Toe the Line

Here’s something that happened just a couple weeks ago that many of you have probably already heard me whine about. If so, thanks for the hit, and you are now free to go about your daily routine and get on with the rest of your lives.

As most of you are unfortunately aware, my dad plays drums in a band. It’s an Old Man Band that sings covers of songs like American Pie and Mustang Sally. If you ask me, it’s all pretty humiliating, but back in the day, in order to get a good crowd for various “gigs,” my father would promise to pick up the tab for me and any friends I brought along. Luckily for me, by the end of those nights, most all my buddies were too drunk to even remember my father was in a band, so it was unquestionably a Win-Win-Win for everyone. Eventually my dad decided he no longer needed me as a groupie (or rather, got sick of me ordering Patron shots for all), and the open bar offer was rescinded. But then just a couple weeks ago, my dad’s band was playing in Faneuil Hall, and, desperate to have a good showing, the open bar proposition was reinstated. Yay!

Here’s another thing I’ve been moaning about recently: I don’t have very many friends here in the 617, or at least very many friends who aren’t either engaged or married or like to stay out past 8:30 on a Saturday night. The only pal I could muster up to come out for the free drinks was Kiki, and thankfully she was more than pleased to partake. She had tickets to some show earlier in the evening, but promised to meet me the moment it was over. She is the most punctual person on the planet and I am late for about everything in life, so when I showed up with my dad, who promptly forgot I existed as he went into Band Mode, and she wasn’t there, I knew it was a bad sign. I texted and called, but to no avail, so I plunked myself down at the bar and ordered a drink.

An hour later Kiki busted into the bar: the show had been twice as long as she’d expected. I was thrilled she had finally come though because, frankly, I was getting super sick of hearing about the upcoming Social Sports Club tee-ball tournament/joint bachelor-bachelorette parties the two couples next to me were heartily anticipating. Plus, once you’re on drink number three by yourself, things just start to go a little bit beyond pathetic.

Things started out fun as they always do. After another beer though I headed to the bathroom. After sufficiently drying my hands, some woman came up to me and said, “SweetHAAAHT! You look fabulous!” The Boston accent was horrendous, but the compliment made me feel fairly excellent, so as I returned to the bar and to Kiki, chuckling to myself over what she’d said. Apparently I wasn’t paying as much attention as I should have been because as I was approaching my seat, a girl in an repulsive red top and kitten heeled shoes (don’t even get me started) took a solid step back and landed squarely on the middle toe of my right foot.

I like to think I’m not a huge baby when it comes to pain, but as she smashed her heel into my toe I was pretty positive I was going to perish, but only after dramatically passing out in the middle of the dance floor from extreme blood loss. The girl in the red shirt ignored the entire situation as I hobbled back to my bar stool and immediately ripped off my peep-toe heels: I’d rather lose the toe entirely than ruin one of my favorite pairs of shoes. A flap of skin the size of a quarter was hanging off my toe and, as expected, there was a divot in the shape of the aforementioned kitten heel right below my toenail, gushing blood. Kiki hurried off to secure some Band-Aids from the bouncer while I clutched my foot and tried not to bleed all over everyone and everything.

I could barely move my toe, but four Band-Aids later, the bleeding had semi-subsided so I shoved my swollen toes back into my shoes (there is nothing, and I repeat nothing, more unsanitary than going barefoot at any sort of public establishment). I did a bunch of complaining, but eventually just resigned myself to ordering another free beer to numb the pain. As my and Kiki’s drinks arrived so did an order of sweet potato fries for the girl next to me, which Kiki was suddenly absolutely dying to consume. I thought about stealing a few since the girl who had ordered them appeared to be unable to formulate a coherent sentence as she took out single dollar bills from her velcro wallet one at a time, counting them loudly as she did so to pay for her treat. Then, just as I was creeping towards the fries, Sweet Potato Fry Girl started backing up into me. This was a fairly spacious bar which wasn’t overly crowded so there was no reason this girl needed to close in on the space between us. As she made her way towards me, I realized she wasn’t moving in reverse because she had lost control of any and all motor skills and suddenly couldn’t stand up straight: she was instead backing up because a tall boy with bottom braces and a digital watch was moving in on her.

“Um?” I glanced at Kiki who was laughing uncontrollably. Sweet Potato Fry Girl was now sitting on my lap: while I was seated facing the bar, she was facing sideways, and had walked backwards so far that her rear end was literally resting against my thigh. I scooted away loudly with an unfriendly “Excuse me!” but she just backed up farther and resumed her previous position. Now, this would all be fine and dandy, if only slightly irritating, if the next part of the story wasn’t that Braces Boy hadn’t lurched in and inserted his overly moist tongue into her mouth while she was on my lap. They slobbered all over each other all throughout Brown Eyed Girl and Witchy Woman and somewhere during the bridge of Valerie, they finally stopped making out on my lap. Honestly, if I had moved my head four inches forward, I could’ve partaken myself.

And that’s about where my night ended, with a broken, bleeding toe and a drunk couple playing tonsil hockey on my lap, while Kiki doubled over and eventually snorted out an entire IPA through her nose. Oh, and speaking of the male sex ignoring my essential existence? Here’s a good one for you: Throughout this entire ordeal my father, who I’m told contributed fairly significantly to my genetic makeup and who was seated about twelve feet away from me, was utterly and completely oblivious to my plight and when I told him what had happened he said in stone cold seriousness, “Oh, really? I didn’t even see you sitting there.”

(No picture this week, since I'm pretty positive no one is interested in viewing my mangled toe...)