It’s Saturday night. I’m tired. I’m still using a crutch after my soccer injury. Even still, I’m not *quite* ready to go home after dinner with April. So I text my roommate, Vinny, and ask him if he wants to get ONE drink in Old Town. Famous last words, I know.
We head to Murphy’s and, because I’m still a gimp, we take a seat near the stage instead of posting up at the bar. The tables are close together and we soon make friends with the people sitting next to us. Brad and Carrie are a nice, slightly older couple (late 30s, early 40s maybe) from Texas. We chitchat about college football, their children, and their seething hatred of liberals. Um. Okay. Whatevs.
Brad seems to have that quality that few married men possess – the ability to be complimentary toward other women without being skeevy. He makes a few comments in front of his wife about how pretty I am. And because his wife is sitting right there, I don’t get a creepy vibe at all. Let’s call this EVIDENCE: EXHIBIT 1.
I get on stage to sing a song with the Irish musician and I notice that Brad has his phone out and is taking a video of my performance. Weird. But still – Carrie is sitting there unperturbed so again, I don’t think anything of it. Enter into EVIDENCE: EXHIBIT B.
Vinny is bored and wants a more lively crowd. Married folks and manly marines aren’t cutting it for him. We decide to go to the Bayou Room. It’s the late-night dance spot in Old Town, Alexandria. My other roommate, Padraig, described it as “the drain at the bottom of the bathtub that is Old Town… all of the scum eventually ends up there.” Carrie and Brad ask to join us… and hey, why not?
Carrie walks with Vinny out ahead and Brad stays back to help me as I gimp along. Huh. That’s awfully nice of him. For your consideration, EVIDENCE: EXHIBIT C.
As soon as we walk into the Bayou Room Vinny heads to the bathroom and Carrie bounces off to the bar. A split second later Brad’s hands are everywhere. HOLY SHIT: EXHIBIT D. What. The. Fuck. I’m confused. A couple of thoughts run through my head. “Ewww” “Wait – you’re married!” “Your wife is tall and buxom and I’m on a crutch… I can’t run away from her.” As soon as Vinny returns I tell him quickly that we’re leaving. The urgency in my voice means he doesn’t stop to question me. We leave.
My awesome roommate says he’ll go get the car so I don’t have to hobble myself the 10 blocks there. Brad and Carrie emerge and I stiffen. Yikes. They get into a cab. Whew. But the cab doesn’t leave. And then a second later Brad gets back out.
I am not upset that they asked. I can’t judge – they are both obviously into it. Arguably she is more interested than he is. Everything else aside, I get angry after he asks the second time. I’m alone. On a crutch. Waiting for my roommate to come get me. Brad says “Oh Vinny? He’s not coming back for you… he said he was heading home.” SERIOUSLY?! You think my only options are a. wait for my roommate or b. go home with swingers? I’m sorry, buddy, but there are MANY options besides those two. And now I’m just pissed off.
As they drive off I wonder how I could be so naive. I swear to you I didn’t see this coming. That’s why hindsight is a motherfucker. Did I accidentally stumble onto an obscure word that swingers use? Was it because I mentioned playing ice hockey in college? Did my offer to babysit imply some darker, deviant behavior?
Vinny is even more upset than I am when I tell him about our swinging friends. “What the hell? I wasn’t part of the package? What am I… chopped liver?” Don’t get me wrong – Vinny didn’t want to go to the party either. But he would’ve at least appreciated an invite.