Let the Good Times Stick to the Mirror

I meet El Dilector and his friend Bro at J. Black’s, which GWH later describes as “J. Black’s—a feel good lounge.”  I think the feel good part of the equation was the wine.  But I digress.  I haven’t met Bro before, but judging from the amount of crap he is dishing El Dilector’s way, we are going to get on like a house on fire.  Example: El Dilector tries to explain how he and Bro met, and Bro silences him with a shake of the head and waving of his hands.  “That’s totally wrong,” he says.  “Let me tell you the real story.”

The conversation meanders from the excruciating cowboy bar I found myself in last week to Houston zoning to high school reunions.  It turns out all three of us attended our reunions.  El Dilector and I hated ours.  It seems it reminded both of us just why we hated high school so much.  Bro was thrilled because all the guys got fat and the girls flocked to him because he is so fabulous.  Ooooh I didn’t know men also wanted their enemies to get fat like girls not-so-secretly wish on other girls.  Awesome.

After my second glass of wine, I have decided against going home and elect to crash on El Dilector’s couch.  It will be just like old times, when I didn’t brush my teeth or take off my mascara before falling into a drunken stupor while wearing expensive silver pants. 
“Now I begin drinking in earnest!” I declare as we leave J. Black’s in search of, well, whatever it is that El Dilector craves when bar-hopping.  I had forgotten how hard he is to keep up with.

Next up is Molotov, where El Dilector says we have to go upstairs to drink properly.  We turn to El Dilector’s recent breakup, where Bro continues to prove perhaps he is my twin separated at birth when he calls El Dilector’s behavior out: “And right over there is where it happened—via cell phone.”

“You broke up with her over the phone?!” I ask, aghast.

“Well, she kept crying when I did it in person,” he explains.

Hmmm.  Well, carry on then I suppose.  At least the deed is done.  Bro and I try toconvince El Dilector he should never settle.

“My plan is….to fall in love,” El Dilector muses, rubbing his chin in a thoughtful manner.  “I forgot about the love thing.”

El Dilector immediately moves toward his goal by accosting the next girl he sees.  He brings her to the table and Bro begins an interrogation, during which he learns that Girl earned her GED but is focused on what is really important to her: raising her child.  Bro nods sagely and agrees with her about how we should all forget about the haters or something to that effect.  Girl promptly picks up her beer and moves to the next table, where El Dilector looks on helplessly.

“Are you going to let that guy take her home?” Bro asks him.  “Come on, dude.”

Things begin to get fuzzy at this point, as the wine keeps flowing and the clock edges toward that fateful hour of two a.m.  El Dilector, miffed at his loss to the loser at the next table, texts a random girl in his phone book who he claims he met two years ago.  He doesn’t remember her and she doesn’t remember him.  So it makes perfect sense that he would hand off the phone to me.

“Sorry, I’m drumk,” I text, because I am hopeless at the iPhone.  Bro leans over to see what I’ve texted.  “breasts,” I tap out next.  Then I gleefully hand the phone back to El Dilector.

To my astonishment, she keeps texting him as we exit the bar and head to El Dilector’s place.  El Dilector is intent on having an after-party, but is either a really good or really bad alcoholic because there is nothing to drink at his place.  No worries.  We’ll just call his friend GB incessantly, and even send Bro over there to knock on his door.   Approximately 14 phone calls and three visits later, we’ve confirmed that GB is asleep or having a sleepover and we’re screwed.  We will have to just sober up, dammit.

Bro and I decide to take turns keeping El Dilector occupied while we plaster his bathroom with whimsical photos of puppies we have found in a drawer.  At first at a loss for something to stick with, I find that the hair wax on the counter works wonderfully.  After I’ve taken a turn, I ask Bro for more contraband, and yippee!—he hands a Val-pack coupon envelope through the doorway. 

El Dilector passes out moments later, and Bro and I are free to work on our project together.  He brings me a pair of scissors so that I can craft better photo montages of puppies, babies with face-paint and maids.  The scissors are covered with something sticky.

“What the hell is this?” I ask Bro.

He takes a sniff.  “Maple syrup?”

“Was he cutting pancakes with scissors?”

Bro washes the scissors and we continue our project.  By the time we’ve sobered up,  I crash out and Bro goes home, we have a photo collage we can be proud of—along with a sock stuck as well to the mirror and a special creation on the underside of the toilet lid.

“Thanks for my bathroom present,” El Dilector texts me in the morning.

“I hope you thought it was a little bit funny,” I text back.

“I’m still laughing,” he says.  “The maid will find it interesting, too.”

-Shakira 08.04.08