Blackouts and Breakdowns (9 page)

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

“2006 is going to be the breast year ever!” I yelled as 2005 came to a close and the promise of better times lie ahead.

“You said BREAST! ha, ha, ha” my friend Sally said as we embraced and rang the New Year in.

2005 was a stressful year for everyone.
I had started a new job that I was totally under qualified for so pretending to know what I was doing on a daily basis was taxing to say the least.
I was also in the home stretch of my six-year foray in college.
Having only one semester left, I began to worry that I would not have being in college as an excuse anymore to get shit faced drunk all the time.
Luckily, I realized that my creativity would eventually pay off where that was concerned. “It’s May Day! Let’s get wasted!” I proclaimed on Tuesday May 1st of that year.
I later learned that any excuse is in fact a good excuse to drink.

New Year’s of 2006 was quite a shit show.
A group of friends and I had gone to some girl’s apartment building and rang in the New Year on her rooftop overlooking the Empire State Building.
It was a magical evening.
As the party eventually died down, a group of us decided to head down to the West Village to our favorite piano bar.
It was perfect for me, because I had just moved into a fabulous new duplex in the village and would only be blocks away from home when it came time to pass out.
I had predicted a blackout early in the evening, so the closer I was to my bed, the easier it would be for me to navigate my journey. I had all but perfected the fastest route from the piano bar back to my apartment so heading down the village that night was prefect.

My friends and I got to the piano bar and all was well.
We had a blast and everything from
Gypsy
to
My Fair Lady
was sung as we laughed and drank.
I was so optimistic about what the New Year had to offer that I guess I got carried away and had one too many drinks.
I was nearing a blackout when I decided to bid my friends adieu and head home. However, before I did anything, I was going to have to use the bathroom because I had just chugged four beers and really needed to pee.
I went down to the bathroom at the piano bar and noticed it was ten deep.
I figured it would take me just as long to walk home and use my own bathroom so I ran out of the piano bar and began my walk up Seventh Avenue en route to my place.

It was a rainy evening and the drops of water hitting the pavement, reminded me of having
to pee.
I was only about five blocks away from home, but with every step I took, the more I needed to pee.
Suddenly I flashed back to when I was in the sixth grade and for some odd reason all of the bathrooms in my school were locked and I ended up peeing my pants.
Unfortunately, as I was hustling down the avenue that was the only image I could remember until I finally stopped dead in my tracks.

“What if I just pee my pants?” I asked myself aloud.
Then I remembered that I had moved into this fabulous new duplex apartment with two strangers and they did not know the heights my alcoholism could reach.
I had only lived with these girls for two months and I did not think that they were ready to experience my drunken shenanigans firsthand, even though a week beforehand, I found one of my roommates passed out drunk in the hallway with her key still in the door.
As I contemplated what to do, I peed my pants.

“Damn it!” I screamed.
I was in a brand new suit and was standing at the corner of Seventh Avenue and Charles Street pissing myself.
It was already coming out, so I just went with it.
Once it starts, there really is no reason to stop it.
As the pee warmed my legs and went into my shoes, I continued walking up the street.
A homeless man glared at me with a look that said,
Oh yea, I’ve been there before
. I was so embarrassed to be seen by anyone.
I began walking briskly in my piss soaked clothes until I reached my apartment.
I had hoped that my roommates would be asleep as it was now four in the morning, but I noticed that one of my roommate’s lights were on.

“Mother fucker!” I yelled.
My roommate was such a Chatty Cathy that I knew she would want to come out of her room and go over the evenings events while we braided each others’ hair.
I had to find a way to cover up the fact that I had peed all over myself, but how?
Then I realized that I could create an elaborate lie to get myself out of this mess.
That never fails.
I took a nosedive into the biggest puddle on the street, walked up the steps and into my apartment, dripping wet.

“Oh my God Mark, what happened to you?” my roommate said as I entered the door.

I fell onto the hallway floor after entering the apartment and laid spread eagle, “You’ll never imagine the night I’ve had,” I said grasping for air.

“Are you OK?” my roommate asked.

“Man,” was all I could come up with.

“What?”

“A man,” I said, “a man tried to RAPE ME!”

“What?” my roommate said, “are you OK? We have to call the police!”

“No!” I screamed as I leapt to my feet. “I mean, I
think
he was trying to rape me. Or mug me. I am not sure.”

“Mark, we have to call the police,” my roommate said. “What if he followed you home?”

“No, I am sure he didn’t.”

My roommate gave me the once over and noticed that I was soaking wet.
“Why are you all wet?”

“Well,” I said, gasping for air.
I had smoked about two and a half packs of cigarettes and drank about forty beers, so I was in no condition for all of this physical activity.
Creating an elaborate web of lies on the other hand, I was totally up for.
“I was walking home from the bar.
A bunch of us were out for New Years, and I was walking home alone and I noticed that someone was following me.
Every time I began to walk faster, he picked up his speed.
I was getting really scared so I began running and he came running after me.” I still had not thought of any excuse for being soaked to the bone so I paused.

“And…?”

“Well, the only thing I could think to do was to play dead.
So I fell into the biggest puddle I saw and pretended to be dead.
You know, like those goats in Ireland do.”

My roommate gave me a look that could kill.
She knew something had to be up, “Why did you think he was going to rape you?”

“He had rape in his eyes!” I yelled.

“So, you saw what he looked like?”

“No,” I replied, “only his eyes. His rape filled eyes.”

“Mark, I think you need to go to bed.
It looks like you’ve had a long night.”

And with that, it was over.
If only I was fucking wasted and pissed myself was a good excuse for my behavior, this conversation would have never taken place.
I figured conjuring up a faux rape story was a lot easier than telling my roommate that I had pissed myself on the way home from a bar.

Turns out 2006 wasn’t the breast year after all.
After a start like that, it was not surprising.

GREETINGS FROM OUR NATION’S C(R)APITOL!!!

After eight fun-filled years in New York, I hopped on a train headed toward to D.C., my hometown.
I had tried to make it work in New York for years, but after a slew of bad decisions, I felt it was time to get back to my roots and spend some time with my family.
It was a last minute decision to move back to our nation’s capitol, but I felt it was the right one to make.
I knew that D.C. did not compare in any way to New York, but I always remember people going out to Happy Hour after work and drinking way too much.
If everyone drank like that, I knew I would fit right
in.
But after only a few short weeks, I found myself regretting the decision to come home and wondering what crack I had been smoking that made me think moving from Varsity (New York) back to Junior Varsity (D.C.) was a good idea.
For a year, my experiences in D.C. were like nothing else I had encountered before.
It was like I had gotten on a train and taken it to another world, a world where no one made sense but me.
Please join me as I take you, gentle reader, on a journey through my shenanigans in our great nation’s crapitol.

A few days after moving back to D.C., my sister Kim told me that her office was hiring.
She worked at a dating agency in Farragut Square on Connecticut Avenue and K Street.
It was the most popular dating agency in the D.C. Metro area called It’s Just Lunch. The premise of It’s Just Lunch is that people come in and are interviewed by one of the representatives and asked questions about their lives and what they are looking for in a mate. Then a coordinator matches the person with someone they think will be a good match for them.
The dates are completely blind, and people meet at bars and restaurants in an area that accommodates both parties.
Neither party is told what the other looks like and the host at the bar or restaurant they meet at, shows each person to their date.
The next day both parties call back and give feedback on their date and whether or not they want to see said person again.
It’s pretty basic, but It’s Just Lunch had many success stories of people meeting, getting married and even having children.
When my sister told me that there was a position there, I jumped on it, since I had no other prospects having just returned from New York.

“It sounds pretty lame,” I told my sister.

“It’s a job, and it can be pretty fun,” Kim said with a smile.
“Some of these people are so socially retarded, it’s hilarious.”

I went in for an interview and was offered the job on the spot.
Having nothing else to do, and little money, I took it.
The first few days were fun.
I enjoyed coordinating random stranger’s dates for them.
I took pleasure in knowing that I could be setting up the next It’s Just Lunch success story.
The thing is D.C. is notorious for having far more women then men, so the men at the dating service pretty much got pimped out.
We would set a guy up with one really hot woman and then send him out on a date with three really awful women and the cycle would continue.

“Hey, Rick, it’s Mark calling from It’s Just Lunch” I would say into the phone.
“How did your date with Cynthia go?”

“It was awesome!” Rick replied, “Cynthia is amazing, she is everything I ever wanted in a woman.”
Meaning, she was hot and did not have any children.

“Well, I am certainly glad you liked her, are you ready to meet your next date?”

“I kind of wanted to see how things went with Cynthia.”

“Well Rick, you know the deal.
Until you go on hold, we continue to set you up on dates,” I replied.

“Did Cynthia go on hold?” Rick asked.
Members were allowed to put their account “on hold” to see how things went with a particular date.

“No,” I replied.

DAMN THAT BITCH
he was probably thinking.

“Ok, tell me about this next girl,” he said, defeated, in hopes the next girl would put out faster than Cynthia.

“Well, Sandy is fantastic and I think you are really going to love her,” I said.
As I looked down at Sandy’s file, I could tell Rick, the high-powered attorney with seventy mile an hour hair and a smile for days was not going to like Sandy at all.
Sandy was forty two (Rick’s age limit was thirty-five, even though he was a “young fifty.”
She was a bit heavy, while Rick was looking for someone athletic. Sandy also had buckteeth.)
But, Sandy was a customer at It’s Just Lunch and like everyone else; she was entitled to her one date a month. Having just set Rick up with Cynthia, who was fabulous, he owed me a favor.
“Sandy is a schoolteacher,” I said into the phone, “she loves dogs, and has one of her own.
She also loves the beach just like you.”

“Does she work out?” Rick asked.

I looked at Sandy’s picture and glanced at her double chin: “It doesn’t say, but I would say from her picture, she’s been to the gym a few times in her life.”
A few times being the key words.

“Ok, is she blonde?”

“Rick, you know we cannot really tell you what your dates look like.
It’s Just Lunch policy clearly states that we are not supposed to describe what your dates look like before you meet them.
You came up as a match on the computer,” which was a total lie. There was no computer.
We would pull people’s files out from the drawer and I would decide whether or not I thought they would make a cute baby together, “I am simply telling you about your next date, so please let’s follow protocol.”

“Ok, Mark, you’re such a stickler for following the rules.”
I really wasn’t, but after being on the phone all day with these people repeating myself over and over again, I used the ‘protocol’ excuse to get them off my back.

“Thanks, Rick.
So why don’t you guys meet at…” I trailed off.
The hardest part of arranging dates for me was figuring out where these people should meet.
I had not lived in D.C. for very long, and to be honest I had no idea where I was half the time, let alone where these people’s offices were. “So, you work on Capitol Hill, right?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Ok, she works in Friendship Heights, so where would be good in the middle? Arlington?”

“That’s in Virginia, I don’t really think that would work out.”

Damn it, “Dupont Circle?”

“Sure, I can meet in Dupont,” he replied.
I would pretty much just rattle off neighborhoods until someone would tell me one that worked for them.

“Ok, Dupont Grille it is.
How about 7:30 tomorrow night?”

“Ok.”

“Ok, remember to check in with hostess when you get there and she will make sure that you find Sandy.
Have a good time.” I hung up.

Now it was time to call Sandy.

“Sandy, it’s Mark from It’s Just Lunch.”

“Oh, hello,” Sandy said into the phone.
I had only spoken to her a few times before, but she was sweet, like schoolteachers are supposed to be.

“Have I got a date for you!”

I continued to rattle on and on about Rick and how I thought they were a perfect match.
Deep inside, I knew it would never work out for them.
Rick was a pig, as most men are and was only worried about what people looked like.
Sandy was sweet and seemed almost naïve in her forty-two years of age.
I got Sandy really pumped for the date and told her to wear something slutty, which is totally against the rules.
I figured Sandy was entitled to get laid, just like the rest of us and if she wore something a little skimpier, it would at least increase her odds.

The exchange between the two parties and making reservations at the restaurant where they were to meet would take about an hour. Afterwards, I would smoke a cigarette and try to hustle magazines from the Persian woman at the deli downstairs.

After a few weeks, I was really getting the hang of things, but one thing really bothered me. One of my clients, Marc K., who I thought was totally cute was not having any luck getting second dates.

“Any luck with Gretchen?” I asked after his date.

“No. I haven’t heard back from her,” Marc said.

“I wonder why,” I said. He was so cute, in that nerdy, computer repairman kind of way.
I looked into his file and looked at the picture in it.
He was about my height, five feet, eight inches tall.
He had short brown hair and the cutest little glasses.
I had to find him a date. “Listen Marc, I am really invested in finding you ‘the one,’” I said, “I don’t know why but I feel a connection to you, and feel that maybe I need to give you some pointers at getting you that second date.”
I felt a connection to him, because I secretly wanted to date him myself, but I had absolutely no idea what appropriate blind date etiquette was.
The last blind date I went on, I had gotten totally wasted and ended up making out with the bartender at the restaurant where I had met my blind date.

“Could you help me?” Marc asked.

It was totally against the rules, but I figured, what the hell?
If he ends up getting married in a few months to the woman of his dreams then everyone will be happy; and if he realizes that he is gay and wants to be with me, then it’s win win for the both of us.

I met Marc one night at a bar down the street from my office.
I walked up to him and introduced myself.
It was like I was going on an It’s Just Lunch Date of my own.

“Thanks for meeting me,” my dorky new friend said.
He was just so cute with his glasses.
We sat down and ordered a few drinks.
“Why do you think I am not meeting anyone?”

“I am not really sure, Marc . You are just as cute as you could be,” I said.
One beer and I was already flirting with a straight client, “what do you find interesting in a woman?”

“Their hair,” he replied.

“Excuse me?”

“Their hair,” he said again.
“You can tell a lot about a woman by her hair.”
He could tell I was confused. “I don’t know.
You can tell if a woman is a good match by the way she presents herself and I think that a woman with good hair usually has her shit together.
All of the women who you have set me up with had unmanageable hair, which means their lives must be a mess.
A woman with bad hair is usually bad at life.”

I didn’t know how to respond so I just said, “you know what, I think you are right.” After another beer and a few minutes of thinking about, I really did think Marc was right.
All of the woman I knew who had unmanageable hair were messes.
I remember when I was younger, my mother’s hair was always a mess and Lord knows she definitely didn’t have her shit together.
Marc and I had a few more beers and I gave him some drunken pointers on how to get a second date. Such as, get her drunk in hopes she winds up in your bed the next morning.
There’s your second date.
I don’t know if it helped, but I felt bad for the guy.
I also told him that he needed to offer to pick up the check when he took woman out for dinner.

“I have no intention of paying for a stranger’s meal,” he said.

“Well, if you are interested in a woman, then you need to show her your interest.
Picking up the check is a nice gesture.”

“But what if I never see her again?
Then I have just lost nine dollars that I will never get back!”
Where the hell was he taking his dates?
Denny’s?

“Trust me.”

A few weeks later, Marc went on hold so he could date, Nancy, a girl from the service, exclusively. I think our little pep talk had something to do with it. And the fact that I told Nancy to get her hair blown out before meeting Marc probably didn’t hurt either.

Not all of our clients were as easy to deal with as Marc.
One woman, Rose, nearly drove me to an early grave.
She was about fifty years old and weighed about fifty pounds.
I don’t know if she was anorexic or just skinny, but she was frightening to look at and scared the shit out of me every time we spoke on the phone.
When her time for a date rolled around, I hesitated calling her, but was forced to by my precarious boss.

“Rose?”
I said into the phone.

“Who the hell is this?”
Rose responded.

“It’s Mark from It’s Just Lunch.”

“Oh yeah. What’s up you little fairy?
You gotta date for me?”

“Ha Ha. Yea.
His name is Ron.”

“Is he cute? Or is he a fatty like that last guy you set me up with?”
Thinking she considered any one over fifty pounds a fatty, I responded:

“No, he is fit.
He’s very nice.
He works for the government.”