Blackouts and Breakdowns (10 page)

“This is D.C., everyone works for the fucking government.
I work for the fucking government.”

“I don’t work for the government.”

“That’s cause you’re a fairy.
They don’t let fairies work for the fucking government.”

“It’s no wonder you’re still single Rose, with a mouth like that.”

“Whatever,” she said taking a drag off her cigarette, blowing it into the phone, making me now crave a cigarette.
“Where does he live?”

“Virginia.”

“I’m not fucking going to Virginia.”

“Rose, you know the deal.
You will meet him somewhere in the middle. Maybe Dupont Circle.”
I had quickly realized that Dupont Circle was the middle of everything.

“Fine. Where?”

“Daily Grille?”

“I hate that fucking place!”

“Kramer’s?”

“Fine.”

After wondering what difference it was going to make, as she was probably not going to eat anyway, I hung up.
I called Ron and told him about his date with Rose.
The poor guy had no idea what I had just gotten him into.
A few days later, I came to work and received one of the most horrifying messages I have ever heard:

“You fucking homo!”
Rose said into my answering machine. “I cannot believe that you set me up with that big fat pig.
He was so fat.
You said he went to the gym.
I don’t think he has ever even looked at a gym, let alone walked inside one before.
If I ever see you, I am going to beat the shit out of you.
Have you seen my picture?
I am beautiful.
I cannot believe that you think I would be a good match with that piece of shit.
He didn’t even pay the check! I can’t believe this.
I am calling your boss and telling him that you should be fired!
I cannot believe this.
I cannot believe this.
FUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK!!!!!!”

Apparently she couldn’t believe that I set her up with someone who didn’t share the same passion for abstaining from food as she did.
Shortly after, I quit It’s Just Lunch.
I decided I needed to focus on finding myself a boyfriend and not worry about all of these people’s horrifying love lives.

I had only worked at the dating service for two and half months, but I really couldn’t deal with my own life, let alone the love lives of thirty complete strangers.
I read an advertisement about a gay owned company that was looking for salesman and went in for an interview.
I was not really sure what I was getting myself into, but decided it would give me a chance to meet other gay guys in the area, something I had not done at that point in time.
I went in for my interview and was greeted by a really nice gay guy named Mark.
I guess Shirley McLaine was right; all gay guys are named Mark, Rick or Steve.

“So let me tell you a little something about what we do here,” other gay Mark said.
“We are like a gay phone book.
We are like a one stop shop for everything gay.”

“Wait a second. Gay guys in D.C. need their own phone book?” I asked.

“Well, yes,” he replied.

“Why can’t they just use the regular phone book?”

“Because when they use our phone book, they know that all of the stores and services are gay owned or gay friendly.”

“But it’s 2008.
Do people even use phone books anymore?”

For someone trying to get a job, I was certainly asking a lot of unnecessary questions.

“Yes, in D.C. they do,” other gay Mark, replied.

I was quickly realizing that D.C. was even more backwards than I thought it was.
People in D.C. were like ten years behind what everyone in New York was doing.

“For example,” other gay Mark continued, “this cupcake store is in our book,” as he pointed to an ad in the gay phone book. “But the other one, right across the street, isn’t.
So, if you are a gay consumer, you would be more inclined to use the cupcake store that was in our book than the other one.”

“Why are there so many cupcake stores in D.C?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Because, you know, the whole cupcake fad has come and gone in New York,” I replied.

“Well cupcakes are very hot in D.C. right now,” he said.

After an hour-long conversation about cupcakes and gay guys, I left the office.
A few days later, other gay Mark called and told me that I had somehow gotten the job.
I wasn’t really sure what I was going to be doing, but I am always down for a new adventure.
To celebrate, I called my friend Jonathon, who I met when I was in college, who happened to live in D.C.

“I am so glad you are in D.C.
We are going to have so much fun,” Jonathon said into the phone.

“Sure,” I replied unenthusiastically.

OC’mon Mark, you have to give D.C. a chance.
I know it is not New York, but it’s fun here.”

“Really?” I asked with sarcasm.

“Yes.
In fact, we are going into Town tonight.
It’s a disco-boutique.”

“What?”

“A disco-boutique.”

“What does that even mean?
That’s totally an oxymoron.
It doesn’t even make sense.”

“It’s a club Mark.
Just come with us.
It will be like a
Mean Girls
reunion!”
Jonathon has this warped idea that he is Regina George from
Mean Girls
.
Our friend Chris is Karen, because he is the dumb blonde one and I am Gretchen because I am the Jew.

“Ok, I’ll come with you,” I said.

That evening, Jonathon, Chris and I went to the disco-boutique a.k.a. the only gay club in D.C. and danced and had a gay old time.
It was a fun club, but I couldn’t help but notice that no one came up to talk to Jonathon, Chris or myself.
We had a great time with each other, but it was as if everyone else kept to themselves.
In New York, people seemed to be much friendlier, everyone mingled and had a good time and met new people. In D.C., it seemed as though
Mean Girls
had actually come to life.
Everyone was in their own clique and no one mingled with anyone else. It seemed so juvenile that everyone ignored everyone else.
Little did I know, this is how they roll in D.C. and I would soon find out just how awful it actually was.

The following Monday, I began my job at the gay phone book.
It was the easiest job I had ever had.
All I had to do was make phone calls and take clients out to lunch and tell them that advertising in the gay phone book would increase their business.
All I did was bullshit my way through which is pretty much my specialty so the job was a perfect fit.

By the time spring rolled around, drinking season began.
It seemed as though the second the temperature went above fifty degrees, everyone was out drinking and having a good old time.
I quickly realized that D.C. residents were just about the laziest group of people in America.
Everyone left his or her office at 5pm on the dot to go to Happy Hour every single night.
No one worked late.
In New York, everyone worked until at least six, if not later and no one really went to Happy Hour.
While I was happy to see a potential for a ton of new drinking buddies, I was concerned that I was the only one in the city with the slightest bit of work ethic.

As the weather continued to amaze, my social calendar quickly began to fill up.
Through Jonathon, I had met a few new friends.
I didn’t really like any of them because they were very fake towards me, but I went along with them because I really had no other option since I didn’t have any friends of my own.
One particular April evening, Jonathon gave me a call:

“Hey, Mark, I was invited to a sick party tonight.
There are going to be a lot of super hot guys there.”

“Really? Where is it?”

“The Diner on 18th Street,” he replied.

“Why are they having a party at a diner?”

“I don’t know; it’s just what they do.”

“And who exactly are
they
?”

“A.O.F.”

“Abercrombie and Fitch?”

“No you dumbass,” Jonathon said, “Axis of Fun.”

I laughed so loud that everyone in my big gay office could hear, “what the hell is the Axis of Fun?”

“It’s like a fraternity,” he continued, “they are a group of really successful gay guys that created a group called the Axis of Fun.
They throw a bunch of parties every year at the Diner.
It’s a really exclusive invite.
We should totally go.”

“If they are like a fraternity, do they do community service?”

“No.”

“So what exactly is the point?”

“Mark, why are you always looking for answers for everything?”

“Because the Axis of Fun is just about the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard of.
I mean, the name alone is hilarious: Axis of Fun.”
I laughed so hard I almost peed.

“But I really want to be a member, we have to go.”

“Why?
It sounds like these kids were rejects in high school and decided to make a group up to make themselves feel better.”

“Whatever.
You don’t have to go.”

“Now, I
have
to go so I can see this shit show for myself.”

That night, Jonathon and I went to the party that the Axis of Fun was hosting at the Diner. The Diner is a really cute place, after all.
It is green and orange on the outside and looks like a drag queen threw up all over it.
Inside, there is a chandelier made of martini glasses and posters of New Jersey everywhere.
I really liked the decor; the clientele on the other hand, was another story. Jonathon and I stood in the corner and were ignored, just as we had been at the disco-boutique. After about four martinis and Jonathon’s mysterious disappearance to the bathroom for hours, I decided I would try to strike up a conversation with someone.
Maybe gay people in D.C. were just socially awkward and needed someone to throw out a conversation topic for them.

“Hey,” I said as I walked over to a guy standing in a suit and tie by himself in the corner.

“Oh, hello,” he said, “my name is Andrew, what’s yours?”

“I’m Mark,” I said, “pretty lame party, huh?”

“Well…” he said as I cut him off.

“I don’t understand why this whole A.O.F. thing is anyway.
Oh well.
Are you a member?”

“Actually, I founded A.O.F.”

“Oh,” I said as I slowly walked backwards.

“Do you have a problem with it?” he asked.

“No.”

“Good, I didn’t think so.”
Andrew walked away.
So much for trying to make friends in D.C.

I stood in the corner by myself for about an hour before Jonathon resurfaced.
I had nothing to do but drink and managed to polish off at least half a bottle of vodka by myself.

“Finally, where have you been?” I asked.

“Making out with the hottest guy in the bathroom,” he replied.

“Jesus, Jonathon let’s go,” I cried, “I have already made an ass out of myself once tonight, I would really rather not do it again.”

“Well you can go, I am staying.”
I had no idea how to get home.
D.C. was still a labyrinth to me, and I had not yet figured out how to get from place to place without a guide.
When I was a kid, I was chaperoned around so I never bothered figuring out how to get from place to place. Now I was on my own. I had to stay or take the chance of getting lost on my way home.
I continued standing in the corner alone, until someone walked up to talk to me.

“Hi,” the guy said, “my name is Chuck.”

“Mark,” I replied.
Having already embarrassed myself in front of the A.O.F.’s I decided short, to the point answers were all anyone was getting out of me.

“What do you do for a living?”
I had only been in D.C. for four months, but I had already figured out that people would introduce themselves and follow the introduction by asking what your profession was.
It’s protocol in these parts.

“I work for the gay phone book.”

“Really?
I use that thing all the time.
It’s a great service,” Chuck said.

“
Really?
”
I asked quizzically.
Having not used a phone book since I was in middle school to prank call the rape hotline, I was shocked by his response.