friends don’t let weird guys bike drunk

The problem with having people that you know in real life read your blog is that every now and then one of them will say, “Hey, you should really blog about that time that we…” and you want to be all, “I don’t take requests, punk, what am I, your wedding DJ?” Except that you wouldn’t really say that. Anyway, this is one story-by-request that was fun to write about and required very little prodding.

So my friend Tim and I are out way too late this past Monday, of all nights. I’m coming back from the ladies and I spot Drunk Guy talking to him. And by talking, I mean babbling while Tim avoids eye contact. He’d been at the bar for awhile and only made his approach when I was away. Hence, Tim was basically getting picked up. I loved this.

Drunk Guy said his sister thinks he drinks too much but that he’d only had 11 or 12 that night; I said he should call her right then and let me talk to her. He said he lived down the road and mentioned his cellar, and then said that if we brought beers we could all go there. What? We quickly declined, or as Tim put it, diffused that movie-of-the-week murder spectacular. He said he was 37 but he looked 57.

It actually reminded me of that girl from grad school that I didn’t really like but that I felt guilty about not liking, until I had a reason to. Although, really, his being drunk and interrupting our conversation might have been enough of a reason in the first place, but I guess I was feeling pretty patient. Or was, until a few minutes went by and then he decided to sit down with us. He sat next to Tim; I was starting to feel like the poor guy would’ve been molested if I hadn’t been there.

So, then Drunk Guy says something about “the Jews.” Then he busts out with the n word. I thought I must have heard him wrong; this is 2006, right? And we’re in the capital of arguably the most liberal state in the country, RIGHT? I asked him what he’d said, giving him the benefit of the alcoholic doubt. He repeated himself. I looked at Tim and shook my head. Not a “can you believe this guy?” shake, but a “NO NO NO absolutely no more of this” shake.

Then Tim said, “Could you excuse us?” Drunk Guy said sure, and then when he saw we weren’t getting up, he figured out what that request meant and left. Left on his BIKE to ride home at least a mile in SUBZERO temperatures, because that’s what you do on a Monday night.

So, yeah. It will always be the night that my (male) friend got hit on by a drunken, racist, anti-semitic, frostbitten bike rider, and for that I will always be grateful.

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