Year of the Chick

  At least there’ll be loads of free booze...

  ***

  At five p.m. we trudged through the slush on our way to the pub up the street.

  “I am so damn sick of these neighbourhood pubs,” I whined, as I walked alongside Eleanor and Amy, with my lanky boss Todd and several others from our team up ahead.

  “I know!” said Amy. “It’s always the same type of pub. They can theme it English or Irish or Welsh, but it’s the same velour benches and the same gross men who stare.”

  Eleanor nodded in agreement. “Any guy who’s hot is AT LEAST four subway stops south of here.”

  “And it’s not like we have any dateable guys in the office,” added Amy.

  “But you already have a boyfriend,” I said. I hated hearing people share in my annoyance, when I knew for a fact they were happy.

  Is that what empathy is? Then send it back.

  Before I could curse her out loud, my mind flooded over with images of jerky office guys, married office guys, and recycled office man-whores. Ugh. Amy was definitely lucky.

  Pretty soon we arrived at the pub called Delaney’s, complete with rotting wooden archways and green velour upholstery.

  “I don’t think we’ve been to this one before,” mentioned Eleanor, as she slowly loosened her scarf.

  “No we haven’t, but the grade-A clientele seems strangely familiar.” I glanced at the front of the pub, which was buzzing with dirty old men, whose white heads of hair were rivaled only by the puffy white fur escaping proudly from their chests. Suddenly I felt unsettled in my cleavage-heavy top, as I cautiously unbuttoned my coat. I was definitely feeling exposed, but at least it flowed away from my body (a recent purchase after Laura’s harsh critique on my shitty wardrobe).

  “Hello ladies! Join us for a game of darts?” The man with the most amount of chest hair (and therefore the leader of the old-man pack) smiled through his grey and white whiskers.

  Amy smiled back warmly, instantly regretting the move. We all knew why, as the man soaked up her smile like an open invitation.

  “You’re very beautiful, young lady. Let me buy you a beer.”

  “You idiot!” I whispered to Amy. “How many times have I told you? FROWN when you get propositioned!”

  “I know, but it’s my natural reflex to smile.”

  I had no real concept of this reflex, as I rationed my smiles like bags of flour in the Great Depression.

  We eventually eluded the men, finding our group of tables near the back of the bar. All the while the old men’s eyes stayed locked on our boobs or butts.

  The first thing I noticed was the pitchers of beer at our table. The second thing I noticed was a multitude of appetizers. This was our company’s way of boosting morale, a week after telling us our raises would be cancelled for the year. A retail recession was the cause, and yet the VPs had just received shiny new BlackBerrys.

  Somebody needs to get punched.

  As my head began to swirl with feelings of rage, I decided to cope with a one-night-only hiatus from the diet. This meant I was allowed to take a deep breath and then inhale some beer and nachos.

  And a chunk of cheesy garlic bread.

  And some vodka Seven-Ups.

  And a plate of chicken wings.

  Amy, Eleanor, and twenty other office-mates were right alongside me in this binge. By half past seven we were a buzzed and burping group.

  Once we stopped to breathe and loosen our belts, Todd called for everyone’s attention. I assumed it was a speech to acknowledge his minions’ excellent work (and minimal reward).

  “Alright everyone. Gather up the hot sauce. We’re having a chug-off.”

  Or maybe it’s not a speech after all.

  Ten or so people immediately fell into the background, with the rest of the group focused solely on me.

  “This is gonna be good,” said an office oaf named Bruce. All giant limbs, sausage fingers and grade school level of conversation, I really abhorred the fellow.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I said.

  “Well you know, you’re Indian…you can handle the heat.”

  I wasn’t sure if I should laugh, or kick the filthy ogre in his scrotum.

  “Ohhh, so because I’m Indian I’m an automatic spice freak. Well go ask my mom how I cry when I eat something spicy.”

  Dumb-dumb scratched his head. “Well that’s messed up, you’re supposed to love spices.”

  “And you’re supposed to love meat-loaf; why don’t you ask your mom to whip you up a fresh batch?”

  Everyone laughed. Everyone always laughed at my drunken verbal bitch-slaps, like they couldn’t even sense my legitimate rage. Maybe my upward-inflecting “valley girl” voice was to blame.

  The hot sauce challenge soon commenced, as Amy took center stage. With Todd, two burly guys and a wasabi-addicted Asian as her competition, she didn’t stand a chance.

  At the sound of “Go!” the five contestants poured the sauce down their gullets, from large red bottles that belonged to the bar. In any other bar we might’ve been kicked out, but here all the waitresses were cheering right along.

  The winner would be the one who could chug down the sauce for the longest, without ever stopping to cry, cough, or puke.

  The first to fail was boss-man Todd. Pfft...big talker.

  Next was burly fellow number-one, who only made it through about a fifth of the bottle. Burly dude number-two followed suit, with only five more seconds of chugging to his name.

  Amy and wasabi-chick were still going hard, with tears welling up in the corner of Amy’s eyes.

  “Come on Amy!” I cried. “Your competition is WEAK! She already gagged four times!” Wasabi-chick’s entourage shot me a nasty look.

  Three seconds later wasabi-chick started coughing. She was done.

  The bar erupted in applause for Amy, as she smiled her giant smile through red-stained teeth.

  “How the hell did you do that?” I asked, as she paused to drink a giant glass of water.

  “There’s this Indian restaurant near my house that I go to all the time. Like three nights a week.” She shrugged her shoulders and smiled.

  Before I could quiz her any further, my alcoholic buzz hit a high. I simply turned and stumbled away, my eyes on the hunt for Eleanor.

  When I found her, she was busy describing her jogging routine to a trio of married office men. They simply nodded at her words with a glazed-over look.

  “Hey El!” I called, pulling her away from the married zombies. “It’s almost nine, when do you think we should leave for the club?”

  Eleanor smiled with a pair of eyes that were drowning in an evening’s worth of alcohol. “We’ll leave at ten, sooo…another hour. Now here’s a question: what’s the rule for alcohol, beer before wine and you’ll do just fine? ‘Cause I REALLY want a glass of wine.”

  I thought about the rule for a moment, having no idea there was even such a rule. “Your version rhymes so it must be right!”

  She turned to the bar while I glanced around the pub. The white-haired men were still playing darts (wasn’t it past their bedtime?), but they definitely looked a lot drunker. Their aim was worse for one thing, and they were sweating so much their chest hairs were starting to glisten.

  Eleanor returned with her wine and a happy disposition, while I remained transfixed by the men.

  “Hey El, if I wanted to, I could totally get those men to fawn all over me. Right?”

  Eleanor’s drunken eyes quickly widened. “Well yeah, but why the hell would you? They’re gross old men.”

  I ignored her and approached them, waiting to be addressed. Three, two, one...

  “Hey darling, are you looking for someone to play with?” It was the man who had spoken when we’d entered the pub, the one with the thickest chest hair.

  “Yes I am, but I’m not very good!” I grinned and tried to look as stupid as possible. Old Man River ate it up.

  Pretty soon he was showing
me all his best dart moves, while the other men tried to jockey for position.

  As Eleanor drank her wine and laughed her ass off, I continued on with a sense of utter enjoyment. I had never considered myself as someone who would seek out the company of grandpas, but I was way too drunk to care about their age. All I knew was that deep inside their cataract-filled eyes, I was the “hot girl.” Not the hot girl after twelve months of losing weight, but the hot girl here and now. And unlike my parents, or even unlike Laura and her fashion tips, these grandpas didn’t judge.

  As minutes passed I’d forgotten how long we’d been playing, but when I started feeling wrinkly hands on my shoulders, I knew it was time to go.

  Before I could check my watch, my eyes focused in on the tiny wooden dance floor. An eighties rock anthem was blasting through the speakers, and everyone was singing and dancing.

  What a bunch of losers!

  For one or two minutes I stood on the edge of the dance floor, rolling my eyes at anyone who looked my way. By the third chorus though, everyone’s enjoyment had sucked me in. I wanted to feel happy too. So I entered the crowd and let the nineteen eighties hit simply carry me away.

  A little Rick Astley and some Simply Red later, Todd weaseled out of the drunken dance troupe.

  “Alright guys, I have to get going. I keep forgetting I have those ‘wife and children’ things.” He reached for his coat as I finally checked the time.

  “It’s one a.m.!” I exclaimed to no one in particular.

  I looked around for Amy and Eleanor, finally spotting them sprawled onto one of the velour-upholstered benches.

  “Guys, it’s one a.m.! We were supposed to go to the club!”

  Amy said nothing. She simply sat there grinning with half-open eyes.

  Eleanor looked a little queasy. “Guys. GUYS! If I don’t eat something in the next ten minutes I’m gonna puke.”

  It was painfully obvious that our dance club romp was cancelled. Maybe I shouldn’t have spent all that time playing darts with senile men. Or maybe Amy should’ve tried to give a damn. Or maybe Eleanor shouldn’t have gotten so drunk.

  Looking at Eleanor’s sickly face made me soften a bit.

  “There’s an all-night breakfast place around the corner,” I suggested.

  She nodded, so I rummaged around until I pulled out her coat from a pile on the floor. I wasted zero time in tossing it at her face, my quiet revenge for her less than stellar wingman behaviour.

  We eventually bundled up, and stumbled to the diner a few minutes later. Eleanor’s face went from green, to yellow, and back to drunken pink as she sucked down the eggs and toast. Meanwhile I swirled a slice of pancake in some syrup.

  “These are the best damn pancakes that a griddle ever made.”

  Eleanor slowly raised her eyes from her plate. “Hey Romes, sorry we didn’t make it to the club.”

  “It’s fine, I actually had some fun!” I lied, not wanting to make things awkward in a diner at two a.m.

  “I had a great time too!” Amy let out a cackle as she poured some drops of hot sauce over her eggs.

  “You’re an animal Amy, but you sure know how to entertain a crowd,” I said. “And you know what? This was a pretty great night!” My second lie. “And you know what else? Maybe that’s what life’s all about; amazing times with friends you love.” Lie number three. “And you know what ELSE? With good friends, who even says you need a man or stupid love?” My final lie for the night.

  “Uhh…YOU said that,” replied Eleanor. “Remember? The whole arranged marriage trap? Finding true love before your parents find you a stranger?”

  “Oh right. I still have to do all that, don’t I…”

  Amy and Eleanor looked at me expectantly, waiting for my speech of determination.

  But I had run out of lies for the night.

  “I want another fucking pancake.”

  Chapter Seven

  The greasy-haired Indian man waved his rum and Coke in the air, as his thick and bushy uni-brow wiggled around suggestively. This was nothing new, since every Indian girl whether hot, semi-hot or average was subjected to these uni-brow advances. The curse of unrelenting (and clueless) Indian men. On this special night I expected the advances even more, decked out as I was in my bright pink birthday dress (with matching nails and professionally-curled locks of hair).

  “Is your name Parveen?” asked the uni-brow man, his voice barely audible over the music.

  That’s an interesting ice-breaker.

  His voice betrayed an accent that suggested emigration from India in the last ten years. Not a “fresh off the boat” type of accent, but noticeable nonetheless. I wouldn’t have minded the accent at all but in my experience, Indian-born men were incapable of tact in the matters of feeling horny. Like I can SEE you staring at my boobs.

  “No my name is NOT Parveen.” I looked at everything but him as I tried to pick out Laura, Amy, Eleanor, or anyone else who’d been forced to attend my party.

  “But you’re Indian right?” His hairy-knuckled hand played with his collar, as if to woo me with the treasures that beckoned from beneath the fabric.

  “Yeah I’m Indian.” I sighed. Where are the girls? Good wingmen my ass. “But I was born in Canada, so I guess I’m a little of both.” I didn’t even know why I hadn’t walked away yet. Perhaps it was a mix of boredom and sick curiosity.

  “I KNEW you were an Indian princess!” He leaned in close. “So tell me...what village are your parents from?”

  Oh no, not the village question. In every bar I’d been to, every dance club, every innocent daytime patio excursion, these fellows always used the Indian heritage topic as an “in.” Since I knew the next step from the village question was a grab of the ass or worse, I released the vodka cocktail from my hand, sending it to the floor with a crash.

  “Crap!” I said. “Now I need another drink!”

  As the creepy Indian stared at the floor with his uni-brow bunched up in horror, I quietly slipped into the crowd. I soon found Eleanor and Amy on a white leather couch near the back of the club. It seemed like I was right on time, as Eleanor was passing out some shots.

  “A birthday toast to Romi!” she exclaimed. “May you live to a hundred and twenty. And afford lots of plastic surgery!” She laughed and clinked her shot glass with mine.

  I can drink to that.

  As this latest burst of alcohol worked its way into my bloodstream, I stared at the ground and my smile slowly disappeared. It’s my birthday and I’m sulking.

  Laura quickly made her way over, her blond curls bouncing in tune with her strides, and the light glinting off her sparkly blue tank top.

  “Dude it’s your birthday, so how come you’re acting like your cat just died?”

  I shook my head. “No I’m not. I’m just not feeling happy-drunk, you know?” I sighed. “But I do feel the urge to punch people, or make fun of freakish-looking babies. It’s only a mood swing…right?”

  I quickly reflected on the last month or so of my quest. Scenes of bar-hopping with Laura played in my head. In most of the scenes she was smothered by dudes while I frowned by the corner of the bar, sober half the time to prevent myself from becoming an alcoholic. And my excursions with Eleanor had been much the same.

  It’s not even a simple observation anymore. I need uglier friends.

  I emerged from memory-lane as Laura put her arm around my shoulder. “Maybe you’re frustrated because you don’t have any prospects. And maybe you don’t have any prospects because...you’re kind of a bitch at the bar.”

  Oh really?

  “Hear me out before you punch me in the face,” she said.

  I was pouring out venom with my eyes, but decided to give her a listen.

  “Think back to our last time out. How many times did I spot you at the bar with your arms crossed? It makes you seem closed off, psychologically. Guys don’t go for that.”

  That’s funny, I never knew Laura had a Psych degree.

 
“I cross my arms because the guys around me are creepy.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Is it that? Or could it possibly be that you’re still not over Peter? This current idea of an ANCIENT Peter which is still tattooed in your brain!”

  “Don’t say his name! We call him the ‘latte guy.’“ The simple mention of his name was enough to nearly make me run away. Somewhere far where no one could find me. Like Botswana.

  Suddenly Eleanor and Amy were huddled in close, enthralled by this intervention.

  “Why can’t you say his name?” asked Eleanor. “That’s unhealthy, you know.”

  So now EVERYONE has a psych degree?

  I folded my hands in my lap and cleared my throat. “As long as I call him ‘latte guy’ he’s just a nice memory. But as soon as I call him ‘Peter’ he’s an actual guy I had once, and who I don’t have anymore.” My eyes started watering. “And then I have to miss him.”

  I watched the mist form in three pairs of eyes. Find an answer for THAT in your psychology book!

  Eleanor shook her head and stood up with a jolt. “Holy shit, it’s your birthday; you cannot be depressed on your birthday! I’m getting us more shots.” She wobbled away, as any guy with eyeballs ogled shamelessly at her ass in the mini-dress.

  “Okay, okay.” Laura was leaning over me now. “Forget about Peter and look ahead. It’s only April you know.”

  “What difference does it make that it’s April? I’m terrible at this.” I wiped my eyes while envisioning Peter’s dimples.

  “Just try to be more open!” she insisted. “You don’t have to limit it to bars but I mean everywhere. Smile at guys in the supermarket, hang out in the bookstore. And don’t cross your arms anymore!”

  Who smiles at guys in the supermarket?

  Eleanor returned with a sexy male bartender and a tray of turquoise shots.

  I smiled at him as he wished me a happy birthday. Okay fine, it’s not that hard to smile. Those shots would lead to an additional round, and another after that, cementing the fact that this definitely wasn’t one of those sober nights. And that’s pretty much the way my twenty-eighth birthday kind of went...

  ***

  My birthday evening led to a monstrous hangover, which led to Laura’s words repeating in my head non-stop: “Don’t be a bitch to guys!”