I’m Engaging In The Chase, Part IX

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I'm Engaging In The Chase, Part IX

I could give you some bullshit about me not really caring that my buddy had started making out with Phoebe at the bar. And the truth is, I was over it when I woke up on Saturday morning after getting a healthy ten hours of sleep. But in the moment, as I said goodbye to Phoebe, I felt like a chump. A cuckolded, defeated loser. I hopped in a cab and scoffed as the driver asked how my night was going. I told him I was ready for bed, and he didn’t ask me any more questions after that, probably fearful that I was going to yak in his backseat.

I used the time alone in that cab to reflect. To look at my situation and put it in perspective. Did I really see a future with Phoebe, a girl I had met on Bumble and hooked up with a mere three hours after meeting her in real life? Not sure. It’s not likely that anything serious or substantial would have happened had Phoebe decided to keep her tongue in her mouth that night. But I’m not going to lie and say that it didn’t irk me just a little bit when I was sitting in the backseat of that cab alone.

Sometimes all you can do is laugh. The guy who had made a move on Phoebe is one of my best friends in the city. We were all pretty liquored up when we arrived at that bar, and I didn’t care enough about it to confront him because I don’t get in fights. Talking things out is always much easier.

The next morning I awoke to a voicemail from said friend. He had called a half hour before I woke up, and since I keep my phone on do not disturb mode most nights before going to bed, I didn’t see it until I woke up. The message was short and sweet.

“Dude…honestly don’t know what happened last night. Heard I made a move on your girl? I woke up on her couch this morning. We didn’t hook up. I woke up next to a trash can full of vomit if that tells you anything. Come by my place, we’re getting brunch in an hour.”

And just like that, it was squashed. Literally did not have to say another word about it when I arrived in my friends living room some thirty minutes later. Yeah, there was some light ribbing about me getting my girl swooped, but if you’re not roasting your friends on a semi-regular basis, you’re probably not that tight to begin with. There was champagne and orange juice already being consumed when I got to the apartment, and we were out the door forty minutes after that, walking to a restaurant for brunch in 60-degree weather in mid-February. Phoebe was no longer of any concern.

Saturday brunch was nothing out of the ordinary for me and the ten others that came along. I had chicken and waffles, which is strange because I’m usually an omelet guy. I also opted for mimosas instead of my usual bloody mary order. Maybe my conscious was telling me to shake things up after my debacle Friday.

In any case, I doubt it will surprise anyone that we were overserved and stumbling out of the restaurant by 2:00 p.m. With nowhere to go and the temperature outside maintaining at something in the low-50’s, we opted for the Bud Light Graveyard, also known as my rooftop.

Imbibing continued under the sun for two hours, at which time I retreated to my room, where I was planning on taking a piss and grabbing my phone off of the charger. I had a text from a friend waiting for me who was visiting from out of town. He was at a bar called The Diag, some two miles away from my apartment, and asked if I would be interested in meeting him there. The Diag, a popular bar here in Chicago, is named so as an ode to an area on the University of Michigan’s campus where students sometimes congregate. I loathe that school with the fire of a thousand suns, but I can’t deny that it is a solid bar if you’re looking to have a few pitchers of light beer in the late afternoon. With no other real plans on the horizon, I went back up to the rooftop to announce that I would be walking to The Diag. No one from the original crew felt like going, so I left them right there on the roof to enjoy the waning sun and a respectable view of the Chicago skyline.

Thirty to forty minutes later and I had arrived at the bar. My first order of business was getting a pitcher of whatever the special was that night. PBR is five bucks per? Fine with me, barkeep. Give me two.

My buddy had apparently spotted me as I stood at the bar waiting for my pitcher, and he greeted me as any old, incredibly drunk friend would- with a wet willy and a firm spank on the ass. We spent the next hour shooting the shit and I met his new girlfriend who he was visiting for the weekend. This would not be the last time that night that my ass would be getting spanked.

At this point, I was content with the night. I figured I’d stay here for a while longer and parlay this into a drunk dinner somewhere or maybe just another dive somewhere. I felt a vibration in my pocket as I sat at the table enjoying beer and good people. Enter Allison, whom I’m sure you all remember as the girl who unceremoniously dropped me from her roster a few weeks back.

Allison: Hey are you at the diag right now?
Read 7:03 PM
Me: uhhh yeah why?
Allison: I see you.
Read: 7:15 PM

Five minutes later, Allison was sauntering up to my table. I could see her as she pushed past a group of guys taking shots. My heart rate increased. I know what you’re thinking. No way she’s at the same fucking bar as you. That’s too big of a coincidence.

Well, sort of, but also not really. Despite growing up in Ohio, Allison is a big Michigan fan and they also had a basketball game that day, so her being there is not all that crazy. Me, on the other hand? If my buddy who I hadn’t seen in a few months wasn’t there, there’s no chance I’d be sitting there drinking beers. Call it luck. Call it divine intervention. Call it whatever you want.

I hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. The people I was with didn’t know our history. I spent the next few minutes introducing her to everyone at our table. Following introductions, we became the two people in a group who I always hate. The ones detached from the group conversations. For about 15 minutes, we sat there, talked about how crazy it was that I was at this bar, and then decided to catch a cab back to her place. Conservative estimate? I was in and out of her bed in 45 minutes. Allison told me that I couldn’t spend the night. I put my clothes on, and as I was walking out her front door she slapped me on the ass.

“Good job tonight, Cowboy. Don’t call me.”

Image via John Naffziger

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Johnny D

fashion icon. @dudaronomy on twitter. e-mail:

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