Come Here Often?

For the past year or so I’ve been going to the same bar every Thursday night with the same group of friends. Always in tow is Kristen, a tiny and adorable German whose new, most cherished past time is innocently flirting with and teasing poor, stupid American boys, something that is old news to me, but makes her about as exhilarated as a redneck at a family reunion.

Our Thursday night venue is essentially unbeatable, mostly because each week they have ONE dollar beers. Granted, these beers are of the watered down High Life variety, but I’ve been eagerly ordering PBR for close to a decade now, so I’m more than satisfied with these semi-clear, dollar drinks in Dixie cups that are sloshed in my direction. Even more exciting is that until very recently when my friend and most favorite bartender of all time got the unceremonious and unnecessary boot, these dollar drinks were free. But perhaps the best part of this fine establishment is the overall ambiance, as the bar is undeniably Boston: its name is of questionable Irish origin, the front room is adorned with booths upholstered in extremely ugly fabric, single lightbulbs dangle from the ceiling, the bathroom smells like a sewage dump, and the entire pub is lacking any sort of style or class whatsoever. On a Thursday night the back room is packed to the gills with college kids and a sprinkling of people, such as myself, who wish they were still in college, slugging cheap beer and mercilessly flirting with strangers. Also, as an aspiring cougar, you can only imagine how exciting this bar on a Thursday is for me: $1.00 drinks and cute boys, all born in the 90’s? Restrain me. Please.

Every week Kristen and I scope out our usual corner where we have a direct line of sight to the front door enabling us to judgmentally inspect everyone who swaggers in, from dopey guys who look like they’ve never been in a bar before, to girls who have undoubtedly been drinking since the a.m. hours and are dressed as if they forgot a key component to their ensembles, such as, say, their pants. Towards the end of the school year last year (yep, I said school year), we were running into the same group of “regular” guys each week. Kristen thought one in particular was extra cute, although I not as much, as upon our initial meeting he had pulled up his cargo shorts with extreme gusto to display a gigantic, pink, bumpy, shiny, crooked, moist looking scar that he apparently got playing lacrosse. I was less than turned on, but despite his disfigured leg and the fact it was entirely plausible he was a solid ten years younger than us, he seemed mostly OK, so I spent several weeks standing awkwardly by as Kristen flirted with Lacrosse Boy.

One week Lacrosse Boy rolled in with a much larger band of boys than usual. He immediately charged toward Kristen, who forgot I existed in about .03 seconds. The two of them turned their backs to me while he showed her his mutilated thigh yet again, and I was left alone with my stack of empty plastic cups. I surveyed the crowd of dudes who had accompanied Lacrosse Boy and decided that one seemed at least semi-acceptable. I scooted on over next to him, a hulking, stupid looking guy who, in the ensuing conversation, didn’t do much to make me think otherwise:

Me: Hey. So you’re friends with [Lacrosse Boy]?
Big Stupid Hulk: Uh, yeah. You know that girl he’s talking to?
Me: Yeah! We came here together.
BSH: She’s German?
Me [laughing at my forthcoming super clever response]: Ja.
BSH [confused]: So, are you German, too?
Me: No.
BSH: Do you speak German?
Me: Nah, I’m still working on English. 
[FYI: This is my go-to joke, which I use all the time when the topic of bilingual capabilities arises.]
BSH: So...you’re not American?
Me: What? No. I am.
BSH: So why can’t you speak English?
Me: I can. I was joking.
BSH: But then why would you need to work on it? Are you taking classes?
Me: No. I’m American. I speak English.
BSH: Well then why did you say you were working on it? You’re not taking classes?
Me: No, I’m not. I’m American. I’m from Boston.
BSH [thinks for a moment]: ...So why don’t you know English?

I stared at BSH for a few seconds hoping he would wink and say “Just kidding!” but when it was clear BSH was as serious as a heart attack, I hightailed it to the other side of the bar, convinced that if I stayed in his vicinity much longer I would begin to rapidly devolve. Kristen didn’t see me go, and as typically happens, she was now surrounded by Lacrosse Boy’s complete retinue, all of whom were totally enthralled with her European-ness and dying for her to, um, sample their schnitzels.

I moped for a bit, feeling old, unwanted, and bummed out that guys can really be that dumb, when another boy approached me, a look of prepubescent provocativeness plastered to a face that was quite obviously incapable of growing even the fine-haired mustache of an 8th grader. He tried some pathetic pick-up line I was sure I’d recently heard on How I Met Your Mother, and when I looked at him with total revulsion, his persistence only increased. Soon enough I found myself lying that not only did I have a boyfriend, but that we lived together, would be engaged by New Year’s, and that I was very, very happy. The little boy refused to surrender, so with a look of “Are you even serious right now?” I excused myself to head to the bathroom.

Trying not to inhale the fumes of who-knows-what that hovered like a cloud of dirt following Pig-Pen in a Peanuts cartoon, I hunkered down in a restroom stall for close to half an hour, sort of longing to disappear, very sure Kristen had yet to notice my absence, slightly wishing that all the lies I told that night were true, and considering how down and out I now felt about the Human Race, especially those that seemed to frequent this bar, wishing I couldn’t speak a single word of English. 

What happens in under an hour when the drinks are $1