And if I had to guess where I learned the "Miracle" strategy, it would be a bar, and a scene a lot like that. New York City, New Years Eve, 1995. I was with friends, Bennett and Harris. We were supposed to be at club another college buddy had rented for the evening for a private party. That turned out to be a scam. A couple of goniffs had tricked the organizer into renting a place that didn't exist. All the people who'd bought tickets and went to the address of the "nightclub" found an empty warehouse. The crowd of victims pulling up in cabs was angry and the temperature outside was in the single digits. Everyone was piling into an already cramped tavern a block away, packing the place with bodies.
Luckily, Harris, Bennett and I had pre-binged, knocking off a bottle of Beam's Choice before we headed out for the evening. You could never drink enough at those News Years parties, with all the pushing and shoving and twisting yourself through the crowd to get near the bar just to order a watered down bourbon and ginger ale made with shitty "well" liquor. Bennett got himself so drunk in advance that he fell down when the subway train braked at the first stop, flailing backward and almost taking out a pile of people standing behind him like a row of dominoes. By the time we got into the bar we were freezing cold, thirsty and desperate. Running out of liquor on the upswing of a fresh whiskey drunk might as well be a terminal illness in the moment.
"Those idiots. I can't believe they got taken like that." Bennett was still complaining about the organizers of the party.
"They didn't get taken. We did. It was our money."
"We need more booze. These aren't going to do it." Harris was shaking his head over a collection of shot glasses on the tiny bar table between us.
"I'm not going back for more." I'd gotten the first round and the trips through the crowd to bring back all the glasses up had been exhausting. On the last one somebody pushed me and I spilled Guinness on a brown haired girl in an evening dress standing next to our table. "I'm sorry about that. Somebody shoved me."
"Have enough drinks there?" She glared at me.
"What a bitch." I snapped to Bennett, who'd watched the exchange.
"Excuse me?" She turned back.
"I didn't say anything."
"Asshole." I heard her sneer as I turned back to Bennett.
"I think we should finish these and go 'wilding.' I think this is a good neighborhood for it." Harris yelled across the table.
"I don't think there are many joggers out tonight." I bummed a smoke from Bennett.
"I need some action." Harris thrust his hips back and forth, bumping into the table and spilling some of our liquor. "I'm really worked up--"
"Hey! Hey! Careful with the drinks." Bennett grabbed the table to stop it from shaking.
"I can't help it. I'm so horny. I've been watching a lot of tard porn lately." Harris continued.
"Tell me that exists." I reached for a napkin to wipe off the liquor I'd spit into my hand.
"Oh, it's like snuff films. You can't buy it at a regular store. I have a friend who gets it for me."
"Fuck. Now I have the hiccups." Bennett choked trying to laugh and exhale from his cigarette.
"I'm serious."
"I'm still into the elderly stuff." The whiskey I'd coughed was burning my nose.
"Oh, tard porn is much better. They get so randy." Harris stuck out his tongue, bit it and started thrusting his hips again, slamming into the table. "It gets me excited just thinking about it. You guys want to make a circle around me so I can work one out here?"
"Mmmmm. A White Russian." I jumped backward as a couple drinks toppled on the table, smack into the same brown haired girl again.
"Can you watch where you're walking?" She glared.
"Sorry. I really am." I coughed through giggles.
"We need a shot of Jagermeister. You could make a 'Smoker's Phlegm' with the money shot."1 Bennett and Martin tried to one-up each other as the girl stared knives at me.
"My aim's terrible. I have a deviated urethra." Harris went on.
"Snorting too much coke through your dick?"
"It's genetic. My grandmother had one."
"Oh... But please keep the jokes coming." The girl finally blinked. "Hysterical stuff, really. Retard sex... jerking off... Hysterical!"
"Did anyone ask you to listen?"
"I can't help it. I'm drawn to your amazing wit."
Things went on like this for an hour or so. We'd throw back shots and joke and every now and again Harris, Bennett or I would bump into someone in the group of girls next to us and a short exchange of insults would erupt.
Sometime around 1:00 a.m. I went to the bar to pick up a round. The brown haired girl appeared to my right, unraveling a handful of bills to order drinks for her friends. "Oh, great." She snarled when we made eye contact.
"What's your problem?"
"My problem?" She pointed to her chest. "I have a low threshold for dickheads."
"Let's start this over, OK? It's New Year's Eve and..." Wait. I stopped myself. Why talk? There was no point in speaking to her. She was one of those people who used language as a wall, with no responses but cheap snark. Bitter, burned in a relationship and still working through the man-hating phase... Hand on her hip, lips pursed and her eyes rolling... Every outward indicator screaming contempt. But I was loaded and she was good looking enough and it was Manhattan, one hour into the new year. I grabbed her shoulders, pulled her against me and started kissing the girl. Half of me was bracing for a slap, maybe some shouting and a bouncer grabbing my collar. It never came, and she made no effort to break off the embrace.
"I guess you like dickheads after all."
"Don't."
"What?"
"Just don't."
"You want to go somewhere?"
"Yes, before I change my mind."
I walked back to the table and handed the drink order to Bennett. "I'm leaving."
"With that girl?" He whispered in my ear.
"Might as well see where it goes. I can't figure it out it either." And I still can't. If we'd kept talking she'd have probably thrown a drink on me, but there was something about physically getting in her face that made all the difference...
And that's exactly what Martin and I were doing. We could have let the court decide the issue on the papers. The judge would have read them and without the benefit of seeing Martin and hearing me argue he'd feel nothing and just follow the law. But there, with us in front of him - the person who'd suffer the pain of his punishment staring him in the eye - maybe he'd find some way to do us a favor. The only issue was how we'd ask for it. Begging in court's a lot more than just saying "please."
To Be Continued...
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1 "Smoker's Phlegm" - One shot of chilled Jagermeister, topped with the contents of one single serve packet of mayonnaise. Or Miracle Whip.
Posted by PhilaLawyer at 8:57 PM