Friday night is alright for freaks

11:30p on Friday, I’m at home with Rick unwinding from the day. My phone buzzes that I have a new message. It’s a text from Alan.

‘U Out Tonight?’

I’m at home on the couch watching TV, in no way feeling like going out, and I reply no.

And then get curious and itch for a little fun, so I message, ‘What’s up?’, suspecting correctly his next message:

‘if u were out and about wondering if you wanted to stop by later’.

Needless to say, 25 minutes later, I’m out the door heading for Wicker Park to Alan’s work.

I’m not a huge fan of Wicker Park. Overly trendy, full of beatnik like 20-somethings with their emo beards and vintage dresses. So Seattle 1990. But then again, I could have stayed at home and gone to bed at a reasonable hour, and not be up typing like I am now at 3am. Nor would I have a reason to write.

So the place where Alan works: first of all, small but cozy. The music is 80’s, so not all that bad but a touch loud. It functions as a tapas restaurant, where last weekend,  Rick, Erin and I had dinner there,  and oh my god- amazing food. Stunning. The ahi tuna with wasabi potatoes… the paella… the empanadas… wow. Tonight, as 1am closes in,  the clientel scurry away from the tables and cluster about the bar, where the creme-de-la-crap of Wicker Park gather. Tonight, cozy borders on claustrophobic.

Tonight, Taxi Driver is showing on the wide screen above the bar. The bar is littered with drunk women, one of whom asks me if The Machinist, the Christian Bale vehicle from last year, is playing. I point to DeNiro’s mug on the screen, and she mumbles, oh, well,they must have gotten their idea fot this from the Machinist.

Seriously.

She continues to try to engage me in conversation, but I look disinterested and bored, and finally the cluephone rings loud enough that she picks it up. I want to slap her, but refrain. I pity her as I see her frantically search for her trick for the night.

Alan emerges from the kitchen and flaunts his work scars proudly. I would too if I did something I had passion for. A bit jealous, I am. We proceed to have a few drinks and discuss soccer and music. The conversation’s great… he relays his excitement about the new James track and his and Erin’s plans for moving away, and we bullshit until our drinks run low.

And this is where I get pissed.

First of all, Alan is an employee at this bar. He just helped 3 other guys make food for these patrons and probably the bar staff too for the past 6 hours or so. Yet he is ignored by the two brunettes behind the bar who are more interested making shots for their wastoid friends than to serve anyone else, including the off-duty staff. There are a total of 20 people in the entire room, and no one else is needing tending to around us, yet we seem invisible. That, and these chicks keep walking off for a smoke break. And flirting with the drug dealers in the puffy vest and hoodie. It’s massively annoying.

Alan finally gets his beer, and I order another. These girls clearly see I’m with Alan, yet charge me full price for the drink. Don’t get me wrong, I am willing to pay my way. But what irks me is that while I sit with Alan and pay full price, again, the wastoids with tits that are more plastic than my AmEx get comped shots from these girls.

Alan’s coworker and fellow kitchen man wanders up, and is an animated guy. Cute, in that straight guy who works in a kitchen with sexy sideburns kind of way. Very fun, reminds me of… oh I can’t think of whom, it will come to me later. He attempts to order a drink, and then proceeds to order shots for all of us. One of the girls behind the bar rolls her eyes and not only does not serve him, but never brings us the round of shots. I find out later she fucked this guy, so pettiness is rearing it’s ugly head. Frankly, I think she needs therapy to get over it.

Alan and I sat there for a while longer, and I watch as  he asked both girls to top his beer off. They didn’t. ‘I’d give $10 to have it topped at this point,’ he asides to me wistfully. Meanwhile, the Christian Bale obsessed drunk blond with Barbie’s tits gets another shot. Like she needs it, she’s slurring and pawing at Alan’s sexy coworker like she’s some prize. He’s thankfully intoxicated and oblivious, thinking ahead to the booty call he proudly crows to us that he’s scheduled.

I turn to Alan, and recollect back to the previous week when the shorter girl spaced out when Erin was ordering something, and needless to say we never got it until we reordered it. He nods and acknowledges she’s a bit flighty.

These two, if I owned this place, would never work again. I want to reach over the counter and grab back the $3 I have left for tip out of sheer courtesy, I’m so annoyed. Alan shrugs it off, so he’s a better man than I. It’s his place of employment, and I respect his allegence and Switzerland-like attitude.

We make it through to last call, and head off for home. Alan and I split a cab, and just when I think things are winding down, this is where my nights veers towards Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride territory.

Alan’s stop is only a few blocks north off of Armitage. He offers to the cabbie his part of the fare, only to have the driver get annoyed and flustered since he ‘doesn’t have any change.’ My thought is that as a driver, you should have change or don’t expect payment. Frank, who use to be a cabbie, admits that running out of change for fares was always a fear of his, but this guy is being ridiculous. Alan, resigned and tired, hands me the bills, and signs off for the night, and I start the trek home.

Then the driver, as he hurtles up Ashland Avenue, makes a point to try to make change with any cabbie he meets along the way while stopped at the light. Again, a little off the wall for me. Stop at a gas station and buy a pack of smokes if you want change, is my thinking. At one intersection, some guy tries to jump in to the cab with me, and my driver has to lock the doors so the guy can’t get in. The guy on the street looks pissed but all I can do is shrug and think, dude, this is my ride right now. No tailgating, especially looking as crazed as he did.

The scary moment comes when, near Grace and Ashland, the driver, as he’s trying to flag down a colleague to get change (which at this point doesn’t matter for my fare) nearly runs a light and almost gets into an accident. I gasp and cry out startled. He has the nerve to get uppity with me about why I cried out, and brushes it off like we didn’t almost get into a two car pile up. I’m furious- hey I’m entitled to fear for my life when you’re driving recklessly!

Needless to say, we mange to get to my place without further incident, and I throw a twenty at the guy and bolt for the house. I did get his cab number and customer service phone number, so believe you me, I’ll be calling in my complaint.

One side note in retrospect: I saw on my iGoogle page that the moon was full Friday, so perhaps this accounts for the freakage out on the prowl tonight.

Then again, it was merely another typical night in Chicago.