A Night--Morning?--Out in A-town

I arrive at El Dilector’s house just before a crew of four come in: there is one couple and each have a sibling with them.  A boy we’ll call Boots is dating a girl we’ll call Brooke.  Boots has brought his sister and Brooke has brought her brother.  GB, whom I have not met but once left many messages on his cell phone —waltzes in and observes this arrangement.  “If I had known it was Sibling Night, I would have brought my sister.” 

Meanwhile, Boots is attempting the setup of an enormous hookah that, frankly, scares me.  For some reason the stove needs to be on, and El Dilector turns on the oven instead.  We’re not even drunk yet!  The group tells El Dilector that the stove and the oven are two different things.  We then proceed to complain to El Dilector about everything else: his playlist sucks (my complaint specifically—what IS this crap?) and it’s too hot in the apartment, but when he remedies this one, it’s too cold because the patio door is open.  Poor El Dilector.

Something is burning on the stove and I get up and change seats because I do not like the idea of my hair going up in flames.  It has something to do with the hookah, but I still don’t understand that thing.  I watch as Boots and El Dilector have some weird mixed flavor tobacco. 

Boots thinks El Dilector and I look exactly alike.  Eww.

“You know,” El Dilector responds, “I thought your sister would be really funny-looking like you, but she’s actually pretty cute!”  So El Dilector doesn’t think he’s cute but it appears that Brooke does, so that’s probably okay.

Eventually we wind up at Molotov—surprise!—where El Dilector spends about 1/3 of his time.  (One-third at work, 1/3 at home and 1/3 at Molotov.)  The former bachelor (yeah, the guy that didn’t choose either girl) is the new owner of Molotov, and tonight he’s throwing a little party upstairs.  There’s a roped off section and “Reserved” signs on the tables.  Naturally, this makes all of us want to get in there, if for no other reason than we just aren’t supposed to.  We boldly walk in to the section and stand there sipping our drinks.  The crew informs me that El Dilector has already had words with the Bachelor-Turned-Owner. 

“This is my bar,” El Dilector allegedly said.  “Don’t change anything.”

And nothing has changed, except for this pesky private party. 

Bro shows up drinking what looks like water.  Silly me.  It’s a double vodka soda.  Who would be drinking water on a Saturday night?

We grow even more bold and fully sit down at one of the “Reserved” tables.  Bro brandishes the plastic sign at me.  I take the paper out with the word “Reserved” and put it in my purse.  “No longer reserved,” I tell him.

GB has also come over—(“For one drink”!  Famous last words)—and he has brought a friend, Dancer.  Dancer leans over and says, “You.  Are.  So.  Pretty.”

Dancer rules!

GB and I roll to the bar to get refills for everyone.  He asks me why I don’t have a gay boyfriend.  I sigh dramatically and show him my ring.  “I’m engaged.  I guess that’s why.”
“That is ridiculous.  I am going to be your gay boyfriend.”

"You are tall enough,” I tell him.  He’s the dreamiest gay boyfriend ever!  Do those relationships work out long-distance?  Dancer and GB should probably come home with me to Houston.

We sit back down and observe this guy dancing at the edge of the roped off section.  He’s really strutting his stuff and just begging for attention.

“Hey Shakira,” El Dilector says, “fifty bucks if you go dance with that guy.”

It’s a dance-off!  I need a cab home so I’m definitely in.  (Oh, who am I kidding?  I’ll do a dance-off for free.)

I shrug off my jacket and zoom over.  Bro keeps yelling that my partner is winning, not me.  What?  I never lose a dance-off.

Eventually I tire of this game, decide I have won despite what Bro has to say (I think maybe he’s jealous of my moves) and go back to sit at the table.  The boy is enamored, I think, because he keeps dancing and looking my way with a silly grin.  Well, I think his grin might always look like that.  It’s about five minutes later when he busts his ass and falls right down under the ropes.

Bro looks at me.  “Now you’ve won.”

Suddenly it’s 2 a.m. and the lights are coming on.  We ignore this sign that our night is over and calmly continue to sip drinks.  A bouncer who no doubt recognizes this crew tells us to move downstairs, telling us we can take our drinks.  It’s like they’re weaning us slowly over the next five minutes.  That’s kind of them.

I get downstairs and go to the bar to deposit my wineglass.  A guy is standing there trying to pick up a lady before he, too, gets rudely kicked out, and he takes my hand. 

“Do I know you?” I ask, trying to yank my hand back.  He has kind of an intense stare and he’s holding my hand really tightly.

“You should,” he says.

“Ohhhh-kay, I’m just gonna…” I try to pull my hand out of his grasp.  Another guy rolls up.  “Is my friend bugging you?” he asks.

“Oh, well, I think he’s a little confused; was just trying to get my hand back!” It pops free and I wiggle it at him.  “No problem here.”

Bro is watching me from the wings and I nod his direction.  “Although that guy is going to kick your ass.”

The guy turns around to look, and I grab Bro and push him toward the door.  “Haha, just kidding, really, we gotta go.”

“You want to tell me what the hell you were trying to pull back there?” Bro says.  “Getting me into a fight with some tattooed guy?”

Heee.  Sorry Bro!  I thought I was being funny.  Perhaps not.

And here’s where my poor decision-making spirals out of control.  Instead of going back to Mom’s as I had planned, after a healthy four-hour drink-a-thon, I decide a few minutes of After Party can’t hurt.

(As it turns out, it can hurt very very badly the next day.)

So we all go back to El Dilector’s and listen to some music, continue the drinking and the fun.  Actually my liver is pretty much pickled, so I think I put down the wine at some point.  But El Dilector again says those magic words:  Dance-Off!  And Dancer, GB and I proceed to high-kick and sashay all over the living room for approximately the next four hours.  (At some point, I believe I did the splits, because I wind up with a nasty bruise on my knee.  GWH questions this later.  "What exactly were you doing all night?" he asks.)

Interspersed with Dance-Off, we have the following fun as well:

I get into a fight with some random girl who tells me she knows more about politics than me.  “Honey,” she says in a voice dripping with condescension, “I’m in MBA school.”  Really ho-bag?  Because I’m in law school and I ain’t no idiot.

There is also a guy with dreads who I think lives in the building who really digs my freckles.
Then there is GB telling El Dilector, “You told me this would happen, and you’re right: I like your sister even more than you.”

At some point I am lying on the couch thinking that I have got to get home.  “What time is it?  It’s so late.”

“It’s not late, it’s like 4 a.m.,” Bro points out.  Oh, right.  Not late at all.

So when I finally grab at cab at 6 a.m., that’s late.  I think.

-Shakira 11.02.08