him and he was staring right back in my direction. OK. Now we had definitely seen each other. Still, I wasn’t about to jump up and go over to him. He was by himself and I could tell by the way he was swaggering that he had probably had a few drinks in him already.

Most people would’ve excused themselves from the table and just gotten the awkward conversation out of the way. I was not most people. I preferred just to sit there and hope that Walt would not come over and try to start a conversation that neither of us wanted to happen in the first place.

No such luck. I saw Walt get the attention of the bartender and point in our direction. He made a circular gesture with his hand. I knew exactly what this gesture meant. Walt was buying the table a round. Apparently, he did want to have a conversation with me. And not just a quick kind of “how have you been?” one. He wanted to socialize with me. And my family.

I began to think of ways to exit the bar. As I dreamed of climbing out of the men’s room window, the bartender sat down a tray of shots. “These are on Walt.” He pointed towards the bar. He was standing there smiling – waving to us. I waved. With confused looks on their faces, my family waved. I looked down at the shots. It appeared that Walt had bought my entire family a round of Red Death. There was no getting away from it. I was about to do a shot of Red Death with my parents.

My mother was the first to ask. As usual. “Who bought us shots? Does anyone know him?” “I do.” “How in the hell do you know him, Joshua? We’re in Baltimore.” I thought it amusing my mother thought that – just because we were in another city – it was odd that I knew someone in the bar. “I know him from St. Joe’s. You know, people go there from other cities and even other states. When I was walking around campus one time, I even think I saw someone from another country. I’m not sure, though, I didn’t talk to him.” My mother gave me that look that she always gives me when she wants to give the impression that she isn’t impressed with me. (I know it is a ruse.) “Well, Joshua, are you going to invite him over?” “I would prefer not to.” “Why? I thought you said he was your friend from St. Joe’s.” “He wasn’t a friend of mine. More a friend of a friend. I really don’t have much to say to him.” “Invite him over.” “No. I don’t want to talk to him. I waved to him. That should be good enough. Plus, it would take away from my time with you, Mother.” “Joshua. He just bought our entire family shots. Invite him over here.” “Well, let’s look at that. The guy sees me over here with you all. He must know that you are my family unless he thinks I have the most unusual group of friends ever. So why would he buy shots of Red Death? It doesn’t make sense. Why would he think that my mother does shots? Do you really want to hang out with a guy like that, Mother?” “Go over there and get him. NOW.”

After the rest of my family took her side, I was forced to do my Mother’s bidding. I stood up to go get Walt. As I turned to go, I almost ran him over. I straightened up. “Hey, Walt.” He held out his hand. I shook it. He had a mysterious smile on his face like he was getting ready to tell me some great secret. My earlier fears were confirmed. The dude was trashed. But at that point, I had no idea how trashed he was.

“Gavin O’Fucking Connell! How in the hell have you been?” I thought he was kidding at first. He walked around the table and shook everyone’s hand. “Hi, I’m Walt. I’m a friend of Gavin’s from college.” He came back over to me and put his arm around me. He looked over at my family and said – loudly – “I’m not going to intrude on your night. I just wanted to buy this guy’s family a round. He was a madman in college, this guy! I could tell you some stories.” He gave me a hug. As he walked away he said – just as loud – “Gavin O’ Fucking Connell!”

I sat back down. My sister was sitting next to me. “Who’s Gavin? Are you Gavin? Is anyone else confused about all of this?” Everyone at the table agreed they were confused. They all wanted to know – “Who is Gavin O’Connell?” So I told them.

Gavin O’Connell was in my fraternity at St. Joe’s. That was about the only thing that he and I had in common. Gavin was about 5’7”. I stood at 5’10”. He had a crew cut with bright red hair. I had long brown hair that fell over most of my face. He was a well-put-together guy, played rugby and was known around campus as a tough guy no one wanted to tussle with. I was about 30 lbs overweight, hadn’t played organized sports in about a decade and was known around campus as a mouthy guy who was lucky to have friends that no one wanted to tussle with. Gavin was also two years older than me.

I thought that explaining this to everyone would be the end of it. We could do the shots and move on with our night. No dice. This only spawned more questions. Ones that I had no answer to. “Why would he think you are this Gavin guy?” “Are you sure you look nothing like the guy he thinks you are?” “Does Gavin live in Baltimore too?” “Seriously, why would he think that?”

As I answered a flurry of questions, I wondered if Walt had done it on purpose. Had he bought the shots, come over to the table, pretended he thought I was someone else and stumbled away as part of some sort of mind-fuck? Did he do this kind of thing often? If so, my hat was off. Truly impressive.

As I pondered the idea of Walt being some sort of psychological master of mind games, I felt his hand on my shoulder. He leaned down into the table. “You have no idea the amount of ass this guy got in college! He was a fucking legend!” I immediately turned around to him. “Dude. The cursing. My mom is here.” “Right. Sorry.” I looked over at my mother. She had a big shit-eating grin on her face. “It’s OK. We’re in a bar. You think I have never heard that word before, Gavin?” Gavin? I frowned. My sister chimed in. “Yeah, Gavin, chill out.” I glanced angrily at my sister. Again with the Gavin? I looked around the table. Everyone was smiling. I knew those smiles. They wanted to play along. There was nothing I could do.

To tell Walt at that point, after my own family was calling me Gavin, would have been horribly embarrassing for the guy. I am not sure why I cared since he was cursing in front of my parents and trying to inform the people I grew up with on “how much ass” I got in college. But I wasn’t about to crush the guy. I do have my limits. Nope, for the next couple of hours, I was going to be Gavin O’Connell.

And I played the part like a natural. Truthfully, it wasn’t hard. After a few minutes of listening to Walt wax on about me (Gavin), I figured out that he didn’t know much about the real Gavin. Some of the stories he told were stories that I knew were about other guys in my fraternity. I didn’t stop him, though. I proudly smiled when he told a Gavin triumph. I mocked embarrassment when he told a Gavin folly. I even joined in at times, honing important details that I felt Walt was brushing over.

Even though I started to enjoy myself a little, I was – for the most part – not happy with having to waste my night pretending to be someone else. My family, on the other hand, was absolutely in love with itself for initiating their little comedy. They were doubly amused, both by the stories and by the fact that they had ganged up on me and made me do something I would have normally been able to wriggle my way out of. My sister would egg Walt on. “And then what happened?” “Jesus, Gavin, you really were a crazy man in college.” My brother joined in. “Come on, Gavin, let him tell another one. We never get to hear your college stories.” I simply smiled at them in a way that let each and every one of them know that revenge would be exacted. It would be bad. The smile that each of them shot me back told me they thought it was worth it.

The night was wrapping up and the bartender brought us the tab. Walt grabbed it out of his hands. “I got this.” My entire family started to protest. He kept insisting. We kept telling him we weren’t going to let him pay for our entire tab. We had lots of drinks in the span of three hours. Eventually, he held up his hands. “No. You guys have been great. Baltimore is my town. Gavin’s family won’t pay for drinks when they’re in my town. I’m gonna go take care of this and head out. It was nice meeting all of you.” He looked at me. “Gavin, buddy, next time you are in town we definitely gotta go out and get wasted.” He leaned down and gave me a hug.

He went to the bar, paid the tab and left the bar, waving to all of us one last time before he left. We all sat in silence until we knew he was definitely gone. I turned to the table. “How much do you think that was?” My father asked me to go find out. I came back to the table and sat down. “Two hundred and forty dollars.” My mother was annoyed. “We should have never let him pay that tab. Joshua, you are going to send him a check when we get home.” “I already told you. I hardly even knew the guy.” “You will do it.” “Fine, but I’m not paying it. I didn’t even want him to come over here.” “Just get his address.”

After the weekend, I got in touch with Jake. He lived in Boston with LBH who was good friends with Walt. I explained the situation to Jake who, in turn, explained it to LBH. Jake called me back and said to just forget about it. LBH wasn’t going to get in touch with Walt about it. He thought Walt would be mortified and didn’t want to put him through that.

I could see where he was coming from. If I was Walt, I wouldn’t want to know that I drunkenly blew $250 on a guy’s family one night in a bar. I would feel like as ass. Especially after I found out the guy wasn’t even who I thought he was in the first place. Why would LBH want to be the guy to deliver that kind of blow? He wouldn’t. LBH is a pretty nice guy. I am kind of glad that he will never know. But I still feel – in some odd way – that I stole money from the guy.

I have not run into him since that night and probably never will. (Now that I wrote that, I will probably see him tomorrow.) When I see his friends, they all ask me to tell the story. They all have the same reaction. “Man, Walt sometimes just gets TOO drunk. Still, how in the fucking world did he think you were Gavin O’Connell?”

“Can’t I be both?”

This took place in September of 2008.

In the last two months of the summer of 2008, I had been on about 15-20 dates. Some were really a lot of fun. Some were absolutely dreadful. Whether it was friends trying to set me up or meeting some girl at a party or an online service – I was all about dating. I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I sure as shit didn’t want a girlfriend. I just wanted to go on dates with different women.

I had been married up until about 18 months previous to a girl I had been with for a decade. Directly after our decision to split, I had back-to-back, ill-conceived relationships with two women who chewed me up and spat me back into the dating world a bitter and angry man. Several months later, after coming to terms with my mistreatment at the hands of those two ladies, I was ready to date again.

I needed to experience the company of a wider variety of women. I decided I could use more information to make an informed judgment on what I was really looking for because all I knew at that point was what I definitely didn’t want – anything resembling what I had already been exposed to. Thanks but no.

Due to my dedication to that mission, I never turned down an opportunity to go out on a date – not because I was desperate but because I wanted to see what was out there and, more importantly, have some fun. Because of my willingness to go out on just about any date, I had been out with a lot of interesting women in a lot of unique situations. One night I was in an empty arcade in Allentown, PA playing skee-ball with one girl. The next night I was driving around Atlantic City, NJ – with a different girl – taking pictures of random people standing on street corners. A couple of nights later I was in South Philly – with yet another girl – running from what we were certain sounded like gunshots. It was sometimes uncomfortable and often weird but I was having the time of my life.

The third weekend in September the Philadelphia Eagles were playing host to the Pittsburgh Steelers at 4:15pm. My friends Clint and Clara wanted to set me up with their friend Colleen. She was a year older than me and – from what Clara told me – had experienced a similar string of bad luck in the surreal nightmare that is dating in your thirties. We had originally planned to meet at The Pour House – a bar by my house – to watch football. Those plans changed when someone who worked with Clara and Colleen got everyone in their department tickets to the Eagles’ game. Clara called and asked if I wanted to meet them at McFadden’s – a bar near Lincoln Financial Field, home of the Eagles – for pre-game drinks instead. Since it was a late-afternoon game, I decided I would go. I had a dinner scheduled with Jen in Chinatown around 5pm. I’d hop on the subway, go meet them at McFadden’s and when they went into the game, I would get back on the subway and go to dinner with Jen.

Here is what happened.

I found myself in a subway car on the Broad Street Line down to Pattison Avenue – with about 900 screaming Eagles fans, each one of them more annoying than the next. Both Eagles (the majority) and Steelers (the minority) jerseys surrounded me in a sea of midnight green and black/gold. Guys with backpacks full of warm beer were chanting “E-A-G-L-E-S” while their girlfriends sipped on warm beer from their boyfriends’ backpacks, looked at each other and shared smiling looks that said, “Get a load of our crazy guys.” The Steelers fans smartly tried to remain unnoticed by sitting deep in their seats and avoiding eye-contact with anyone wearing the opposing jersey.

I was an Eagles’ supporter but I was not what one would consider a fanatic. I watched the games. I followed the team. My fellow passengers were on an entirely different level. Eagles’ fans are known nationwide as the most rabid football spectators in the country. As the subway car sped down subterranean tracks, I wondered what the reaction of the rest of the nation would be if they saw what was going on underneath Broad Street before every Eagles’ home game.

Walnut-Locust – one stop down, six to go.

A man – probably in his early thirties – boarded the car. He wore a dark black suit, a red shirt and black tie. His hair was slicked back messily, his skin chalky. I thought I looked out of place with my grey t-shirt and khakis, sporting my black leather man-bag, which I brought along because Jen was giving me some camouflage pants she had picked up for me during her recent trip to Florida. I was kind of glad that the chalky guy was there – I felt less conspicuous.

Me being who I am and the universe being what it is, the chalky guy sat next to me. Of course. It is well-documented that weirdoes love themselves some Josh. I am the freak magnet. Everywhere I go, it seems that there is some oddball lurking around the outer skirts of the crowd, just waiting for the opportunity to jump headfirst into some strangely-constructed conversation with me about something I am either uncomfortable – or have no interest in – discussing.

As soon as he sat down I got the feeling I might know more than I wanted to about the guy before I exited the subway car. I didn’t want to look over at him. Luckily I was able to view his reflection, through the five people standing in front of us, in the window directly across from the bench we shared.

He seemed to be looking around for something or someone, maybe like he was trying to get a feel for the crowd. My mind began to wander. I immediately decided that he was most likely a hit-man. His outfit. His appearance. His shifty nature. He was there to kill someone. I looked around at who his victim might be. I decided it could be anyone in the car. Even though I had only been with them for about two minutes, I already knew I wanted to kill most of the people in the crowd. What kind of gun did he have? It was probably something small because there was not a lot of room for concealment in his tight black suit. What would it matter what kind of gun it was anyway? I knew nothing about guns. When he pulled his “piece” (I’d heard that said in the movies), my mind would identify it as simply “some sort of gun.” I would be little help in that regard to the detectives investigating the imminent murder-for-hire, although I would be able to describe what he looked like and what he wore. Yeah. I would be able to give a kick-ass description of the man himself and the cops would probably say something to me like, “Wow. You got a great eye for detail, sir.”

As I daydreamed about impressed police officers patting me on the back for providing possibly the most efficient physical description in the history of law enforcement, the chalky guy reached into his jacket. I looked over at him and thought, “Holy shit. Am I right? Is he reaching for his tiny gun?” I was wrong. He wasn’t reaching for a gun. Instead, he pulled out a little leather book that looked a lot like the one I carried around with me in my back pocket. Maybe he was like me – an aspiring writer trying to capture his thoughts on the moronic mayhem in front of him.

Lombard-South. Two down, five to go. No one got on or off.

As the train began to move, I looked over at his little black book. There was a gold cross on the front of it. Underneath the cross read three words – “The Holy Bible.” Much more dangerous than a gun. He turned toward me. I at once wished he actually was a hit-man. I knew what was coming next. The chalky man opened his mouth to speak words that I already knew I didn’t want to hear.

“Hello, I am Robert. How are you?” I attempted to look preoccupied by looking into my man-bag for something that I imagined I needed. “Doing well. Yourself?” “Having a great day just like I do every Sunday. I didn’t catch your name…” I thought the baritone voice coming out of him seemed completely all wrong. “Yeah everyone loves football Sundays. I’m Joshua.” “Well, Joshua, I love it for a different reason – a far more important one.”

I continued to look very intently for the non-existent item in my bag. “Oh yeah?” “Do you know the reason I mean?” I looked down at his Bible. “I assume it has something to do with that.” “Are you being perceptive or sarcastic?” “Can’t I be both?” Robert shifted in his seat. “Seriously, have you completely organized your thoughts on the redeeming powers of Jesus Christ?” I looked toward the ceiling and sighed. “No, but it is on my list of long-term goals.”

Ellsworth-Federal. Three down, four to go. We were on the move again.

I had given up on the idea of pretending to look through my bag and decided that maybe staring intently on the ceiling would send the proper message. Robert was obviously not what you would call gifted at getting the hint.

“Did you go to service today?” “Service?” I knew what he meant. “Religious service.” “No.” “Can I ask you why?” I pretended to be engrossed in one of the posters on the car wall. “Well if you must know, I was out really late last night and didn’t get to bed until about 4am. By the time I woke up this morning, it was too late to attend services. Oh and also – I almost forgot – I don’t believe in God.” He looked stunned – like it was the first time he had ever heard someone say that. He held up his Bible. “Have you ever read this?” “Yes – quite the page-turner. Couldn’t put it down.” “Well…since you’ve read it, why don’t you have faith in the risen Christ?” “Guess I’m a challenging sell.”

Tasker-Morris. Four down, three to go. I couldn’t wait to get the fuck off the train.

“Sarcasm isn’t technically a sin but I think in your case maybe it should be. Are you always so sarcastic?” “I would say so.” “Well, I’m no idiot. I get sarcasm.” “It’s necessary to get sarcasm to survive in this city.” Robert laughed at that. “I suppose you are right, my friend.” His face got serious again. “I would like to counsel you about your lack of faith.”

Nothing was working. I tried appearing non-interested – didn’t work. I tried being blunt – didn’t work. I was simply trying to get from one place to the next while experiencing a hangover on Sunday morning. There was only one other option: a full-frontal assault.

“Listen, buddy, if you really want to know my thoughts on it I will tell you but I want you to listen to me and no interrupting. After I am done, I will let you say whatever you want for as long as we have on this train. Agreed?” “Agreed.” I turned my body around to face him. “I spent my whole life in Catholic school. I have read The Bible in its entirety. I have read the Gnostic Gospels. I have read other religious texts such as The Qur’an. I don’t buy any of it. I respect them as works of creative non-fiction and I leave it at that.”

Snyder. Five down, two to go. The train rumbled on.

“I have organized my thoughts – as you put it – on the whole religion thing and I believe it all to be a collective bunch of nonsense. I live my life how I live my life – for better or worse. Sometimes I am an asshole, but for the most part I am a good person. I care about the welfare of strangers. I don’t want anything bad to happen to anyone. I love my mother and father. I treat my family and friends with kindness the majority of the time. I am not the best person in the world – not by a long shot – but I am even further away from being the worst. And that is enough for me. I don’t need religion to tell me how to act or what to believe. I would prefer to determine these things for myself and not have them dictated to me. Does that make sense?”

Oregon. Last stop before Pattison. The doors closed.

Robert turned to me. “Yes, but…” “Hold on, I’m not done. I hope that after hearing all of that you appreciate where I am coming from. I am not rejecting the idea of God out of ignorance or anger. I am rejecting it because I have done the research and arrived at my own conclusions. I am not – even in the loosest definition of the word – a ‘believer.’ Nor will I ever be. Can you live with that?” “Yes, but I would love to have an exchange with you on this. I think I could show you that you may have missed some of the message.”

Pattison. The train stopped. I had arrived.

As the jersey-wearing assemblage’s yelling and screaming got exponentially louder, I stood up.

“Sorry, dude, but our time is up. You seem like a nice enough guy but you are – as they say – barking up the wrong tree. You got a better chance of converting these Eagles fans into Steelers fans before kickoff. No hard feelings, though, I understand you are doing what you believe in and I respect that – much more than I respect these clowns. Good luck with everything.”

“Well, I appreciate your honesty.”

I smiled at that. “I get that a lot. Nice talking with you, Robert.” “You too, Joshua.”

He stood up and we exited the car. We enjoyed a very awkward climb up the stairs followed by an even more awkward walk toward the door. Once we got out of the subway station I saw that we were both headed in the same direction. I stopped, pulled my phone out of my pocket and said, “Hello?” No one was calling me but I had to get away from Robert. I pretended to have a conversation outside the subway station for another 30 seconds until he was far enough ahead that I was reasonably sure we wouldn’t bump into each other again.

I started walking toward McFadden’s to meet Clint, Clara and – most importantly – Colleen.

After I got home from my dinner with Jen (my new camouflage pants were awesome, by the way), I thought back to my encounter with Robert. Had the circumstances been different – say a cross-country train ride – I would have probably enjoyed listening to him go on about his beliefs. I would get much enjoyment in debating him on his views. He would never change what I believe but it would have been interesting and an entertaining waste of time.

Still, I felt a little guilty that I was so terse with him. He didn’t really do anything wrong and – when push came to shove – he was, by my estimation, easily the most worthwhile individual I rode the subway with that day. I just didn’t have the time to get into such a messy, complex subject during a seven-stop subway ride to a football game surrounding by insanely loud football fans.

In case you are wondering what happened when I got to McFadden’s, I will tell you – nothing. I didn’t know anyone except for Clint and Clara. I basically talked to Clint for an hour, which is always amusing and made the afternoon worthwhile. Before I left, Clara apologized that it wasn’t really the right place for Colleen and I to meet and that she would set something up in a week or two so we could meet properly. Around 3:30pm, they all left McFadden’s to go to the game.

I walked toward the subway, hoping that the return ride would be uneventful.

“I can see that.”

“So are you ready for the both of us?”

This took place in June of 2001. (I am pretty sure.)

Bachelor parties hardly ever go according to plan. Despite weeks of blueprinting, something inevitably goes awry.

First, the party bus is always late. Bachelor and bachelorette parties keep most limousine companies in business by renting small party buses – usually ones equipped with a bathroom at the back. For a myriad of reasons, the party bus never gets there on time – usually due to poor directions. It is not normally much of a problem since pickup spots tend to be a house stocked with lots of beer and alcohol or a bar, which (hopefully) is stocked with lots of beer and alcohol. So everyone just gets drunker while they wait for the driver – usually with the assistance of the best man on his cell phone standing on the sidewalk saying things like, “NO! You make a RIGHT after you get off the highway. Why in the world would you go LEFT? Can you even MAKE a left there?” (At this point he covers the phone, turns to the guy next to him and says something like, “Dude, this guy is an idiot. We are going to end up in fucking Delaware tonight.”)

Second, because bachelor parties tend to bring ALL of a guy’s friends together, the group tends to be split into two factions. Some guys – usually the married ones with kids –want to go out, get bombed with their buddies and not (for just one night) have to worry about changing diapers and taking out the trash. Other guys – usually the single ones – want to go out, get bombed, try to hook up with every girl within 20 feet and eventually (due to a steady eight-hour stream of alcohol) convince themselves that, in the morning, they will roll over in their bed to find a stripper or two. That last part never happens but it is not for a lack of trying. Everyone does get extremely drunk, though, which always make the night at least half of a success and that is not a bad thing. No matter how you look at it. The conflicting agendas inevitably spawn a debate – usually by the third bar – about changing the plans to suit everyone’s new vision of the night. This new vision of the night is created – or fabricated is a better term – from a bunch of drunken guys sitting around talking and spouting nonsense. New bars are brought up as places that “we have got to go to.” A new strip club is proposed because the girls are “way fucking crazier there.” This discussion is usually about as productive as a congressional hearing. The plan never gets altered – for better or for worse.

Third, there are always guys who cry poverty about two hours into the night. These are the guys who – after claiming they are out of money – seem to magically show up with a fresh beer in their hand every fifteen minutes, claiming “Jimmy” or “Ralph” bought them a beer. You are not out with a “Jimmy” or a “Ralph.” Everyone is too drunk to care at this point, however, so the infraction goes overlooked. As a result of these cheap-asses being tightwads, the rest of the group has to pick up the slack. What sucks even worse is that the end of the night – the strip bar portion – is easily the most wallet-draining two hours due to the fact that you have to pay for the bachelor’s lap dances and strip clubs charge roughly $29 per bottle of domestic beer. They know they can charge that much. So they do.

As a rule, I dislike bachelor parties. I am not a huge fan of organized going-out to begin with, preferring to just leave my house with a destination in mind and seeing what happens. It is a formula that has always worked for me and I see no reason – at this point in the game – to tinker with something that doesn’t need fixing. In addition, I generally steer clear of large groups – meaning over 5 people. A larger group makes everything so cumbersome. Waiting for people to go to the bathroom, settle their tabs or do “just one more round of shots, dude,” can make exiting a bar happen at the same speed as an elementary school fire drill.

Also, I am not a big fan of the whole stripper thing. Now, don’t get me wrong. I like naked women as much as the next heterosexual guy but I hate the idea of paying to get a girl naked. It is so much more satisfying – and exciting, in my opinion – to go out to a regular bar and try to get a girl to go home with me. When I walk into a strip bar, seeing all the strippers already half-naked fills me with a sort of disappointment. It is not that I mind that they are half-naked. I just don’t feel any sense of accomplishment, having had nothing to do with having gotten them that way. As a result of this feeling of disappointment, I talk to strippers too much. I feel the need to make up for lost time, like if I talk to them, and get them to like me as a person; the proceeding lap dance will make me feel in some way that I earned this girl’s attention. I am sure that is great fodder for all of you psychologists and ex-girlfriends out there. You are welcome.

About six or seven years ago, it seemed like every week one of my friends from college was getting married. This meant lots of bachelor parties. It also meant spending a lot of money that I didn’t have. I was not a young professional like most of my friends. I did not own a home – I barely owned my car. Preferring to take the scenic route through college, I was still a student well into my mid-twenties. I made good money as a waiter but not the kind of money that my friends earned. But I tried to keep up with them and, in doing so, always ended up spending much more money than I promised my then-girlfriend, who basically supported me back in those days.

When I look back on all of those bachelor parties, there is always one that epitomizes how the perfectly laid plans can sometimes go totally wrong.

Here is what happened.

After Mapquest turned a 20-30 minute drive into an hour-long sojourn through the heart of South Jersey, we arrived at Griff’s place. Griff was our friend from college. He was not a member of the “inner circle” (he had his own “inner circle”) but he was definitely on the outer rim, and so DaMan and I decided to attend his bachelor party.

Once we got there, some facts came to light that made us question our involvement in the evening. (1) The best man was nowhere to be found and never did show up, prompting Spence, one of the groomsmen, to step in as “interim best man.” (2) After already downing about five beers and a couple shots of Jack Daniels, one of my buddies informed me that I was, in fact, not invited to the upcoming wedding. At that point – if I had wanted to – I was unable to drive home. (3) Most of my close friends were not coming to the bachelor party – for one reason or another – which, at one point, made me loudly declare that I needed to “keep in better touch with those assholes.” My lack of communication with my college friends had finally fucked me over.

DaMan and I consulted with each other on our options. We could drive home (maybe) but we really couldn’t come up with a believable excuse for both of us have to leave. No – we were going to have let this one play out.

We had no choice but to get on the party bus, which – of course – got there an hour late.

We went to the three non-strip bars and drank quite a bit. Beers. Shots. More beers. Even more shots. I was always of the opinion that there was no fucked-up night that Miller Lite and Jack Daniels couldn’t fix. And I was normally right. Normally.

By the time the party bus pulled up to Delilah’s Den, I had a small problem. My $200 allowance for the night was down to $0 and we hadn’t even walked into the strip club yet. I had my ATM card. It wasn’t like my girlfriend had given me $200 and sent me on my way. $200 was just our agreed-upon sum for the night. And it should have been enough. But it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

So there we were – ready to enter Delilah’s Den, considered to be the strip club in Philadelphia. If you were a guy who took his naked dancing girls seriously, then you had no choice but to go to Delilah’s. I had never been there – probably because I was not as no-nonsense about my naked dancing girls as some guys.

I had to make a decision. With no money in my pocket, was I going to call it a night or was I going to hit the ATM? If I called it a night, I could take a cab home, get home at a decent hour and curl up in bed with my girlfriend. If I hit the ATM, I was going to spend more money and pretty much guarantee myself a few nights on the couch. I presented these options to DaMan. He rolled his eyes and held up his hands. No help.

I hit the ATM for $200. My girlfriend’s couch was reasonably comfortable and I figured I was only going to live once (pretty sure). DaMan and I entered Delilah’s with a renewed sense of purpose. We headed to the bar. Spence stopped us five feet later. Spence was put in charge of the night after we found out the best man was sleeping off a 24-hour bender he wisely went on the night before his best friend’s bachelor party.

“Guys, you got money for the lap dances?” “Sure, how much?” “Well, there’s a problem…” “Let me guess, none of your friends has money to pay for Griff’s shit, right?” “Right, they are broke.” I looked over at the friends. “They all have beers in their hands.” “Yeah, but they don’t have a lot of money.” “What makes you think we do?” “You guys don’t have any…?” “No, we have money but this is bullshit, Spence, and you know it.”

In his defense, Spence was stuck in the middle of a bad situation. He didn’t want to be the guy to corral all of these drunkards all night. But there he was – leader of the drunken brigade of idiots. I felt bad for him because, unlike the sleepy best man, I genuinely liked Spence.

“I know its bullshit, but there is really no other way unless…” “Dude, don’t worry, we’re going to help out. How much do you need?” “Like $170 apiece.” “Are you fucking kidding me? How many other people are putting in?” DaMan looked over at the both of us. “Dude, this is fucking bullshit. We’re not even invited to the wedding.” “What he said.” “Guys, listen, if there was any other way, I would have figured something out by now. There’s no other option.” I reached into my pocket. “I better be going straight to fucking heaven when I die. This better earn me some major fucking points.” We both handed him $170.

After the fleecing, DaMan and I sat down on a velvety purple couch. “This might be the worst bachelor party of all time.” “Yeah, but only for us. Griff seems to be having a good time.” “How much money do you have left?” “Thirty bucks. And I can’t take anymore out. I am at my 24 hour limit, plus Katie would fucking kill me. How much you got?” “About seventy. And I am not hitting the ATM again. I am not dropping another dime into this debacle.” “We are kind of screwed. You feel like taking a cab back to our place? We got plenty of booze and weed there. We could just get more fucked up and forget we were ever here.” “How much is a cab going to cost back to Ardmore?” “From here? About forty bucks, probably.” “Sounds good.” “All right well lets have a beer and look at some naked women before we go.” “Agreed. I’m going to take a piss.”

After DaMan got up to go to the bathroom, I found a waitress and ordered two beers. She came back within what felt like seconds and asked me for $10. I handed it to her and thought, “That’s it – I’m tapped out. Fuck.” I needed to save $20 for the cab ride home.

I sat and stared at my beer. I felt someone standing above me. I moved my eyes upward. I was – but shouldn’t have been – surprised to see a short brunette with bright blue eyes and a great smile standing in front of me wearing not much of anything at all. “Hi, how are you tonight?” “I’m alright, kind of a rough one, though.” “Want to go in the back and you can tell me all about it?” “Well, maybe later OK? Let’s see if I get into a better mood.” “OK, sugar, I’ll be back.”

DaMan came back from the bathroom as the brunette walked away. I handed him his beer. “Dude, you going to get a lap dance from her? She’s fucking hot.” “I have twenty bucks left and we need that for the cab.” “Speaking of which, you want to down these and get the fuck out of here?” “Yeah, but you still owe me a beer.” “Fine. After that – we are out of here.” Fine.” We sat and watched the girl on the stage dancing to “Me So Horny.”

She came back. The short brunette with the eyes and the smile. “In a better mood yet?” I pointed to my beer. “Getting there. These help.” She laughed. “You are funny – and kind of cute.” “Just kind of?” “Well, no…I guess you are all-the-way cute.” “Well so are you.” “Aw, you’re a sweetheart. Do you wanna go in the back with me?” “Well, see, there’s a problem with that…”

I should have told her that I didn’t have the money. I should have but I didn’t.

“I have kind of a quirky thing about…you know…going back there.” “Well, what is it?” I looked up and smiled at her, “I don’t know if I can trust you with it.” She sat down next to me and put her hand on my knee. “You can trust me with anything, babe.” I looked at DaMan. He rolled his eyes and shook his head – a smile on his face. “Well, the only way I like to go…back there…is to be with more than one girl. Is that a big deal?” “What? Are you kidding me? We do that all of the time. But it is Saturday night; it might be hard to find another available girl.” “Well, there’s the thing. I don’t want it to be just ‘another available girl.’ I would like her to look like you – a cute brunette.” She seemed discouraged but pleased that I called her “a cute brunette.” “OK, well, if I can swing it I will be back, OK, cutie?” “I will be here.” She walked back into the crowd.

“What the fuck are you doing?” “Having fun. What are you doing?” “Watching some asshole fuck with a stripper.” “Calm down, boy scout. She won’t be back. Did you hear the circumstances I laid out for her? Let’s get that beer.”

Ten minutes later, we were drinking our second beer and planning our exit. We decided that just walking out the front door and leaving would be the best course of action. No one would need to know what happened to us. DaMan and I did that kind of thing quite often. It was our preferred party departure strategy.

“OK, I am back. And I brought my friend.” “I can see that.” “So are you ready for the both of us?” To put it mildly, DaMan seemed more than a little annoyed. “Yeah, I guess. What are your names?” “I am Gretchen and this is Justine.” “Hi, I am Josh, nice to meet you, Justine.” She was – indeed – a cute brunette. She had a terrific smile. “So are you ready?” “Yeah, but are you sure this isn’t weird?” “No, not at all, Josh, we do this kind of thing all of the time.” “How many times have done this before?” “About one thousand more times than you have.” “Oh, I don’t know about that. I do this a lot.” The three of us started laughing. DaMan looked like he couldn’t figure out which one of us to kill first. I was pretty sure he would start with me.

“OK, Josh, seriously, our bosses are going to start getting annoyed. Let’s go in the back.” “Aw, I wish I could.” “What do you mean?” “Well, it’s kind of embarrassing.” “What is it?” And then I said it, “I don’t have any money.” I immediately wished I hadn’t.

The music didn’t stop but I felt like it did. I might as well of just told both these women that both their parents just died – and I burned down both of their houses. They were pissed. They cursed. Hands were placed on hips. Yelling ensued. One – Justine, I think – stepped toward me and raised her hand like she was going to slap me. I flinched, which made DaMan laugh as hard as I had ever heard him. The two cute brunette strippers stomped off into the crowd.

I started laughing. DaMan was laughing a little too, “You are a fucking dick.” “I know but what was I going to do?” “You should have just told them the truth from the beginning. Let’s go.” “Hold on. Got a little beer left.” I lifted the bottle up to my mouth. Someone grabbed my shoulders. At first, I thought it was one of my friends. But it wasn’t. I had been grabbed like this before. This was not a friendly grab. I was positive of that fact as I felt the hands go under my arms and pull me up off the couch.

When I regained my footing – on the other side of the couch – I was face-to-face with a huge black man, dressed in all black. Behind me there was a similar man, only he was white. And next to the black man was a white guy in a suit. The manager, I assumed. He got in my face.

“Did you promise two girls a lap dance and then told them you didn’t have any money?” “I never promised I would give them a lap dance; I assumed it would be the other way around.” “Very clever. Did you tell them you would go in the back with them? Yes or no?” “Yeah, I guess – ” And then we were off. We walked swiftly through the crowd. Strike that. The two big bouncers walked swiftly through the crowd. With their assistance, I sort of floated along like Peter Pan.

We got close to the door. The two bouncers didn’t break stride. At the door, they abruptly stopped and let me out – with extreme prejudice. I hit the pavement and rolled – and not gracefully. I was flipping and flopping across the concrete. When I got up, the bouncers were – again – right next to me. They grabbed me by the shoulders and threw me up against the wall. My head hit with a hollow knock. I was blinded by a camera flash. The manager walked up to me, pulled the picture out of the Polaroid and began to shake it. “Your picture will be hanging here for quite some time. Don’t try to come back to Delilah’s anytime soon.”

“Not a problem.” They walked back inside.

A few seconds later, DaMan came strolling out – laughing. I inspected myself for injury to body and clothing. “What the fuck? Why didn’t you do anything?” “Seriously? What was I going to do? Plus, you deserved it. You cost those strippers money. Let’s get a cab.” “They took a Polaroid of me.” “Why did they do that?” “They said I am not allowed back.” “Only you. How do you manage to always get into shit like this?”

I rubbed the back of my head with my hand and pulled it close to my eyes. No blood. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Before you go ahead and judge me, you should know that I am not that guy anymore. I realize that what I did was wrong but I was feeling like I had been wronged. I guess that some part of me felt the need to redirect at someone (or two someones). Immature. I know.

Griff and I are still friends, although maybe not after he reads this. Not being invited to his wedding seemed like a big deal at the time, but it wasn’t. His was simply the first one – in a long line – that I wasn’t invited to for one reason or another. Like I stated above, maturity wasn’t my strong suit. Also, I am not sure Griff even knew everything that happened that night, especially with me getting thrown out. He was busy with his other buddies and some – ahem – other people.

I have been to a few bachelor parties since then and I am happy to report that they all went off without incident – at least on my part. I have never tried to go back to Delilah’s but most people tell me I should have no problem getting back in again, if I ever wished to do so. Because I am not a huge strip club guy, I don’t feel like I will have to put that theory to the test.

At least until I have to go there for more bachelor parties, which as I get older are happening less and less, thankfully.

She is letting me know that she heard me and she will get off the phone when she is good and ready.

I know now what must be done.

This took place in January 2004.

Whether you like it or not, you are a product of where you grew up. You can move to another country, you could move to Neptune, and no matter what you do or how you try to recreate yourself, you are always going to carry around telltale scraps of the place you originated. Although I am exceptional, I am no exception to this rule.

I grew up in the western suburbs of Philadelphia known as “The Main Line.” It was, and still is, a unique area. A lot of people driving around in luxury cars, living in mansions, buying tons of shit online late at night after too many glasses of wine or scotch. How most of them made any money in the first place is beyond me. How they hold onto it is a complete mystery.

Main Liners have taken the term “looking down your nose” and turned into an art form, a way of life. In no place is this more prevalent than in my hometown of Gladwyne. To the denizens of Gladwyne, even the other Main Line towns are ridiculously illogical places to live.

My parents moved my siblings and me there in the late 80s. While we were not what you would call complete outsiders, there was frequently an attitude towards us as if, because we were not born and raised in Gladwyne, that we didn’t really belong.

Growing up there with my family, who tend to mock and ridicule all that lay before them, was constant entertainment. Whether it was the guy in the pharmacy wearing a monocle (true story) or the two ladies in the Super Fresh conversing about how they just couldn’t believe that people in this day and age don’t at least spend some part of the year in Brazil (another true story), there was always something to witness each and every day that made the previous day’s insanity look absolutely tame in comparison.

For me, being from Gladwyne is a double-edged sword. The people of Gladwyne don’t embrace me because I am really not one of them. Nor do I ever desire to be considered a Gladwynian. However, when people who are not from Gladwyne ask me where I am from, and I tell them, I immediately get looks like, “Oh, you are one of them.” So I always have this stigma attached no matter what. I love it.

It has always been one of my defining character traits. It makes people view me as kind of an anomaly and allows me to ensnare unwitting numbskulls in conversational traps all of the time. And trust me; there have been quite a few occasions where I have definitely turned it into my advantage. The following is just one example.

Here is what happened.

I love days like this. A freezing cold Thursday in January where the sky is so blue you almost can’t believe it and the air is so crisp you can hear noises from so far away it is sometimes scary. I also love having days like this off from work because I can navigate my errands with little obstruction from the thousands of people that descend upon Ardmore on the weekends.

Sidebar: Ardmore is a town that borders on Gladwyne where I have lived off and on in the past. It is not your typical Main Line town in that most of it is blue collar and still has that small town feel. I consider it a refuge from the surrounding towns. It does, however, have Suburban Square, an upscale outdoor shopping mall that gets infested every weekend by all sorts of annoying people. Trying to get to work on Saturdays, surrounded by a bunch of people with no particular place to go, is one of the hundreds of things that I don’t miss about my old life.

After running my usual errands of catching up on the week’s new comic books, spending way too much money at the record store, and a variety of other worthwhile pursuits, I love to hit the Ardmore Farmers’ Market to get sushi and to buy my wife flowers.

Sidebar: Yes, it is true, while I do come off as a total shithead at times; I frequently do nice things for the women in my life. It is something that has compelled and repelled woman at times, depending on what kind of a person they were. My ex-wife was someone who appreciated me doing those things for her, so I took genuine enjoyment in doing them.

I pull up to the Farmers’ Market without incident. I get out of the car. I am not dressed up especially Main Line-ish today. I have on a big insulated flannel, a pair of khaki pants, and my shitkicker black boots. As I walk through the parking lot, I wonder if the people who are viewing me think that I am a construction worker. I don’t care if they do. I am just here to get some sushi and some flowers and then I will be on my way.

I walk over to and through the far door, because of its proximity to the sushi stand, and take a good look around the place. This is definitely not your typical Farmers’ Market. It has some serious high-end stands. A gourmet pizza stand. An outrageously expensive cheese stand. It even has a local wine purveyor stand. It is the Main Line’s version of a Farmers’ Market. Yeah, these people don’t do anything normal or plebian.

I get to the sushi stand and order my Crazy Roll. They put it together, bag it up, and in less than 2 minutes I am on my way to the opposing side of the Market to get my flowers. The place is kind of dead due to the fact that it is 2pm. Definitely the way I like it. Nice and empty and not annoying at all. I am excited to get the flowers and put them in the new hanging vases that Katie has purchased. She is going to love it.

I arrive at the flower stand. There are three people in line in front of me. The guy right in front of me I guess is about 45. He is wearing a blue pin-stripe suit, has a dull expression on his face and looks to probably have the same mission as I do: buying flowers for the wife. The person in front of him is a lady about 28. She is wearing some jeans-sun dress combo and is tapping her foot, anxiously. The person in front of her is a woman probably around 50. She is wearing the typical Main Line gear for a woman her age. High-heel boots, tight jeans, a designer parka and about 95 lbs. of makeup.

Sidebar: Although the Main Line is typically an uppity place, I noticed that about a decade or so ago all of the thin, middle-aged started wearing winter outfits like they were just coming home from some imaginary ski resort out West. I am not exactly sure why but I would bet it has something to do with Deer Valley, Aspen and Vail being so fucking cool and chic.

This woman has nine bags at her feet while she talks on her cell phone. The girl behind the counter appears to be about 16 and has a look on her face like she would rather being trying to choke down some broken glass right now than be working this job.

I assume the woman is talking to someone on the phone about what nature of flowers to purchase. Then she turns around and leans up against the counter. She is laughing and talking to her friend, Kirsten, about their recently completed luncheon date and how she was dreading the memorial service at “Glad-A-Wyne” Methodist tomorrow. She goes on about how most people don’t even know how to find Glad-A-Wyne not to mention Glad-A-Wyne Methodist.

Sidebar: People from Gladwyne, especially the super-pretentious ones, slip this non-existent “A” in between the two syllables of “Gladwyne” for some reason.

The middle-aged woman continues to talk to her friend Kirsten about the memorial service with her back turned to the girl behind the counter. The girl behind the counter continues to look as if she was wishing she was anywhere else. The 28 year old lady continues to tap her foot, but has picked up the rhythm a bit. The dude in the suit continues to look not-so-bright.

I continue to be amazed at the Main Line, even after all of these years walking amongst these fuckers.

The middle-aged woman continues to talk without even showing a single hint of recognition that there are four people within five feet of her waiting for her to turn around and order some goddam flowers. It is obvious that no one else is going to say a word to her so, as usual; I am probably going to have to intervene. While she talks, I begin to examine my options.

I decide to give her about one more minute while I decide whether I want to play the nice, courteous guy or the abrupt, awful guy. Playing the first guy might nudge her on to do the right thing and purchase her flowers. Playing the second guy will accomplish the same goal, only quicker.

I decide to play the first guy and see how it goes. I say, “Excuse me, ma’am, but I believe you are next in line.” While I say this, I am pointing at the counter like maybe she needs directions to it. I don’t know, after the little I have observed of this woman, maybe she does.

Her reaction is terrific. She just stares at me and continues to talk on the phone. She is not really staring at me, but kind of staring through me. She is letting me know that she heard me and she will get off the phone when she is good and ready. I know now what must be done. I smile at her.

And then I say this, “Excuse me, ma’am, did you not hear me? You are next in line.” She continues her death stare. I look over to the dude in the suit and ask, “Are you fucking kidding me?” The guy won’t even make eye contact with me. I think to myself how the world is filled with so many fucking pansies.

I take a step closer to the woman, and I say, “Lady, get off of your phone, turn around and buy some flowers already. Don’t you even see the rest of us here in line?” She then says into the phone, “Pardon, Kirsten, but I will call you back shortly, some workman is in the Farmer’s Market is being rude to me.” She clicks her phone shut, turns to the girl at the counter and begins to order her flowers.

While her order is being prepared, the woman turns to me and says, “You know, it is people like you that are make it unbearable sometimes to be out in public.” I fucking love it. I wonder how I get so lucky sometimes to be face-to-face with idiots like this.

“People like whom, lady” She sighs, flips back her hair with her hand, and says, “People like you. People who don’t belong here.” “People who don’t belong where?” “Out here, on the Main Line,” she replies and turns back around to the counter.

“Lady, where do you think I am from?” She turns back around, looks me up and down, “Obviously not from around here. If I had to guess I would say somewhere in Delaware County.”

Sidebar: Delaware County is next to the Main Line. Like Ardmore, it is typically blue-collar but if it were situated anywhere else, it would be considered a very nice place to live in its own right. It is not destitute or poverty-stricken but Main Liners consider it in bad taste to live there.

“What is wrong with being from Delaware County?” “Nothing, I suppose, you people are just different and often times rude.” “So it was rude of me to ask you to get off of your phone and order your flowers so that the rest of us could get on with our meager lives?” “You didn’t ask nicely.” “I did at first, but you chose to give me an intimidating stare. I didn’t get rude until you made it clear that you don’t respond to polite conversation and I had to assume other tactics. It worked, though, and that is all that really matters to me.” “I am done with this conversation.” “Probably a good idea. I notice most morons like to end conversations when they finally figure out they are wrong.”

“Did you just call me a moron?” “Yes, I did. I guess you managed to hear me when I said that.” “HOW DARE YOU! I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU THINK YOU ARE BUT YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHO YOU ARE ADDRESSING!” “Sure I do. You are Kirsten’s chichi friend from Glad-A-Wyne.” “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY!?!” “Oh, sorry, am I using words that you don’t understand? Forgive me. ‘Chichi’ means ‘snobby’ or ‘hoity-toity’” I KNOW WHAT ‘CHICHI’ MEANS!” “I am sure that you do, you embody the word.”

I look at the other three people around me. The girl behind the counter has a lock of shock. The young foot-tapper lady has a look of amusement. The dude in the suit has a look like he just wants to get the hell out of here.

“I HAVE NEVER IN MY WHOLE LIFE! I AM GOING TO CALL MY HUSBAND!” “Go ahead call him, I am sure he will want to shake my hand or maybe even take me out drinking for having the balls to talk to you like he has never been able. By the way, your flowers are ready. Could you please pay and then call your husband? I am kind of in a hurry now that you wasted so much of my time.” “UGH! I CAN’T STAND BEING AROUND PEOPLE LIKE YOU!”

I figure now is probably a good time to let her know what a true twit she really is. “By the way, if any of your CHICHI friends need to know how to get to Glad-A-Wyne Methodist, I’ll give you my cell and you can have them call me for directions. I forgot to tell you that I grew up in Glad-A-Wyne. My parents still live there. Glad-A-Wyne Methodist is practically in their backyard. I know it is probably going to make you sick to your stomach to hear this, but guess what? We’re neighbors. Maybe I will see you at the Guard House sometime. You can introduce me to your husband and he can buy me that drink.”

Sidebar: The Guard House Inn is the lone restaurant in Gladwyne. It is considered the place to be seen due to the fact that it is the only place to be seen. That being said, it is a great restaurant and I have had many fantastic dinners there with my parents. The Guard House is one of the few things, now that my parents have moved, that would draw me back into that town.

At this point, the woman can barely breathe, nonetheless speak. She is just kind of stammering and blinking her eyes. I think that I might have gone too far this time. Have I finally made someone so angry that an ambulance will have to be summoned? Then, she picks up her flowers, and her nine bags, and begins to storm towards the door. As she is walking away, I say, “You probably imagined a different outcome there, huh?” I can’t help myself.

That makes her stop in her tracks. I think, “Christ, this lady is going to fall over and die from rage.” I begin to wonder if there will be legal ramifications for me. What would those charges even be? Verbal Assault? Argumentative Manslaughter?

The woman turns around one last time and screams, “ASSHOLE!!!!!” She then stomps her way out of the Market. Everyone in the place is looking at me. I am not sure if it because they know she was yelling at me or if it because I am the only person laughing hysterically trying not to spill his sushi all over the ground.

After about 20 uncomfortable seconds, I get my bearings. Most people have moved about their business but the three people who started with me on this journey (the girl behind the counter, the foot tapper lady, and the dude in the suit) are all still kind of in shock.

I look up at the foot-tapper and say, “Excuse me, ma’am, but I believe you are next in line.”

Everyone has a gift. One of my gifts has always been getting the upper hand in confrontational conversations. I just hardly ever lose. That is not me being cocky, that is me being an accurate presenter of the facts.

I have gotten into many verbal altercations like that one but that was by far the most rewarding. You can call me an asshole or immature, but even to this day, I enjoy taking people who believe they are better than everyone else and making them look like a fool. Especially uptight dopes and pretentious elitists who think that the Main Line is anymore significant than anywhere else.

It actually is a very special place for me. Growing up there with my family and friends is an aspect of my life that makes me feel very lucky. Never truly fitting in after living and working there for so long is something that I feel has shaped me into the person that I am. Whether that is a good or a bad thing, I think the jury is still out on that.

This took place in April 1993.

Often I look in the mirror and I am amazed. It is not what you think, though. I am not amazed about how young I still look at the ripe old age of 34. (I got carded just yesterday at a bar.) I am not amazed at how I am finally happy with the way that I look after losing almost 40 lbs. (Although I think that it is a great thing.) Nope. Those two things don’t impress half as much as the fact that, despite spending my entire 20s making bad decisions and unconsciously trying to self-destruct, I am still alive.

When I harken back to some of the episodes of my life, I sometimes think to myself, “What in the fuck were you thinking?” I know the answer. I wasn’t thinking. I was just acting like an idiot. I began this string of idiocy in my first year of college.

During my freshman year in college, I joined the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity. Before you judge me on that you should know some things.

First, all of my friends were joining and I was hearing all of these horror stories about how a bunch of guys would join a fraternity and one of their buddies wouldn’t and although everyone was like, “Dude, fuck it, we’ll still be friends,” it never happened that way. The one buddy was lost to the rest of his friends and was forced to join the Chess Club or something just to have some level of basic companionship. I know the fundamentals of chess but I am not even remotely skilled enough at the game to join any Chess Club. I couldn’t even be the towel boy for the Chess Club.

Second, I got initiated into the fraternity under false pretenses. The Brothers of Pi Kappa Alpha were holding interviews in my freshman dorm room because my roommate was already planning on joining and we had the corner (largest) room. I was hanging out in my next door neighbor’s room drinking beer and we ran out. I needed to get into my room (where the rest of the beer was). So I went to the door and started kicking it. They opened the door; I barged into the middle of the interview, drunkenly apologized and told them that I needed to get more beers out of my mini-fridge. The one Brother told me he liked my style and asked me why I wasn’t being interviewed. I told him that, even though my father had been a Pi Kappa Alpha at University of Delaware, I didn’t see myself as much of a fraternity type of guy. He informed that since my father was a PIKE (as we are known) that I was a “legacy” and thus entitled to an automatic bid. Even at the young age of 18, I was already aware of my propensity for changing my mind at the drop of a hat. And so I said to him, “Fuck it, man, give me a bid then.” I did get a bid. I did go back on my word. I did join the fraternity. It wasn’t until a year after I was initiated that I learned that my father was a Kappa Alpha at Delaware, not a Pi Kappa Alpha. But by then I was in the fraternity already, so what the hell did it matter?

Third, I was the worst fucking fraternity Brother of all-time. I never paid my dues. I never did “sober committee.” (Yeah, right, I didn’t join the fraternity to be sober, even for a night.) I rarely did community service. I almost never attended weekly meetings. I was, however, excellent at making the right friends. For instance, I knew that being good buddies with the Treasurer of the fraternity might come in handy. It helped that my best friends were in charge of the fraternity for two straight years and that my core group of friends were also the core of the fraternity. Hence, any attempts to throw old Josh out of Pi Kappa Alpha were always squashed before they were allowed to gain any momentum. And so, I spent four years as the self-proclaimed “Worst Fraternity Brother Ever.” It was a title I was, and still am, very proud to hold.

Fourth, the only way I managed to get through pledging, (Yes, I was also the “Worst Pledge Ever”) was the fact that out of 27 pledges, I was the only one who had his own car. (That is not true. DaMan had one the entire time but successfully managed to hide it from the brothers. At the time, I fucking hated him for it, but I also had to respect it a little. I wish I had thought of it.) Being the only pledge with a car appointed me as the chauffeur for about 70 guys. This meant that at any given time, any given place, I could get a call and would have to go pick up a Brother for various reasons. All semester long I was called upon to drive various guys to different locations near and far. I drove them to downtown Philadelphia, to their girlfriends’ colleges, and one time, I was even woken up at 3am and drove a guy to 7-11 who lived a mere three blocks away from the store. I escorted everyone everywhere at any time. It was kind of annoying but at least it gave me a good excuse to do one of the things I did best: find ways not to study.

As you can imagine, being the on-call chauffeur for most of the semester sometimes conflicted with my other on-call position: being the guy who you could call who was ever-ready to go out and get fucked-up. As with most things, I was usually smart about it and would employ tactics like hiding or not answering my phone when I was busy getting trashed. One time, however, simultaneously being the on-call chauffeur and on-call drinking buddy almost got me into a shitload of trouble.

Here is what happened.

I hate the fucking cafeteria. Walking in here everyday is easily the worst thing about this school. Coming through the door, passing by all of the idiots asking me why I wasn’t in class yet again today is a most unfavorable routine. You would think they would get sick of asking me. They all know the answer. I overslept, geniuses, the same as all of the other times you inquired.

Walking into the food court also ranks highly with my least favorite daily tasks. There is not what you would call a wide variety of great choices in here. Everything is just absolutely unhealthy. Not that I am health-conscious or anything, I would just like option to eat a good meal. Plus, eating all of this sound cuisine has made my clothes a bit tighter.

I get the quotidian dish and move towards the seating area of the cafeteria. This is one place that I would love to casually stroll into, pull the pins on about a dozen hand grenades, casually toss them around, and make a quick exit. All of the different cliques and collection of clowns make this the protypical college cafeteria. Everyone is sectioned and quarantined into a specific territory with invisible borders. It is a big fucking joke. But, hey, who in the hell I am to judge? I am a Pledge in a fraternity, for Christ’s sake.

I walk towards the Pi Kappa Alpha vector and it is vacant. Not hard to believe since most of the Brothers and other Pledges probably were behaving like normal college students and didn’t wait until 2pm to eat lunch. Everyone in the school knows that is where my fraternity sits and I just feel like it would be kind of strange and pathetic if I was sitting there alone, the only one representing. So as not to draw unwanted attention to myself, I sit about three tables over and two down from my usual spot.

I begin to eat my delicious meal. I am glad that it is Friday. I haven’t had a particularly difficult week due to the fact that college is much easier when you don’t go to half the classes. I think back to last night. I am fuzzy about some of the details, but I remember all of the important people and places. I am pretty sure that “Tata” and I were asked to out-drink some Brothers and we dutifully obliged.

Sidebar: My buddy Tata and I were machines in college. We could drink as much as anyone and, together, we made a formidable drinking team in just about any arena of college debauchery to which anyone would be foolish enough to challenge us. It made the Brothers furious to no end that Tata and I would just keep drinking and just keep going.

As I am trying to piece together a timeline from last night, “Jake” and “Drama” come into the cafeteria. They see me sitting in my odd locale, walk over to me. Jake asks, “Dude, what the fuck are you doing eating over here?” I say, “I don’t know, I didn’t want to look like some lonely frat-boy jerkwad eating by myself over at the fraternity table so I decided to sit here.” Drama then says, “Man, you look like shit.” I thank him for saying so and tell him that I think he looks terrific. They both sit down and ask me my plans for the rest of the day. I reply that since I missed all of my classes today I have no idea what my assignments for the next class will be and so my schedule is pretty much wide open. Plus, it is Friday, and since I don’t normally do schoolwork when I have classes the next day, I am not about to embark on some Friday night study-bender. Jake then asks me if I have anything to smoke pot out of because he just got some. I tell him that I don’t have anything to smoke out of but I can make a pipe out of one of the 40 or so beer cans I saw strewn across my room when I woke up today. The three of us head back to my room.

We get back to my room and, thankfully, “Leepay”, my roommate, has straightened up a bit so it is not a complete fucking mess. It is just a little bit of a mess. I fish one of the beer cans out of the trash and take it to the bathroom to wash it out and make it ready to transform into a pot-smoking apparatus. I return from the bathroom, put on some tunes and proceed to pot-proof the room. I grab my towel off of the hook and stuff it at the base of the door so that the smoke will not waft out into the hallway. I light up some incense, open the window, and position my fan to blow right out of it.

I then sit down with the can in one hand and a BIC pen in the other. I crush the can a little bit, turning it into a little half-moon. I then proceed to punch a series of holes in the indentation of the half-moon. Lastly, I punch a hole near the bottom of the can to make what we potheads call a “shotgun.”

Sidebar: For all of you kids out there, I have just taught you one of the most valuable skills that you will need in college. Unless you don’t smoke pot. In that case, I don’t have much wisdom to impart to you in preparation for college. Good luck with that.

I place some of the pot on the series of holes, put my finger over the shotgun, place my mouth over the mouth of the can, light the pot, and begin to smoke. I take my hit and pass it to Drama. He passes it to Jake. This continues for a few more minutes until we are all properly stoned.

I jump up from my chair and begin to search through my CDs to find some good tunes to play.

Sidebar: I was, and am still to this day, one of those guys who think he can find the perfect music for any situation. I have been known to hush everyone during what I deem “the best part” of the song, turn the music down and discuss the meaning of obscure lyrics, and generally annoy everyone around me with useless, random trivia about whatever band happens to be playing. Yeah, I am that guy.

As I am searching for that “perfect song”, the phone starts to ring. I ignore it. Ten seconds later, it begins to ring anew. Again, I choose to ignore it. I imagine that is probably someone that I don’t wish to speak with right now. Jake asks me if I am going to answer it. I tell him absolutely not. For the next five minutes, the phone continues to ring. Someone is obviously trying to get in touch with me. Drama looks at me and says, “Whoever is calling you is obviously very determined to get you on the phone.” I reply that the person who keeps calling my phone is going to get a lesson in what real determination is. I am not picking up that fucking phone.

Eventually, the phone stops ringing and the three of us go back to listening to music and conversing. Then there is a loud knocking on my door. The three of us scramble. The pot and the bowl/can are moved into a drawer. We start looking around for any evidence that might incriminate us. The room is half-filled with things that could easily get us kicked out of the dorms forever but we get it to resemble a normal dorm room in about 30 seconds.

I walk to the door and ask, “Who is it?” The voice behind the door says, “Josh, it is Werner. (He was one of the younger Brothers who lived in my building.) ‘Sullivan’ called from the Fieldhouse. He is super-pissed. You were supposed to pick him up 15 minutes ago to take him to 30th Street Station.” All of a sudden, some forgotten events from last night come rushing back into my brain. I had told Sullivan that I would drive him to the train station after the fraternity softball game. He told me that I better show up and not forget. I told him not to worry about it. I would be there.

Sidebar: Sullivan was probably one of the scariest guys in the fraternity. He came from a long line of Brooklyn cops and was planning on becoming one himself after he graduated that year. He was one of probably five guys in the fraternity who didn’t smoke pot. He had this thick Brooklyn accent and I once saw him punch a guy in the face and knock him out cold. Just one punch. Nobody fucked with that guy.

Now I am in a full-blown panic. What in the hell am I going to do? I am way too stoned to drive him. I turn to Jake and Drama and ask for suggestions. Jake says he is OK to drive. I quickly throw him the keys. We sprint out of the building, get in my car, and take off for the Fieldhouse.

On the two-minute ride down to pick up Sullivan we concoct a story to explain why Jake is driving my car and I am riding shotgun. We decide to tell him this: Jake has never driven a Mercedes before and we were hanging out right before I was leaving to go pick Sullivan up at the Fieldhouse. Jake asked me if he could drive my car and I obliged. In our current state, this seems like the quick-thinking of three geniuses. We are very impressed with ourselves.

Sidebar: I did have a Mercedes 300D in college. My father handed it down to me and it was my first car. The license plate read MACC. If you happen to run into any of my college buddies, each and every one of them will have some crazy story that happened in “The MACCmobile.”

We pull into the Fieldhouse parking lot and Sullivan is standing there waiting. He doesn’t look happy at all. Jake pulls up beside him. Sullivan opens up the door, peaks his head in, and says, “Hey, fellas, thanks for fawkin’ showin’ up. How in da fawk do I open yaw fawkin’ trunk, asshole?” I jump out of the front seat, run to the back of the car, open the trunk and he throws his bag into it. I close the trunk and go to get back into the front seat of the car. The whole time I avoid making eye contact with him because I am convinced that if he looks me in the eyes, he is going to know that I am stoned and kill me. Or something worse.

Sullivan climbs into the backseat next to Drama. He then says, “Wait a minute, Lejeune, I thought this was yaw fawkin’ car.” Jake speaks up and feeds him our story. Sullivan says, “I swear to Gawd, you fawkin’ pledges are so sweet to each otha.” The three of us start laughing. A bit too loud. Sullivan says, “Calm down, you fawkin’ weirdoes, it wasn’t that funny.” He is absolutely right. It isn’t that funny. But between the nervousness and the fact that we are stoned, we are ready to laugh at just about anything he says.

We head down City Line Avenue and get onto the Schuylkill Expressway. We are asking him questions about the softball game, trying to keep him talking so that we have to say as little as possible. Unfortunately, about halfway there, we run out of things to talk about and the car is enveloped in awkward silence.

The tension is building. We, being stoned, are paranoid about this guy finding out that we are high. He is probably thinking to himself that we are three strange motherfuckers. We drive like this for about three minutes. The tension is fucking kill me.

I look at the window and suddenly realize something. Jake is driving my car way too fast. Everything outside the car is getting left behind in a hazy blur. I begin to turn and tell him to slow down.

Before I can say anything, Sullivan speaks up from the backseat, “Hey, Jake, how about it?” Jake says, “How about what?” Sullivan replies, “How about this is the fawkin’ highway and I think it is OK if you go faster than 35 miles per fawkin’ hour. Pick up the pace, fucka.” I immediately look down at the speedometer. He is right. We are going 35 miles per hour on the highway. The hazy blur that I saw was not us speeding past cars. It was all of the cars speeding by us. I think that was some really good pot that we smoked.

Jake also looks down at the speedometer, and then says, “Oh, shit, man, you’re right. I don’t know why I was going so slowly.” He pushes down on the gas and gets the car up to the proper speed. Now I feel like we are going like supersonic fast.

We are all looking straight forward and not talking. I look over at Jake and he looks like he is ready to fucking erupt in laughter. After I see this, I can’t help it. I burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter. Jake does, too. And when we both hear Drama laughing from the backseat and we all start to lose it.

We laugh the rest of the five minutes down to 30th Street Station. Sullivan keeps saying things like, “Yeah, real fawkin’ funny, assholes,” and, “What the fawk is wrong with you guys?” This only makes us laugh harder.

We pull up to the station and Sullivan gets out. He asks me how to get my trunk open. I tell him to just push the button and it will pop open. He closes the door and the three of us start laughing even louder. We think we have dodged a tremendous bullet. I look over at Jake, and Sullivan is right outside his window, tapping on the glass, and motioning for Jake to roll the window down. He rolls it down and Sullivan says, “I don’t know what the fawk you pledges are on but the next time I need a fawkin’ ride somewhere, you had better come fawkin’ sober, you fawkin’ idiots.” We watch him in silence as he walks through the doors of the train station.

And then we spent the next fifteen minutes, laughing our asses off and trying to catch our breath on the drive back to school.

This was one of many stories that happened in that old car. I am sure my parents, if they ever read this, will be so pleased to hear about how I abused both the education and car that they provided me. I would just like to issue a public apology here and now and let everyone know that I have the most patient and loving parents in the world. Your parents suck compared to mine. True story.

As I stated before, I do feel very lucky to be alive because I took chances like that all of the time. That is not even the worst one. Not even close.

I look down at the paper where I had been writing their orders.

It is smudged and illegible.

I think it might have something to do with the two inches of rain water in my apron pockets.

This took place in June 2008.

Some people just don’t get it. It seems that no matter how much I try to change my opinion about the human race, there is always some event that occurs that makes me go back to thinking that most people on this planet are just dense. It is like trying to climb a mountain and once you get to a certain, attainable height, you get bum-rushed by a bunch of imbeciles who pick you up and transport you back down to the bottom where everyone is just witless.

Unfortunately for me, my particular talents lend themselves to the service industry. At the time I am writing this, I am currently a waiter. (However, you can trust me on the fact that I ran into just as many simpletons when I was a restaurant manager.) Waiting on tables is hardly ever boring due to the fact that no shift is quite like the other. Sure, you have your standard themes: unsatisfied customers, bad tippers, underage people trying to order drinks, etc. But each and every one of them is a unique experience unto itself. Unsatisfied customers aren’t always upset about the same thing. Bad tippers don’t all tip poorly for the same reasons. Underage people trying to get served alcohol always find different and strange ways to get caught.

But there is always one constant that will never change from one shift to the next. There are always going to be those people that you serve that will make you wonder if the whole human race shouldn’t just collectively throw up their hands and give up on each other. The other day, I had a fundamental example of just such a table.

Here is what happened.

It is Friday. I am in the middle of my double shift and all I want to do is get the hell out of here. I may need the money but I couldn’t care less right now.

Sidebar: It is one of the most puzzling things about people who wait on tables, me included. I could be flat broke with a million dollars in bills to pay, but if I am presented with the opportunity to be sent home, I will find a way to rationalize it in my head so that I will feel just fine about leaving my shift early. I am very gifted at talking myself into things. A little too gifted, sometimes.

I am working on the side patio section of the restaurant with my friend “DJ”. I picked this section tonight so that I could make some money. But then the clouds came rolling in and it started to look like rain. So it came down to me and “DJ” to decide who would move to the inside station and who would stay out here and take their chances with the rain. The night hasn’t been busy thus far, so I am thinking that it won’t matter anyway. Luckily for me, DJ decides that she is going move to the inside station so that at least she can make a little money before being sent home. I am confident in the fact that it is going to rain and am already making plans for my Friday evening.

But the clouds keep coming and going. At times, the wind picks up and the skies gets dark and I think that the night will be over very quickly. Other times, the sun peeks out from behind the clouds and I feel doomed to another five hours of waiting on tables. It goes on like this for about 45 minutes. I can’t describe how much I fucking hate it. I won’t even try.

In the meantime, I get a table of seven people. I walk up to them, greet them, and discover that they are the same group that I have waited on two different times this week. I am not happy about it at all. Both times, I have provided excellent service for these shitheads and both times they have left me a 10% percent tip.

Sidebar: Listen up. If you go out to a restaurant and you don’t tip well, don’t go back. You are going to get awful service. Unless I am your waiter and then you will get the same great service all of the time because I can’t reconcile giving bad service due to the fact that I have just spent the last five years of my life beating into waiters’ heads that there is no excuse for bad service ever.

So, now I am waiting on these people again. The group is made up of three ladies in their 50s, one elderly lady probably in her 70s, a couple in the early 40s and their baby who is positively the most miserable toddler that I have ever come into contact in all of my years waiting on tables. The last two times I waited on these people, the kid was an absolute nightmare. Screaming the whole time, taking the sugar packets and hurling them around the room like some kind of lunatic. He was an absolute joy.

During this time, I get another table. It is two couples in their 40s. They are from Bogotá, Colombia. I know this because for some reason they have little plastic nametags clipped to their shirts that display this information. I am not happy about this, either, because they are foreigners.

Sidebar: Before this blog blows up because of that last comment, let me clarify something. People from other countries tip like shit. It is not their fault. The U.S. is one of the few countries in the world where waiters work strictly for tips and gratuities. In other countries, a tip is considered very generous and only appropriate after receiving exceptional service. Unfortunately for all of us that make a living this way, most travel guides about the U.S. still provide the information that 10%-15% is a generous tip. What a bunch of bullshit, huh?

Now I have two tables. I am not pleased about having either of them but I am trying to cheer myself up with the prospect of a thunderstorm. Gauging by the darkness of the sky, my chances of getting out of here are looking good. Once the storm descends upon us, the tables will move inside, I will transfer them to another server, and then I will leave.

My tables order their drinks and their food. Several minutes later, they are all enjoying some cocktails with appetizers in front of them. They are all really happy. I do not share their happiness. I go inside to the bar to retrieve one of the lady’s Mandarin Cosmopolitans.

And then I hear the blessed words from my manager, “Kyle”. “Hey, it is pouring outside, let’s get out there and clear out the side patio.” I spring into action. As I rush out, I am thinking of how both tables will move inside, and I will be out of there in the next half an hour. My mood is suddenly on a tremendous upswing.

I get outside and it is pouring rain. I run to the table with the Colombians. They are ready to move inside. I pick up their drinks and hurriedly rush them into the restaurant. I place them in the capable hands of the host and turn around to go get the bad tipper table.

I walk up to them and ask, “So what do you think? Are you going to stay out here or can I take you inside?” At this point, the rain is coming down at a pretty good clip. They are all under the safety of an umbrella. If their group was smaller, I might be able to step underneath while I wait for them to make their decision. Instead, I am outside the protection of the umbrella, in the rain. I can feel my shirt starting to get a little heavier from the water that my shirt has already absorbed. Then, one of the ladies looks up to me and says, “You know what? I think we are going to take our chances out here, OK?” I smile and say, “Absolutely.” I walk back to the waiter station where thankfully there is another umbrella set up.

Once under my umbrella, I start to wonder if these people are really going to make me wait on them. It is raining pretty hard now and this seems like a bit much. Yes, they are lousy tippers but that doesn’t automatically brand them lousy people, right? Has the thought that I might be a bit uncomfortable serving them in the rain even entered into their brain? I look over to the table. They are summoning me. I trudge back over to them.

“Hey, we were wondering if you could take one of these other umbrellas and move it closer because we are starting to get wet.” (No shit, genius. It is called a storm. One of the essential factors that will always be present during one of these storms is mass amounts of water falling out of the sky.) That is what I want to say. Instead, I say, “Absolutely.”

I walk over to the nearest umbrella and start to move it towards their table with my feet. (That is really the only way to move those things; I am not doing it out of anger.) I get in nice and close. I ask them if that is better. They tell me yes, and they would like to order more drinks. I pull out my pen and my pad. I look down at the paper where I had been writing their orders. It is smudged and illegible. I think it might have something to do with the two inches of rain water in my apron pockets.

I can’t write their order down so I am just going to have to remember what they are ordering. Not a problem. I am smarter than the average bear. Three of the ladies order Yuengling.

Sidebar: For people who are not from Philadelphia, it is such a treat for them to order Yuengling. It is a local beer and you can’t get it in many parts of the country. I have been known to refer to it as “low-grade swill.”

There is one lady who is not sure what she wants. Even though I have moved the auxiliary umbrella over, there is still no room for me underneath because they have spread their stuff out beneath it. I am still situated directly in the path of thousands of raindrops.

Does she want a Mandarin Cosmopolitan? Or a Ruby Red Cosmopolitan? She can’t decide. She and her friends are tickled with themselves as they weigh the pros and cons of the two flavors. I start to feel raindrops running down my legs underneath my pants.

She finally makes up her mind. I go to the bar to get her Ruby Red Cosmopolitan. I walk through the front door. One elderly lady, sitting on a bench waiting for a table, looks at me and says, “Are those people really making you serve them in this storm?” I smile at her and say, “You betcha.”

I get up to the service area of the bar. “Beehotch”, the bartender, takes a look at me, sees that I am soaked from head to toe and proceeds to laugh in my face for about ten seconds. I smile back at him and patiently wait for my drink. How can I blame him for laughing at me? He makes my drink. I take it out to the fucking lady.

When I drop it off, the youngest lady at the table takes a look at me and says, “Maybe we didn’t make the right decision by staying out here after all.” And then she laughs. And then the rest of them start to laugh. I pretend to laugh with them but I am really laughing because I have begun to scheme about how I am going to kill each and every last person at this table. Except maybe the kid. It’s not his fault. Although, he is one of those kids who alternates between screaming and whining. That will have to be a game-time decision.

I go find my manager Suzi and give her my cell phone, iPod, and wallet because I know these things will be destroyed if I keep walking around with them in the rain. She also thinks that I look funny when I am covered head-to-toe in water. I know she thinks this by the way she subtlety points at me and laughs.

Now I have to start the process of cleaning up the tables and the server station. I slosh back out into the rain. I run from table to table with a tray. I put all of the salt and pepper shakers and sugar caddies on the tray and run them back to the server station. It is raining harder than ever. I get back to the server station and check out the items I have recovered. The salt and pepper shakers are OK. The sugar caddies are a mess. All of the packets of Sweet N Low, Sugar In The Raw, etc. are stuck together. They are useless.

I begin to pack up the server station. I organize the glass rack, buspan, silverware caddy, etc. I try to consolidate everything the best that I can so that I have to make as few trips up and down the backstairs that lead to the kitchen. I manage to combine everything together so that I will only have to make two trips. I grab the first load and begin to sprint toward the back steps. As I run pass the bad tipper table, they wave me down to stop me. They notify me that they are thinking about maybe having dessert but they are not sure since the rain has picked up and the two umbrellas are no longer cloaking them from the rain. They discuss amongst themselves for about a minute. For the entire minute, I am standing there with a full buspan. I am a pretty strong guy but the goddam thing is heavy. Not to mention that I am carrying at least ten extra pounds at this point due to all of the rainwater that my clothes have warmly accepted into their very fabric. I am extremely unhappy with these fucking people.

They tell me they will let me know about dessert. They haven’t made up their mind. I tell them to take their time, no hurry. I dart from their table and head towards the stairs. On my way down the stairs I think that this situation is still kind of funny but slowly crossing the border of annoyance.

I get to the bottom of the stairs and there are about five of my co-workers standing there. They are clapping and laughing. I smile at them. And then I politely ask all of them to go straight to hell.

I drop the buspan down on the counter. Take a deep breath and run back up the stairs into the monsoon. I can now hear my socks squishing each and every time my foot comes in contact with the ground.

The bad tippers once again wave for me to come over. They have made a decision. They are going to have dessert. They are not all done their dinners yet, but they thought they would let me know, for my convenience. I guess they assumed that I might have other things to do. Like maybe there was an outside chance that I wanted to get the fuck out of the rain. I am sure this hasn’t crossed their minds for one reason: These people are blatant idiots. I smile at them, tell them to let me know when they are ready to order and I will paddle a canoe over to their table.

Sidebar: I actually did say that. And they actually did laugh. I am not sure if I could have dropped a bigger hint. They were totally oblivious. Are you surprised? This seems like a good time to mention something about the food service business. After 15 years in this industry, I can honestly and accurately tell you all one simple truth: 99% of individuals who work in the front-of-the-house operations in an establishment that serves food think that most people uncontrollably and undeniably suck ass. It is a very true story. I have always found it ironic that this is the case. It is the same way at every restaurant and country club where I have worked over the years. The next time you go out to eat you should think about the fact that every time your server goes into the kitchen, they are unquestionably making fun of something that you said, something that you are wearing, etc. Think about it.

I go and grab the last load of items from the server station. It is a glass rack with a bunch of other items balanced precariously on top of it. I dash towards the stairs and descend into the basement. Once again, there is a crowd there ready to greet me and encourage/ridicule me. This time, however, people are actually asking if I need any help. I guess I now look pathetic enough to make my co-workers feel sorry for me. Granted, they are still laughing, but only in between their extensions of assistance.

Sidebar: On the other hand, as much as front-of-the-house staffers are prone to the most callous acts of insensitivity, there is a point (i.e. someone falling down a flight of stairs) where all of the jokes and cynicism will disappear and they reveal themselves as honest-to-goodness human beings. The truth is that we do care about people. However, we will only show it when bodily harm ensues or, as in my case that night, something so pathetic transpires it makes no sense to make fun of the situation because it is just so easy, so obvious.

I thank all of my co-workers for their offers but I assure them that most everything is already done and there is no need for all of us to look like they were just dredged from the bottom of a river. Once again, I hasten up the stairs only to find that it is raining even harder than when I went down. Also, just because the gods absolutely love to fuck with me, I hear thunder. And then I see a flash of lightning.

I go over to the bad tippers. They are giggling at the thunder and lightning because they are so impressed with themselves that they have lasted this long. They alert me that they now wish to move inside the restaurant to enjoy their dessert that they have yet to order. I guess that they are comfortable with the sight of me getting completely saturated but the thought of me being flash-fried alive by a bolt of lightning while taking their dessert order is where they draw the line. I tell them that I will be more than happy to move them inside. It is the first time I have not had to lie to them in about a half an hour. I am truly more than happy to move them inside the restaurant. I would go so far as to say that I am thrilled about it.

The man at the table observes that it is raining way too hard now for them to simply walk to the doors of the restaurant. He explains to me that the elderly lady at the table can’t move like she used to so she will need some assistance up the ramp. He tells me they will require an umbrella because they didn’t bring one. I stare at him blankly for a second. And then I realize that he is asking me to fetch an umbrella. I tell him I will go find one and walk away from the table and up the ramp to the entrance. I vow to myself that he will be the first one to die.

I get into the lobby and there are umbrellas everywhere. They are customers’ umbrellas who have left them strewn around the lobby floor, which is marble tile. I walk through the doors rather quickly, slip on the now-wet marble tile and almost fall on top of this pudgy old man. Luckily, I am able to get my hands above him and brace myself on the wall. He then pushes me with much gusto and says, “Watch where you are going.” I don’t even have enough left in me at this point to say something nice, not to mention something clever and underhanded. I just walk away and continue my quest to find an umbrella for the bad tippers.

I find one lying on the floor, pick it up, and scurry out the door. I get back to the gentleman who requested it and try to hand it to him. He asks me if I could walk the elderly lady up the ramp to the back door. I say, “No problem at all,” smiling at him the whole time. I escort the elderly lady up the ramp and make sure that she gets in the back door without incident. I walk back down the ramp and one of the other ladies is there smiling and looking at me anxiously. I realize that she wants an escort up the ramp as well. I oblige her. I end up walking all seven of these goddam idiots up the ramp, including the gentleman, and not one of them thanks me. Once I get them all inside, I walk to the back of the restaurant and try futilely to smoke two cigarettes in the rain.

I head back down the stairs to the back server station inside the restaurant. The side patio station is taken care of and I have put everything away that I needed to, I think. At this point, though, I really don’t care. I take inventory of myself. I am waterlogged. Soaked through and through. There is literally not one part of my body that doesn’t feel totally sodden.

I have Kyle run my report, hand my soggy money over to him, and begin to leave. I make it a point to walk by the bad tippers at their new completely dry table on my way out to say goodbye. I give them some markers that the wonderful little boy left outside when they made their departure. They barely acknowledge me as they shovel dessert into their faces. I think to myself that their gratitude makes this whole situation worthwhile.

This was not the worst table that I have ever served. They were not even the rudest. But they were the quintessential example of how fucking aloof people are nowadays. Maybe “aloof” is not the right word, but I would hate to employ an overused word like “ignorant” because that has much deeper implications. I don’t believe them to be truly ignorant because then I would be admitting that they I think they don’t know any better which would redeem them in some small way. And there is no way that they I would ever want anyone to think that there is anything redeemable about people such as those bad tippers.

Those people were like so many who currently walk around among us, who are so self-centered and absorbed with themselves that they fail to recognize that their actions may be negatively affecting other people. There are far too many people like this whom I meet on a daily basis and not just waiting on tables. They are everywhere. And I, for one, think that each and every one of these bastards should befall some serious payback. Hopefully, this payback will involve getting caught out in the rain or maybe even getting struck by a tiny bolt of lightning. Not enough to kill them. Just enough to teach them a little human compassion. Ah, fuck it, they probably wouldn’t get it anyway.

Finally, just so to show everyone that these people were truly horrible, (if it is possible that I haven’t made it clear to some of you) their final bill ended up being $167.89. They left me $20. If you don’t understand why that it a bad tip, don’t ever go out to eat ever again. I am serious.

He doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t even seem remotely amused.

He is definitely Canadian.

This took place in August 1997.

It seems that everywhere I go; I can manage to find someone to piss off. It’s true. About ten years ago, I discovered that I not only have the innate ability to enrage that good people of this country, but I can take this gift across the Atlantic Ocean and share it with the good people of other countries.

I went on the cliché trip around Europe with four of my friends: “Drama”, “Jake”, “Theo” and “Clint”. We were not your typical group of young Americans backpacking through the countryside. We were on a mission.

That mission was to get as fucked up as humanly possible, see some of the sights and then proceed to not be able to recall them the next morning. It worked. For example, I don’t remember much of anything after smoking a gigantic joint with Clint and going to the Rembrandt Museum in Amsterdam. Except that Clint got thrown out. A first, even for him.

Sidebar: Clint is one of those guys who used to make me look like an absolute choir boy. Back in the day, he was a constant source of entertainment. Like when you cringe right before the moment in a movie or television show when you know the character on the screen is about to say or do something embarrassing. You had to have a very strong stomach to spend nights out with him. I am happy to say that he is now a well-adjusted family man.

We were not your typical “Ugly Americans”, though. We had a sense of decorum about us. We basically just wanted to slip through the continent while trying our best to kill ourselves with a steady diet of drugs and alcohol. That wasn’t too much to ask was it?

Most of the time, we were able to do just that. Other times, being the loud and outspoken group that we were, it wasn’t so easy. One particular night in Amsterdam, it was impossible.

Here is what happened.

We have been drinking now for about 16 hours. Theo has gone back to the hotel to get some sleep. The rest of us are not tired. I have no idea why. We find a nice little pub and sit down at the bar.

We order some beers and some shots. I open up the conversation by telling Clint that I think he is probably going to get us killed in this city. He has been like a kid in a candy shop since we got here. And it just happens that all of his vices tend to lead us into the shadiest parts of town to associate with the fucking dregs of society. He doesn’t seem too concerned with my thoughts on the matter. I drop it.

Sidebar: I always know when someone is truly my friend by one repeating pattern: they learn to ignore my ranting and raving when they know I am just talking to hear myself talk. Other people can’t tell the difference. I guess after listening to countless hours of me prattling on and on about this thing pisses me off and that thing that infuriates me, my real friends learn to decipher what is truly worth commenting on and what is just idiotic banter.

We are sitting at the bar, talking idly about where we have been so far, where we are going. Recapping some of the mayhem that has already taken place. A couple of well-dressed guys sit next to us at the bar. They are German. Drama is fluent in German and starts talking to them for a little bit. Another group of guys come in and sit down to the other side of us. Right next to me. After seeing how they are dressed, I roll my eyes and point them out to Jake and Clint.

The three guys that came in and sat next to me are dressed like the Canadian Olympic team. One guy has a bright red t-shirt on with a gigantic white maple leaf in the middle of it. His friend has a bright red baseball cap on with a slightly smaller white maple leaf on the front of it. The last guy has a backpack on with about every type of Canadian patch that ever was made sewn onto it.

I casually turn to the guy with the backpack and ask, “So where are you guys from? Mexico?” He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even seem remotely amused. He is definitely Canadian.

Sidebar: It has always been a curiosity to me how Canada could provide us with so many fantastic comedians but all of the Canadians I have ever met have been so very unfunny. Guess I am just not meeting the right ones.

After I get done laughing at my own comment, I turn back to the guy and say, “Seriously, what is with all the Canada gear? Are you guys coming from some sort of event?” He replies, very seriously, “No, we have dressed like this during our whole trip.” I ask him why. He explains that they are from an English-speaking region of Canada and sometimes they get mistaken for Americans. So they try to wear things that will make them readily-identifiable as citizens of Canada.

I ask him why it matters if people identify him as an American. I wouldn’t care if someone thought I was Canadian. He replies, “Of course you wouldn’t.” Huh? What the fuck is this guy talking about? I ask him to explain what he means.

He tells me that people around Europe treat them better when it is known that he and his friends are Canadian. When people think they are Americans, they are given an unfair hard time. Unbeknownst to me, Clint had started listening to the exchange with Backpack McPatches. I should have been paying closer attention. This is not the kind of conversation in which I want Clint to have any kind of active participation.

“So you guys are just fucking pussies then, huh?” Questions like this are not uncommon from Clint. If there was ever someone who gets right to the point and asks the inappropriate question at the inappropriate time more than myself, it is definitely Clint.

Needless to say, the Canadian is nonplussed with the question. He begins to explain that, no, he and his friends are not “wussies” but that they just prefer to get the treatment that they deserve. They are from Canada, after all, and it is not fair that they get mistreated for the “fucked up things” that are perpetrated by the U.S. government. After he makes these statements, I am 100% positive that this is not going to end with us and the Canadians buying each other drinks.

Sidebar: Let me just say here that I am not what you would call the world’s biggest patriot. I love my country but people can say whatever they want. I think that was one the main tenets put forth by Ben Franklin and friends way back in 1776. I am no history scholar, but I think I am right on this one. Even though we were in The Netherlands and not in the U.S., I like to think that I can take my tolerance of people bashing my government to all points of the globe. Plus, the U.S. government really does fuck up a lot of shit in the world.

Obviously, a little bit of an argument begins to transpire. With Jake’s help, I manage to calm Clint down with the promise of more marijuana. Drama has broken off from his conversation with the Germans. He asks me what is going on. I look over at my new Canadian friends and tell Drama, “Captain Canada and the Mounties over here are kicking up some shit about the U.S. government and Clint was none too pleased.”

Jake, Clint and I go out into the street to smoke a joint. Drama stays inside to continue practicing his conversational German. While we take turns passing the joint around, I am trying to tell Clint to just forget about these fucking guys. Who gives a shit what a bunch of podunks from some ass-backwards town outside of Calgary think? They are probably just pissed because they have never been away from their girlfriends/cousins for this long and are getting lonely. Clint is always a big fan of me ripping into people and it usually calms him down some. The joint is probably helping more, though.

We go back into the bar. I decide that I am not going to keep talking to the Canadians and I encourage Clint to do the same. We start talking to the Germans instead. It seems like a much better idea. Like so many of my instincts, this one turns out to be wrong.

All of the Germans speak perfect English, thankfully. If not, we would have to go back to discussing the moral ineptitude of the U.S. government with the Canadians Instead; we proceed to discuss the moral ineptitude of the U.S. government with the Germans. They are not as fanatical about it as the Canadians, though, so it is not an unpleasant discussion.

We are talking about how awful the U.S. is and all of the bad things they do around the globe. The nuclear bomb testing in Australia. The overthrow of certain Central and South American regimes. The President who can’t keep his junk in his pants.

Sidebar: I listen intently as others talk about these things. I know about them, of course, but I could really care less. I figure it must all be happening for one reason or another. Like with the nuclear bomb testing in Australia. It is not like we declared war on them and dropped a bomb on their country. Someone in the Australian government must have been made aware of the testing. At the very least, the U.S. probably needed a permit to drop a nuclear weapon in the Outback. I think some eyebrows would have been raised if a bunch of Americans flew down there with a bunch of nukes and just said, “Hey, we were watching Crocodile Dundee and the Outback seems like a great place to set off a few of these things, that all right with you folks?”

The conversation was flowing along nicely for about a half an hour. The Germans, unlike their Canadian counterparts, were mindful not to be too offensive and would admit when something like the Australian nuke testing wasn’t actually the sole fault of the U.S. Then we started talking about how all of this would be remembered in the history books, 100 years or so down the road. That is when I took the conversation to a whole different level. A level I usually take discussions to after many beers. An uncomfortable and awkward level.

I blurt out something like this, “Yeah, well, how long ago did Hitler do all of that awful shit in your country? When I think of Germany, I don’t even think of Hitler anymore.” I think this was such an intellectual angle to come at it. I guess after 18 hours of drinking (at this point), I am not such a good judge of what statements will come off as liberally-educated.

The Germans go quiet. My friends, for once, don’t have anything to say. But, there is one person who has a lot to say about it. The goddam Canadian with the backpack.

“DUDE, WHAT THE FUCK?!? YOU SEE? THAT IS WHY ALL OF EUROPE HATES YOU FUCKING AMERICANS! YOU FUCKING IDIOT! DID YOU SERIOUSLY JUST BRING UP HITLER? HOW FUCKING DUMB ARE YOU ANYWAY?!?”

Sidebar: I say a lot of stupid things. That is my nature. But most of the shit that I do say is not stupid. As a matter of fact, I would venture to say that about 95% of the words that come out of my mouth are both important and worth a listen. I am not a stupid person and I know this. However, I can’t tolerate anyone calling me dumb. I once quit a job that I loved because I heard the owner of the store call me a “fucking moron” because I couldn’t figure out his vague and nonsensical instructions.

I turn to Backpack McPatches. I wait to make sure that he is finished yelling. I quietly tell him that this conversation is none of his business and that he and his friends would do better if they drink their Molson Canadian and ponder how in the hell the United States stole hockey right out from under their noses. I also inform him that citizens of “actual real nations” are trying to have a conversation and that when we get into the “ice fishing” portion of the debate, I will most assuredly get him for that.

I turn to the Germans and apologize about 58 times. I legitimately feel bad and I think they sense this. Drama is talking to them in German. I am not naïve. I would love to think that he is telling them that I am actually a really nice guy most of the time but I am drunk and tired. I am sure what he is telling them is that they found me at the train station earlier in the day and that I wouldn’t stop following them around. It is what I would do. Drama and I are alike in the way that we will say almost anything to get out of a potentially dangerous situation.

I tell the Germans that I had no idea it would be such a taboo subject. (Thinking back on it, I can’t imagine why I thought that.) They inform me that it is a still a very sore subject in their country. No one even jokes about it. I apologize again and tell them I did not understand that was the case.

Backpack McPatches is back yapping. “You didn’t understand that was the case? How fucking dumb can you be? I swear I don’t know how in the fuck the U.S. is so powerful with a bunch of dumbasses like you living there.”

I have had enough of this fucking clown. It is time to shut him up. My friends see that I am about to unleash. Jake even hurries and sits in another seat so he can get a better view.

“I thought I already told you what the deal was here. I am talking to my friends and these German gentlemen. Yes, I said something out of place and I have apologized for it. Those are the words and actions of an individual. If I wasn’t an individual, I would go back to my hotel, paint half my face bright red and the other half white, and come back here and sit with you fucking pansies so you could tell me what my first step would be to becoming a citizen of your dopey fucking country. Do me a favor. Just sit there and ponder what your life would be like if you weren’t nestled in the most strategically defensible geographic location in the whole goddam world. No one has invaded your shitty nation for two reasons: One, who the fuck would want to? Two, you just happen to be resting on top of the biggest powerhouse nation that has existed in the history of all civilization. Now, why don’t you three go back to your hotel and change into your Canadian jammies and let the rest of us have a good time? By the way, I love Canada. I just wish you fuckers would stop fooling yourselves and admit to what the rest of the world already knows: You are the 51st State.”

I think the “51st State” comment was the reason he went apeshit. He gets up and starts yelling and screaming, getting in my face. Clint stands up and gets in between us. He is the only one of our group who is worth anything in a fight. I tell Backpack McPatches that I am done talking about it but if he really wants to step outside, it would be our pleasure. I am totally bluffing. I would take no pleasure in it. Neither would Drama or Jake. I am not even sure they would come outside with us. If the shoe was on the other foot, I would seriously have to think about it. Luckily, these Canadian chaps are no more fighters than my friends and I and the whole thing just turns into some shouting and threatening before everyone kind of cools off and the Canadians leave the bar. I don’t even make a snide comment to them as they were leaving. I figured I had proved my point and that enough was enough. Plus, I was exhausted.

We finish the night out with some shots with the Germans. (Which I buy, of course.) About two hours later we are all back in the hotel room laughing ourselves to sleep while recounting the story to Theo.

That is the last time I mentioned Hitler during my entire stay in Europe, although I did threaten my friends with it a few more times just for self-amusement.

Isn’t it funny how the Canadian turned out to be more pissed off than the actual Germans I uttered that nonsense to in the first place? It just goes to show you. Some people get so up on their high horse about certain issues that they lose sight of what is important.

What I really took from that whole experience was that the Germans allowed me to be an “Ugly American” and then they allowed me to explain myself. And it satisfied them. I will never forget that.

If it is, the picture on her profile is inaccurate.

Extremely, awfully inaccurate.

This took place in April 2008.

My short foray into the world of internet dating was a full-blown disaster. In more ways than one.

I wasn’t even really ready to date for a myriad of reasons that aren’t really important for the intent of this story. But I was going to give it a try just to see what it was like. I figured I would at least make a new friend or have some interesting experiences.

I joined a couple of the popular sites. Match. Plenty of Fish. OK Cupid. I sent out a couple of emails. I received a couple here and there. No one really appealed to me. Either the person seemed boring or they weren’t what I was looking for physically.

Sidebar: If you think that last comment was shallow, you should know that statistics show that 90% of both men’s and women’s decisions to reply to a message on internet dating sites is based solely on the picture of the person who sent them the message.

Nothing really worked out. Either the girl or I quickly lost interest for one reason or another. I was just about to drop the whole idea altogether.

And then an email arrived one day.

It was short and simple. I forget really exactly what it said. It is not important. After I read the email, I checked out the profile. I liked what I read. I liked what I saw. For the first time, the girl seemed to be interesting. She liked the same type of music and books that I did. And she fit the bill in terms of looks. She had a picture on her profile of her standing in her kitchen. She was brunette, looked about the height (not tall) and weight (not fat but not too skinny) that I usually find agreeable.

I emailed her back. She quickly responded. We set up a date for the following night at one of my all-time favorite bars: The Dark Horse. We are to meet there at midnight. We both work kind of late on Friday nights.

Here is what happened.

10:00pm

I am finally home from work. I thought I was never going to get out of there. But since most of the staff is made up of females, I played the “date card”, and they all bent over backwards to get me out of there so I could make my rendezvous downtown.

Sidebar: Women, even the bitterest ones, will help a guy out in circumstances like this. I have never figured out exactly why that it is. I use it to my advantage every chance I get.

I am not meeting “Heather” until midnight. I have some time before I have to call a cab to head downtown. I lay down on my bed. Check my emails. Watch a hockey game for a few minutes.

10:30pm

I decide to get in touch with Heather to make sure that we are still on. I have to mention a peculiar thing here. She won’t give me her cell number. She will only communicate over Gmail. She wants it this way, so that the first time she hears my voice, it will be in person. I am suspicious but I think it is kind of cool that she is thinking like that. I am a sucker for that kind of bullshit.

So, I go onto Gmail. She is online. I ask her if we are still on. She says of course. I write to her I am going to log off and start to get ready to meet up with her. She finally gives me her cell phone number just in case there are any problems. She writes me that she will see me soon.

I get in the shower. I think to myself that this is kind of weird, but in a good way. I have never been on a blind date. Well, it is not absolutely blind. I did see that picture of her standing in her kitchen. At least I know that I will like her physically.

I put on my sure-fire outfit. Green cords, white button-down, charcoal gray blazer, brown suede boots. I look good in this ensemble. I always get good feedback when I wear it.

I am ready.

11:00pm

I call my regular neighborhood cab company. I tell them my address and where I am going. I make sure to mention that I live on Cresson Street in EAST FALLS, not MANAYUNK. This has been a problem from time to time but I have experienced competent promptness from them in the past. It is Friday night and they are busy, but I am confident that nothing will go wrong. Despite my outward cynical façade, I am a consummate optimist. I am giving them about 45 minutes to come and get me. The usual wait time is about a half an hour. I figure I am well within safe and sound parameters.

I grab a beer from the kitchen and go sit out on my stoop to wait for the taxi. My roommate, Kate, comes home right after I crack my beer. We talk about her night and I explain to her where I am going. She is happy for me because I have had rotten luck in love in the past year. She wishes me good luck and goes inside.

11:30pm

I finish my beer. I decide against going inside to get another for two reasons. One, the cab should be here any minute. Two, I don’t want to smell too much like beer when I meet Heather. Sometimes I actually do make adult decisions.

11:45pm

No cab.

I am a little worried. I am supposed to meet Heather in about 15 minutes. Still, if it arrives right now, I am still good. It is only about a 10 minute drive at this time of night. I give the company a call. The dispatcher tells me that the driver is on Cresson and should be there “within a few minutes, honey.” My mind is at ease. Especially since she threw in the “honey.” Makes me feel like we are friends, or at least acquaintances.

11:55pm

Still no cab.

I am getting a little bothered now. I don’t want to call Heather and tell her that I will be late. I am afraid that her response will be that we can do it another night. Instead, I call the cab company back. Again, I get the dispatcher. She notifies me that the driver is on my street but can’t find the house because the street ends in the 3400s. I am in the 3500s. I calmly tell her that I mentioned this problem when I called. The driver is one town over in Manayunk. I am in East Falls. She apologizes for the mix-up and assures me that the driver will be here soon. I hang up. My mind is less at ease but I am still confident this will all work out.

12:05am

The cab is still not here.

Kate looks out the window at one point and expresses surprise that I am still waiting in the street. That makes two of us.

Once again, I call the cab company. I get the same dispatcher. I am less calm at this point. She informs that the driver is now coming from the other way down my street and will be there in five minutes. I say something half-threatening about if he doesn’t make it in the allotted time, I will never use their company again. She appears unfazed by this and hangs up.

I quickly call Heather to tell her my predicament. Luckily, she is more than cool with it and tells me she is at the bar reading and not to worry about it. I think this is a great sign.

12:15am

NO FUCKING CAB.

This whole time I have been in the street waiting, I have been standing right next to my car. I am now debating whether to take it or not.

I don’t take my car downtown hardly at all for two reasons. One, I hate finding parking. I am lazy and would rather pay the $15 cab fare. Two, I don’t drink and drive. And since I like to drink to excess on occasion, I go to mind-numbing lengths to make sure I don’t have to drive.

I call the cab company back one last time. I get the dispatcher. I am yelling now. She is displeased with the yelling and lets me know how she feels about it. I calm down just a little. She tells me the driver can’t find my house.

I am no longer calm. I explain to her, very loudly, that I don’t live in some secret location known only to the government. Cars are free to come and go through my neighborhood at will. I go on to tell her, still very loudly, that I am looking at about 50-60 cars right now parked around my house. They all managed to find their way here. The roads are well-lit and easily navigated with big green signs at every corner. I ask her if the company she works for is doing a special cutting-edge project experimenting with blind drivers.

Surprisingly, she hangs up on me. I think about throwing my phone into the street and watching it smash into about a dozen pieces. For once, I actually do make a good decision. I put the phone in my pocket and get into my car. Start it.

I drive off at about 90mph into the Philadelphia night.

12:30am

I am parking outside The Dark Horse. I am calmer than before. On the ride down, I have learned a few things. (1) My car’s top speed is 115mph. I think that is pretty good for a Honda Element. (2) The band Silversun Pickups makes the best music to accompany a maniacal ride to just about anywhere. (3) Life is precious. The slightest miscalculation along the way could have meant the end of me or literally anyone who was able to view my car. This includes people two or three floors up. Any person four stories or higher was probably safe.

12:35am

I walk into The Dark Horse. I look around for Heather. There is only one woman by herself. She is sitting at the bar and has her back turned to me. I decide it can’t be her because this woman is seriously overweight. I go upstairs to see if she is at one of the other bars. No one upstairs fits the bill. I go back downstairs. I come to the conclusion that this large woman at the bar must be Heather. If it is, the picture on her profile is inaccurate. Extremely, awfully inaccurate.

I have two options here. (1) I could be a total shitheel, slowly creep out of the bar, and retreat to my car. (2) I could be a good guy and at least give it a shot. She could have the best personality ever. I decide to be a good guy, for once, and walk up the heavy lady and say, “Heather?” The lady turns around and says, “Hey, Josh.”

12:40am

After the whole introductory greetings and salutations process, I order us some drinks and we move to a small table off to the side. We begin to engage in idle chit-chat. The high-top tables around the bar are unusually small. Probably about 18” in diameter. Every time she begins to talk, all I can think about is how she is much wider than the table. I, on the other hand, am right in line with it. The edges of the table match up almost perfectly with either side of my waist. I think that the gym is paying off for me.

1:00am

I learn that Heather is a personal concierge for a very exclusive condominium building that houses all kinds of local celebrities. Ballplayers. Local anchorpersons. Those sorts of people. She is very hush-hush about who exactly lives there. She treats it like she is guarding some international secrets and if she even utters the first name of one of the tenants, we will be swarmed by black-op government operatives. Normally, I would try to pry some names out of her, just to prove to myself that, once again, I can talk people into anything. I decide against it because I think it will prolong the conversation. It is a conversation that I am not enjoying all that much. But I press on. It is only about 40 minutes to last call. Then I will be able to get the hell out of here.

1:20am

“Angel of Harlem” by U2 comes over the speakers in the bar. Heather just about falls out of her stool with excitement. Her voice gets high as she proclaims her love for U2 and especially Bono. Fucking great.

Sidebar: For about 15 years now, I have told anyone that will listen that U2 is one of the most overrated bands of all time. I can usually stretch an argument about this band to uncomfortable lengths.

She says, “Don’t you just love U2?” I should just agree with her. But I don’t. I say, “Not really.” I am not going into my profuse hatred of U2 with her, but I am letting her know that they are not exactly my cup of tea. I figure this is a good way to play it. I am wrong. Heather tries to try to convert me in a very original way.

She begins to sing along with the Bono at the top of her lungs. She is not a good singer by any stretch of the imagination. She is belting out the words. Each syllable that comes out of her mouth is hitting me like a freight train dropped from The Empire State Building. I am trying not to make eye contact. I am afraid that if I do, something bad will happen. So, I patiently wait. A radio station is playing, after all, and they are not going to play two U2 songs back-to-back, right?

Wrong.

1:24am

“One” by U2 comes over the speakers. I wonder to myself how in the fucking world did I not see that coming. Being kind of a music snob, I am always cognizant of the music around me. I have been listening to the songs while Heather has been going on about her cloak-and-dagger operation at the condominium building. The entire time I have been listening, there were never once back-to-back songs by any music artist. Until now. I am so displeased. Just another reason to hate the radio.

“One” is Heather’s favorite U2 song. She is about to share with me just how much of a favorite of hers that it is.

She gets out of her seat and stands up. Gets closer to me and starts singing the song about 6 inches from my face. My period of unhappiness is coming to a close. My period of rage is just a few seconds away. I play it cool, though. I look around the bar. Every last person is watching us intently. I give them all a kind of “I have no idea” look. I gave them all this look because I really don’t have any fucking idea why this woman is standing right up in my grill singing this song to me. When the song ends, she sits back down and says, “Now what do you think of U2?” I matter-of-factly state that I still don’t like them.

Sidebar: And the real truth is that she has sent my hatred of this band to new depths from which they will never emerge.

1:30am

The bartender calls “last call.” When he does this, it feels like the high school bell is ringing at the end of 8th period on the last day of my senior year. Sweet motherfucking freedom. This is the kind of freedom that Mel Gibson was talking about in Braveheart. Even though I am not a fighter by any means, I would have gladly followed William Wallace into battle for freedom like this.

1:45am

We step outside. It is raining. She asks me if I smoke. I tell her I do. She asks to bum one. I oblige her. I light up one for each of us. I start the whole wind down process. Yawning. Stretching my arms. Looking at my watch. As we finish our cigarettes, it starts to rain. Hard. I tell her that I am going to run to my car and step into give her hug. As I hug her, I lie and tell her I will get in touch with her in the next couple of days. She says OK. And then she says the most awful thing she has said all night. “It sucks its raining because I have to walk like 23 blocks.” Deep down, I am a nice guy. I offer to drive her home. She readily agrees. So much for freedom.

2:00am

Despite the fact that every bar in the city is letting out right now, I make it 23 blocks in just less than ten minutes. Again, I am proud of my driving skills. She is less so. She looks worried the entire time. I tell her that I am one of those really fast drivers. We get to her house. She invites me in. I tell her I have to get home because I have dogs. That is another lie. The dogs are my roommate’s. Heather gets out of my car. I wave to her and she waves back. Thankfully, that is how I will always get to remember her. Waving goodbye.

She wrote me an email a couple of days later asking if I wanted to get together the next weekend. I emailed her back and told her that I didn’t think we had a connection and wished her luck on her search for the right guy.

Will I do internet dating again? Yeah, maybe, but I am going to have to see updated pictures that are authenticated by a notary public. But, as of this minute, I am on a self-imposed embargo from dating while I work on my book. Sorry, ladies. It will be several months until I am ready to embark on my next failed relationship.

I can’t use the cab company anymore, either. My angry tirade that night has earned me a lifetime ban.

They don’t pick up on my sarcasm.

This took place in May 2008.

I used to wake up at around 10:00am on Saturday morning with the best intentions.

Since I no longer worked weekends, I would usually have the same plan for Saturdays. I was going to sit down and organize my notes from the previous week. I was going to write and edit until about 8:00pm. Then I would go out.

Here is what happened.

After procrastinating all afternoon, I finally sit down at 3:00pm to get some writing done. I start making slow progress. At 3:30pm, my phone starts playing “Electric Relaxation” by A Tribe Called Quest. Only one person has that ring on my phone. “DaMan.”

I flip open my phone and greet DaMan. “Dude, what are you up to?” he asks. I inform him of my current status. He tells me that he and “GI” are hanging out at his house, drinking beers. GI and I have only met once or twice but we get along really well. He is a good dude. DaMan goes onto tell me that his fiancée, “Summer”, is out with her bridesmaids trying on dresses. (GI’s girlfriend, “M”, is one of the bridesmaids.) DaMan and GI have just finished smoking a joint, have a full fridge of beer, and are planning on hitting Main Street in a short time.

I think to myself that the best thing to do here would be to tell him that I will meet him out in a few hours after I have completed my set tasks for the day.

I tell him I will be right over. My legendary streak of making great decisions is still alive.

Half an hour later, I am sitting up on DaMan’s kitchen counter opening up my second beer. I am telling DaMan and GI about my week of drunken debauchery.

Sidebar: My male friends who are around my age love hearing stories about my life because, since getting a divorce and leaving my career, I am back living like a 25 year old. I give them hope that those days are not totally over. Conversely, most of the women that date my male friends who are around my age hate when I tell my stories.

I am in my element. Drinking beers on a sunny afternoon. Telling stories. Being the center of attention. All of this is right in my wheelhouse. I have a good feeling of the night to come.

DaMan and GI start to tell me about some scandal involving the bridesmaids. Apparently, one of them is having a party all the way out in Downingtown. About a 45-minute drive. Some of the group doesn’t want to go because that is far. Typically, the bridesmaids have split into two factions. Those that are going. And those that are not.

Sidebar: Girls always break up into teams whenever a dispute arises. Except when one of them is mad at me. Then they are all on the same team. A team with their collective energies focused on taking me down.

While I am being filled in on the drama, my phone starts playing “Brilliant Mistake” by Elvis Costello. It is “Drop.” I go outside to take the call. He has been up in NYC going out on auditions and making time with a young Manhattan lady. He is back and wants to hang out.

I tell Drop that we are headed down to Main Street a little later and that he is more than welcome to join the festivities. We agree to get back in touch a little later in the evening.

I head back inside. Vampire Weekend is blasting on DaMan’s new surround system. I open another beer. The girls filter into the house. Summer tells us that M and “Culkin” are down at The Tavern, waiting for us. I find it amusing that I can tell who is on what side of the “party fiasco” without even knowing most of the girls’ names.

We all sit around and talk for a few minutes. I manage to get DaMan’s sister to part with her wings that she had wrapped up at the restaurant. I am not always the best guy in the world.

The rest of the girls leave. Summer, DaMan, GI and I head down to The Tavern.

5:00pm – The Manayunk Tavern.

The Tavern is one of my new favorite spots. It is a small corner bar with reasonable prices and not a lot of Manayunk douche bags. I am friendly with the owners and the staff so I get treated right.

We arrive and there is no outdoor seating yet. We do, however, find the next best thing in the two side tables right by the huge open doors. We settle in and order some drinks.

Summer, M, and Culkin immediately launch into a conversation about the “party fiasco.” I finish my first beer and order another. GI looks at me and says that I am definitely “on a mission.” I say to him, “Not really.” That is pretty much the rate I drink at, unfortunately for my liver. Also, I tell him that I believe that 75% of male consumption drinking must occur when females are having conversations about problems such as these females are experiencing. We clink out bottles together in agreement.

The conversation moves on. We order many more drinks. At one point, we are all drinking Red Bull and vodkas through straws like they were mind-erasers. I have no idea how we come to that fantastic decision. We make that decision a couple more times.

“College” shows up wearing a tie. He has just left a job-related matter. I tell him there is no dress-code for this afternoon but I appreciate that he got dressed up for us.

Two hours later, we are still at The Tavern. We have the best seats in the house. We have established ourselves as nice tippers who like to spend our money drinking. We are all having a great time.

So, of course, we decide to leave and go to The Blue.

8:30pm – Bourbon Blue.

The Blue used to be one my favorite bars. When it first opened, years ago, it was protected from the Manayunk douche bags because it was tucked back off Main Street. There was usually some singer-songwriter playing. The bar itself is impressively long. Plenty of seats.

We arrive and the place is packed. I immediately know that I am not going to like being here. Nonetheless, we decide to stay.

There are two “empty” seats at the bar. By “empty”, I mean that there are two full glasses of white wine in front each stool. There is also a jacket on the back of each stool. This is where we decide to set up shop.

I move the glasses to the side and order our drinks. We get them. Instead of looking around for seats that are truly empty, we just stay right where we are. It seems like a sound plan.

The original inhabitants of the seats come back from outside. They were smoking. It is a man and a woman. I assume they are a couple. Who the fuck isn’t nowadays?

We are not complete assholes. We give them their seats back. They seem really nice. Their names are John and Theresa. John excuses himself to go to the restroom. I start talking to Theresa, asking her general questions, trying to fish around if John is her boyfriend. She is kind of cute. I am kind of drunk. There is potential here. I am always on the lookout for the next girl that will rip my fucking heart out.

I learn that John is her brother and they are just out having a drink after dinner together. I think it is kind of weird. I didn’t get the sibling vibe off of them at all but when women tell me things, I tend to believe them. I am sucker like that. True story. I tell Theresa that I can see the family resemblance.

John comes back from the restroom and sits down. Theresa leans over and whispers something in his ear. They both start laughing. I ask them what is so funny. Theresa tells me that she and John are not brother and sister, but are, in fact, a couple. She goes on to tell me that they look so much alike that they frequently play this joke on people. I wish now that I had taken their spots at the bar.

I tell them that is indeed a funny joke to play on people and not creepy at all. They don’t pick up on my sarcasm. I do get a beer out of them for my trouble, though, so it is not a complete waste of time talking to these two outstanding individuals.

In continuing my conversation with them, I experience a very uncomfortable information overload session. Theresa is getting a divorce from a guy that is a miserable son of a bitch. She details all of the mental and physical abuse. She gets pretty involved in her description of their rocky marriage. I think that this is really appropriate stuff to tell a complete stranger on a Saturday night while you are out on a date with you boyfriend. I glance over at John. He is just nodding his head in agreement with her. Just my luck. It is well-catalogued that I usually end up finding the craziest fucking loon in any bar I go to. I attract them like rednecks to a tractor pull. Tonight, the craziest fucking loons are John and Theresa. And, surprise, I managed to find them. This is just par for the course.

Something else has been brewing while I was dealing with the idiot twins. GI has been outside the entire time. The rest of the group is getting a little concerned about him. I have a role that I play in situations like this. I am usually the one who gets sent out to talk to people who may be upset or having a bad time. I don’t know whether it is the soothing sound of my voice or the very poignant points I make after 15 beers, but generally everyone listens to my rationale. Despite my contempt for about 99% of the human race, I am uncommonly gifted when it comes to making them feel better about themselves.

I go out to talk to GI. I light a smoke and walk over to him. Ask him what’s up. He doesn’t really want to talk about it. He is obviously not having the time of his life here. I go back inside and tell everyone that we should head out to the next bar. Hopefully, a change of scenery will pick up GI’s spirits and we can all concentrate on getting properly hammered. Plus, I won’t have to talk to my new friends anymore.

I wave good-bye to John and Theresa and we leave The Blue for The Hoter.

10:00pm – The US Hotel or The Hoter as my friends and I call it.

The Hoter is the most reliable bar on Main Street. My friend, “TaTa” worked here back in the day. The mere mention of his name will sometimes get you free drinks. It has an old, dark wood bar. It is not on the footpath of the Manayunk douche bags so it is generally not the most crowded place.

We spill into The Hoter. We have been drinking for about six hours now. Most people haven’t even left the house to go out.

Maggie meets up with us. Drop and his buddy Drake follow soon thereafter. We get a round of shots. That happens more than once.

I am talking with Culkin about a problem that she had earlier in the week. Her husband has a job where he works a lot of nights. A few days ago, she got a call very late. The caller told her that he was outside the house and he was going to kill her. She called her husband and he, in turn, called the police. I ask her what the caller sounded like. She says that she still has the number if I want to call him. Of course I do. I get his voicemail. It is a kid. I tell her she has nothing to worry about. She seems to feel better when I tell her this. I am surprised because I was completely talking out of my ass. I think to myself that if she ends up strangled to death by some 12 year old kid in the near future, I am going to feel really guilty.

It is getting late. At around 1:00am, Drop, Drake, Maggie and I leave The Hoter for Kildare’s. (That is not a misprint.)

1:00am – Kildare’s.

Kildare’s is the worst fucking place in the world. Always packed full of people I wouldn’t hit my car brakes for if they were lying unconscious in front of me in the middle of the street. It is the primary example of how Main Street has turned from a one-time-cool, low-key place to hang out into a scary place filled with “happy idiots”.

Sidebar: “Happy idiots” is my term for ignorant jackasses who have no concept of the morals and scruples that are necessary in life and no interest in finding out about them. There are millions of happy idiots all over the planet. And every Saturday night, they have big, group meetings in places like Kildare’s.

We walk into Kildare’s. I think to myself that I have no standards or self-pride left in me. I want to run out into traffic. We head to the bar. It only takes about 19 minutes to get a drink. A new Kildare’s speed record. I start sipping on my Jack and Diet. I look around. The girls in this bar have got to be in possession of the lowest cumulative IQ in the history of idiot girls at bars. Listening to their conversations makes me want to shatter my glass and gouge it in my neck. But, of course, we are at Kildare’s so I am drinking out of a plastic cup.

Sidebar: To everyone over 30, if you are in a bar where everything is being served in plastic, find the nearest exit immediately. You don’t belong there. Go find a nice bar that will trust you with a pint or martini glass. After all, you are getting older. You owe it to yourself.

We don’t last long in Kildare’s. Thankfully.

I tell my friends that I am done and get into a cab.

My cab driver has got to be the most brainless moron to ever get behind the wheel of a taxi. He manages to turn a relatively simple, five-minute cab ride into one of the worst 20-minute segments of my life. Trying to explain to this guy how to get to my house is pure torture. It is like there is a five-foot-thick piece of glass in between us and I speak Russian but he only comprehends Latin. We are both native English speakers, by the way. Eventually, with the help of my super-calm tone and his fantastic navigating skills, we get close enough to my place and I get out.

Saturdays like that one are the reason I don’t try to order my weekends anymore. I don’t premeditate whether I am going to write at this time, or meet up with so-and-so at this time. I simply wake up on Saturday morning without a plan. That way I never disappoint myself.

My eyes follow it to the ground and I look at it for a second.

I reach into my pocket for a new one.

This took place in June 2003.

The year before I got married, I lived in a house in Manayunk with DaMan. Our backyard looked onto Levering Street. Otherwise known as “The Wall” for the Manayunk Bike Race.

We were going to have a “Bike Race Party.” Cliché, I know. But since we practically lived right on “The Wall” we had an obligation to our friends. How could anyone in their right mind live so close to such an important event and not have a party? I could. But I got outvoted.

To this day, I am still of the belief that the only reason we even moved into that place was because of its close proximity to “The Wall.”

This story is not about the day of the Bike Race. It is about the night before.

Here is what happened.

Everyone is looking forward to the Bike Race tomorrow. I am less than thrilled. By my very nature, I am opposed to doing what everyone else thinks I should do. So, I hate the idea of having to get up at 8am tomorrow. I hate that there are about 15 people who have to cram into my house tonight so that we can all wake up bright and early to start drinking.

The drinking part I am more than cool with. The sleepover part is what is annoying me.

This whole thing has grown out of my control. Since I have decided to take a laissez-faire approach to this debacle, plans are being made without me. Just the way I like it. Less work for me. Plus, I get to bitch and moan the second that things go wrong.

I had to work tonight but I managed to squeak into Manayunk at the right time with the help of my fantastic navigating skills and the ability to knock over wooden barriers with a car that I don’t give a shit about at all. I get home expecting the place to be filled with people. I am preparing to mystify the gathered crowd with my apathy and disdain.

I walk through the door. No one is there. Did all of my wishing come true? Will there be no bike race tomorrow, hence, allowing me to avoid the dreaded sleepover?

No luck. I find a note on my coffee table from my fiancée, Katie. She is getting smokes and will be right back. She is really the only one I want to see in my house right now. I don’t want anyone else there, including DaMan, who I deem responsible for everything Bike Race Party-related.

I take a shower. When I get out, Katie is back. She informs that she has to go meet our friend “Best” about 20 blocks away. That was the only place Best could find parking. She tells me that everyone else is either on their way or out somewhere and will be back later. She leaves me to go meet up with Best.

Luckily, in expectation of tomorrow’s festivities, the fridge is packed with beer. I open one up and turn on the stereo. I sit and listen to my new Nada Surf album for 5 minutes. Then I hear a lot of screaming and yelling outside my house.

This is not unusual for my neighborhood. Often, it is a noisy place at night. But this is a lot of noise. More than normal. I wander outside to check it out.

In the 5 minutes since Katie departed, the neighborhood has been transformed. There are people everywhere. They are leaving their cars parked in the middle of the street, getting out, and walking towards “The Wall.” I go inside, grab 2 beers, and follow the crowd. I want to make sure that whatever happens, I am still drinking.

Down on Levering Street, it is a fucking circus. The crowd is obviously gathering for a reason. I run into Patty, a friend of mine. I ask her what the hell is going on. She tells me that “The Suicide Derby” is about to start. I have no idea what she is talking about. After talking with her, and some others in the crowd, I piece it together.

The Suicide Derby takes place every year on the eve of The Bike Race. Instead of going up The Wall, the participants of The Derby go down it. And not just on bikes. Thrill seekers hurtle themselves down The Wall in all sorts of wheeled-apparatus. It is usually great fun for all involved, I am told. I decide to stick around and observe.

There is one added element of danger to this year’s Derby. It has been raining for about three days. Wetness is everywhere.

Sidebar: For those of you who have never seen The Wall, you should know one thing. It is not a fucking joke. Word has it, that it is one of the steepest inclines in the USA.

So, now I am very interested. I sit down on a nearby stoop and light a smoke. I am giddy with the thought of these idiots barreling down this slick, wet, steep hill. I suspect that there will be some injuries, maybe even casualties.

Some kind of horn sounds. The Derby has begun. People are coming down in Radio Flyer wagons, mountain bikes, big wheels, roller skates. There is even one brave soul on a unicycle. Everyone makes it down unscathed. Almost.

Towards the end of The Derby, a mountain biker wipes out and slides underneath a hatchback. Another mountain biker similarly peels out and crashes into the first mountain biker. A third mountain biker runs into both of them and flips over his handlebars. Right through the back window of the hatchback. The crowd cheers. People are looking at their friends and laughing. Assholes.

Several people converge on the hatchback to help the mountain biker. Someone screams for an ambulance. The mood changes quickly. Suddenly, everyone is a concerned citizen. None of the fucksticks that were laughing when the guy went through a car window at 900 miles per hour find it funny anymore.

Here is the biggest problem. Most of the streets around The Wall have been closed off. The participants and spectators have made the streets even more impassable due to the haphazard desertion of their automobiles. Getting an ambulance to this guy is not going to be easy. To add to the confusion, the ‘Yunkers have called the police. They arrive in an annoyed state.

Sidebar: There are two types of people that live in Manayunk. The ‘Yunkers and the rest of us. The ‘Yunkers are people that grew up there and generally despise the rest of us. They like the economic transformation that has escalated the value of their home but they hate the seemingly endless influx of drunken young people that wake them up at all hours of the night.

The police have arrived to break up The Derby. The ‘Yunkers come out of their homes to complain to the police and to yell at anyone in earshot.

It is chaos. I am in hog heaven. I find myself wishing that The Bike Race were a monthly event.

Amidst all of the confusion, I decide that I need to find out the status of the guy who crashed into the hatchback. I don’t have to look long. I walk up around the corner of one of the houses and there he is. Unconscious and bloody. Coincidentally, it is my friend Patty who is attending to him. I ask her if he is going to be OK. She says that she is not sure but a friend of hers, who is a nurse, has gone inside to retrieve a medical kit. I tell her that she should get one of the police officers to help him. She tells me that is not a good idea. I ask her why.

When she tells me why they don’t want the cops to find him, I laugh. I know. I am a bad person. But I couldn’t help it.

The injured mountain biker had “borrowed” his sister’s car to come participate in The Derby. He figured it would be harmless. He and his friends would do The Derby and then go home. Since his family was away, no one would be the wiser. Except for one thing. The car that the guy went flying through was his sister’s. He vaulted himself through his own fucking car. I find this fascinating.

I point out to Patty that the odds of that happening are mind-boggling. I tell her how I thought I was an unlucky person when it came to shit like this, but this guy has got me beat. She is not amused by my take on the whole situation. And rightfully so. Her friend is in serious trouble. He is not my friend, though, so I am able to glean the humor out of what has just taken place. Oddly, Patty never really did speak to me again.

I go back out onto the street. Things are getting worse. The police are arresting people. The ‘Yunkers are out in full-force. Pandemonium. I decide it would be best to go back up to the house to wait for Katie and Best. Plus, I was done with my two beers.

I make it up to my house without incident. I go inside. Grab two more beers. Go out and sit on my stoop to wait. I light up a smoke. I think to myself that only these two ladies could take this much time walking 20 blocks. Where the hell are they?

Next, I see my neighbor driving down the street in her huge SUV. I fucking loathe this woman. She has called the city on many occasions to get people ticketed for parking illegally in the neighborhood. Furthermore, she is not shy about letting people know who is responsible for their citation. The fucked-up part about it is that she and her husband are the only two people on the street with a garage. It is a cinder block little lean-to across the street from their house. When people park illegally it has no bearing on their parking situation at all. I have had a few minor run-ins with her. Nothing major, though, until now.

She gets closer to her garage. She stops and starts leaning on her horn. She is screaming at the top of her lungs. I can’t see directly into her garage. I walk out onto the street to get a better look. There are two cars parked in it. Neither belongs there. Some of the people from The Derby must have parked there. I am amused. It probably shows on my face. She sees me and gets out of her car.

She comes running right up to me. Gets right into my face. She starts screaming and yelling: “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING LETTING YOUR FUCKING FRIENDS PARK IN MY GARAGE?!? WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO THE FUCK YOU’RE MESSING WITH, YOU DUMB MOTHERFUCKER?!? YOU FUCKING KIDS THINK YOU RUN THIS FUCKING NEIGHBORHOOD BUT YOU HAVE FUCKED UP NOW!!! YOU ARE MESSING WITH A REAL ‘YUNKER NOW, SHITHEAD, AND YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THAT MEANS!!!”

The entire time she is yelling at me, I don’t say a word. I keep smoking my cigarette. At one point, while she is yelling at me, I go to take a drag of my cigarette and she grabs it out of my hand and throws it. My eyes follow it to the ground and I look at it for a second. I reach into my pocket for a new one. I light it.

She is furious with me and I still haven’t uttered a syllable to her. This is something new to me. This is the first time I have made someone this enraged by simply being in a particular spot at at particular time. I decide that I have finally perfected the art of infuriating people. I am no longer an apprentice. I am the master. To anger someone this much by just standing in the street has got to be the equivalent of a triple-degree black belt in pissing people off. I am very proud of myself at this moment.

While I am wrapped up in these thoughts, she is going absolutely apeshit. ‘Yunker this. ‘Yunker that. Do I know who she could call to come down here to take care of me? Typical blah blah bullshit.

At this time, her husband comes home. He gets out of his car and runs over to us. He is not so bad but he is married to this mega-bitch. I can’t reconcile in my head that someone married to such a horrific woman would not be in possession of enormous faults of his own.

To his credit, though, he is honestly trying to figure out what is going on. I give the guy props for not just slugging me. That is what most ‘Yunkers would have done.

He starts pulling her back, getting in between us. He asks me what the problem is. I tell him I am not quite sure, knowing that this would infuriate his wife to no end. It does. I go on to say that, from what I can gather, there are cars parked in his garage that do not belong there. I tell him that his wife assumed they were my friends’ cars and started berating me. I thank him for intervening and go back to sitting on my stoop.

The wife is producing sounds at a sub-sonic level. She is literally shrieking. The husband is having trouble controlling her. In the meantime, I watch as the girls who parked their cars in their garage, walk by us, get into their vehicles and leave, completely unnoticed. They have no idea the ruckus they have caused.

The husband eventually realizes that the cars are gone. He and his wife climb into their respective vehicles and park. Right then, Katie and Best finally show up. They ask me what in the hell is going on. I tell them, loud enough so that the husband and wife can hear me, that I finally met some real ‘Yunkers tonight and I am not so sure I liked it. I tell them that I think real ‘Yunkers are kind of scary.

It took about 10 minutes for the guy to get his wife in the house. She is in a berserker rage now. She threatens me about 45 different times. Each time she manages to throw “real ‘Yunker” into the threat. Katie and Best look at me like they were thinking “typical Josh.” I laugh and profess that I have done nothing wrong and that the lady even wasted one of my cigarettes. They don’t believe me until I get inside and tell them the whole story.

The injured mountain biker lived, by the way.

The party the next day was a story in itself – to be told another time.