Inside My Head

the literary rantings of Angie Frissore

Don’t be that guy.


Samantha showed up at the house sporting a tight black tube top and a pair of ripped-up, skin-tight Calvin Klein jeans. Her arrival was an obvious event, as the sounds of whooping cat calls from passing drivers filtered in through the window. I looked out to see her coming up the walkway.



She had some catching up to do. Jeff and I were well into our night-out-drinking pre-game ritual, having gorged ourselves on Big Macs and preparing to light another one of Jeff’s expertly rolled blunts.



This particular weekend’s big night out featured a drive into town to one of my favorite dives to see a really great band that had played in the past with Dear Leader. As per our usual arrangement, Jeff had agreed to do the driving, given that my car would be the night’s transportation. Jeff was not only one of a few select people I would willingly entrust with my car, but more importantly, he was the only person I trusted to stay sober enough to actually get us home in one piece.



“Dude…” Jeff muttered, almost as if to himself. “Do you know what would be fantastic right now??”



Samantha and I looked at each other as Jeff passed me the blunt. We were waiting for it – the comment that was coming which would send us into giggling messes. “No…”I coughed. “I do not know what would be fantastic right now. But something tells me you do.”



“I do. And soon you will as well. But not until Samantha hits that, so then I can hit that, and then all shall be revealed.”



“Fuck that, we are on the verge of unlocking the secret to ultimate happiness here. Just tell us already!” I pleaded. I needed to know.



Jeff stared at me blankly for a few seconds.






I stared at Jeff blankly for a few seconds, stood up, grabbed my keys, and snatched the blunt out of Jeff’s hand.



“Jeff’s had enough. Let’s go.”





We got to the club as the first of several opening bands was just getting into their set. We made our way directly to the bar, which was ridiculously easy, considering we were more than likely the only patrons there over 21. I glanced around the half-empty room, almost nostalgic for the days when the veil of cigarette smoke masked the lonely, still-sober faces of 9:30 on a Saturday night.



“I feel like frickin’ Grandma Moses here,” Samantha whined, having almost finished her first drink already. While I knew where she was going with this, I couldn’t really protest…at this particular moment, there was not a good time to be had in the club. The downfall of all-ages shows is that it’s usually a sign of an underage band, which tends to draw only underage people.



“Yeah, and I feel like a pedophile,” Jeff muttered. “There are girls here that I definitely do not feel right looking at.”



And with that, I succumbed to Samantha’s peer pressure to venture out into the neighborhood to find a more suitable establishment for the time being.



“I don’t care where we go, but we’re coming back,” I stated assertively. “I am not missing this show.” I knew that once we found a new place to drink, Samantha would try to insist that we stay there.



We crossed Lexington Ave and entered the first bar we came across. A bored DJ was spinning 80’s hits to an empty dance floor as a handful of people sat at the bar. Samantha was scouting the place for someone – anyone – she could flirt with, while Jeff and I focused on the drinks we had just ordered and quietly people watched.



After awhile, the bar started to pick up as packs of college kids and other city dwellers circulated through. I had been left at the bar with a short, but relatively good looking Australian guy who had failed miserably at getting Samantha’s attention. Bored, I brushed off the creepiness of being hit on by one of Samantha’s rejects and allowed him to flirt with me. By this point, I was too drunk to really make out what he was saying, so I just acted as cute and flirty as I could to overcompensate for not having the slightest clue what he was talking about.



“Do you know what time it is?” I asked him, interrupting a story about boarding school in New Zealand and selling his art to Aborigines (I think).



“Um….yeah, it’s quarter past eleven,” he replied, unphased by my rudeness. I loved the liberty of being a woman, especially a drunk woman. Even the nastiest of behavior can be interpreted as cute on most occasions.



“Shit!” I spun around quickly, desperately looking for Samantha and Jeff. I spotted them near the door, as if I had been keeping them there unwillingly, and rushed over to them. The Aussie followed.



“We gotta go…now!” I stammered. The show was going to start any minute, and I was drunk, and I was not going to miss it. “And you too! You gotta come too.”



I grabbed the Aussie’s hand and the four of us made our drunken way back to the Hemingway. I was on a mission, and hadn’t noticed Samantha’s protests.



“You don’t need us there, man….come on, let’s back to the other bar,” she pleaded.



“No. No fucking way. I knew you’d pull this. I paid for your fucking ticket, we’re seeing this show.” I was starting to get angry. I did not like to be drunk and angry.



I walked back into the club with the Aussie in tow. A band was playing, but I was too drunk to tell which band.



“Dude….is this Taxpayer? Did I miss them?” I asked of a random bearded guy whose arm I had grabbed.



“I am Taxpayer.”



I stared blankly at him for a second. Had I really just done that? Had I really just asked the lead singer of the band whom I had paid to see if the band onstage was his?



“And I,” I offered, reaching out to shake his hand, “am an asshole!”




November 20, 2008 - Posted by | No Messages - Excerpts from the Draft | , ,

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