Beernoculars - Caution: Objects May Be Larger Than They Appear

Reference is made to the late ‘90s and the San Francisco Bay area. I’m two years out of law school I’ve decided to move to California and start a career in venture capital. Being an idiot, I managed to avoid working in tech and instead picked the rockin’ area of healthcare services. The dotcom bubble had caused rents in San Fran to go crazy and I didn’t have the bank for rent in the Mission area much less the Marina or Knob Hill. Settling for some rat-trap in Walnut Creek (think Naperville w/ hills and mountains), I settled into my new life by … drinking very heavily. Sudden, extreme drunkenness would come out of nowhere.

Reference is made to a Friday night in the summer of 1999. It was typical summer weather for the Bay area – overcast, temperature in the seventies but with a cold wind. In the late afternoon I ditch work and take the BART into San Fran to meet one of my college friends who’d just flown in to SFO. My friend, who we’ll call Mike (because that’s his actual name), lived down in L.A. and we’d taken to trading weekends every month or so, trolling the bars of our respective cities for fun, adventure, and good conversation (a.k.a. getting wasted and looking for women). Getting to the Irish Bank, Mike already had 2 Guinness and I join him at the bar. We start catching-up over drinks – typical bullshit about people, sports, politics, and money. Soon it’s 7 PM and we’ve both had 8 or 9 beers each. The Bank is packed and it’s relatively social, yet we’re affected by bar angst (this is when the bar is perfectly fine but, in your buzzed state, you convince yourself there’s a better scene someplace else). Soon we are looking for a taxi and heading to the Mission.

Reference is made to Skylark, a hip little place in the heart of the Mission area. The crowd is more sophisticated, full of alternative rockers and want-to-be artists, listening to the techno that was so popular at the time. I’m in love with one the waitresses that works there, so this is why we find ourselves sitting at the back of the bar being served by … another waitress. Back then vodka was such the hip thing to have, so I’ve switched to vodka martinis and Mike is having some yuppie microbrew. Mike and I have stopped talking now because we’re getting hammered and want to talk to women. We strike up conversation with two girls who are clearly on the prowl. Mike says almost nothing so I have to carry things along. By now I’m so drunk I’m not sure if I’m attracted to either one of them, but I realize that one is larger than the other so, naturally, I go for the smaller one. Of course, smaller is a relative term. I start buying drinks and shots (though I could barely afford to) and the 4 of us get very wasted. At some point I’m taking a piss in the men’s room and look at myself in the mirror: conservative haircut parted at the side, crumpled Brooks Brothers blue suit, a white shirt with Guinness stains on the sleeve, and a rep tie. I think, “Could I be a bigger asshole?” Then that age-old question is answered as I pay the bill and the 4 of us leave for … a club.

Reference is made to god-knows-where. It’s now 11 or so. I nearly piss myself waiting in line, but soon I’m buying drinks in some mostly-gay club that I’ll go out on a limb to say was in the Castro. Mike is quiet, drunk and scared. I am staring at the little/big girl’s chest and imagining that she’s the best person I ever met, a veritable sex machine waiting for me to drive. We connected over some issue – I can’t remember what it was – probably music. Suddenly I’m dancing with her and she’s grinding on me and all of these good-looking gay guys are rolling their eyes. I’m drinking some bottled beer, which I managed to drop in the middle of the dance floor, attempt to pick up, and then fall over. Then I find myself in a bathroom stall with Little/Big and I’m receiving a Clintonesque expression of affection to no avail. This sobered me up and I realized that if Little/Big and I end up in a relationship, we’re going to save a lot on pants because she’s the same size as me. I hear people snickering in the bathroom and I’m suddenly asking myself, “What the fuck am I doing?” I cancel the sex and extricate myself from the awkwardness, find Mike who’s been babysitting Big/Big, who’s wearing my tie for some reason, and we split.

Reference is made to the last BART out of the city to Walnut Creek. Mike and I sit down and I promptly pass out. Next thing I know I wake up a minute before getting to my stop and see that Mike has disappeared. I had a cell phone but Mike didn’t, so calling him was not an option. I get off the train and wisely decided that I needed another drink. It’s only 1 AM after all, so I walk to Crogan’s, this little Irish bar in the Creek where I’m in love with one of the waitresses. I’m mad at Mike because I think he’s ditched me because of the Big/Big-bisexual club situation. My anger sobered me up some more, so I manage to nurse a few more beers and talk to my waitress. Being coherent my somewhat limited charm returns, and I end up closing the place and she comes home with me.

Reference is made to 4 AM in my crappy little apartment. I’ve got the waitresses’ shirt off and I’m fumbling around, making a great case for her not to like me when the doorbell rings. I open the door and it’s noble, brave Mike – like a returning golden retriever from some animal adventure movie – standing there with his bag, asking me for money to pay a cabbie. I had to borrow cash from the poor waitress. Mike tells me that while we were on the train he had to throw-up, so when the train reached a stop he went running off to find a bathroom. He tried waking me but I slept through it. He got off at the Rockridge stop in Berkeley, found a bathroom and puked. When he was finally done he came out only to find the station had closed and locked-up. He had no idea we took the last train of the night and BART shut-down. So he was trapped in the station for a few hours until some janitor let him out. After he escaped, Mike had to find a cab and somehow describe getting up to my place, which took them forever and resulted in a $50 fair. Mike takes the couch and I go to bed, pass out and wake-up at noon the next day in a panic – the waitress is gone (though we ended up dating for a while after that), I remember Little/Big, the club, all the money spent, poor Mike’s misadventure, the shit I said to the waitress trying to pick her up… my regret and shame ran deep.

- Bryan the Anarchist
Los Angeles