It's 6 o'clock on Thursday afternoon, and I have a hair appointment in 45 minutes at Nube Nova. Some friends decide to tag along and grab a beer next door at Burton's while I'm getting trimmed up. Just for the hell of it, I join them for a quick one before my appointment. I enter Nube Nova to find Jill is a little behind, so I accept a complimentary Woodchuck to sip while I wait. I make it to Jill's chair and we discuss everything from her newborn daughter to the best Thai food in Orlando while she goes to town on my hair. She finishes up and asks me if I want her to style it for the night. "Nah," I reply. "I'll mess with it when I get home."
On my way out the door I notice I have a text from my friend Brad, suggesting I grab a pack of smokes at 7-11 and bring it over to Burton's. Sure, what the hell. Brad and his girlfriend broke up today and I need some anyways. I stop into Burton's to drop off the smokes and decide to grab one more beer. My phone rings. It's my old friend Natalie. She's bored and wants to grab a beer. I tell her and her friend to come over and I'll have one with her. Brad suggests we just split a pitcher.
Its 11:30 p.m. Brad and Natalie's friend are making out at the bar like they're 16, my friend Adam is butt-housed and making friends with whoever comes within two feet of him, and Natalie and I are chugging cigarettes and beer and talking. No one is outside because it's so fucking cold. There's a softball team in the corner eating pizza, a group of douchebags playing pool who look like they're trying to hold in a huge fart while making sure their muscles are flexed at all times, a couple of solo regulars who don't say much, two 50-year-old men not even attempting to hide their lust for anything with tits, and a hipster to my right trying to order anything ironic. In between sentences with Natalie, I'm sadly enjoying watching a girl I've had a schoolboy crush on for years fighting with her boyfriend on the other side of the bar.
An hour later, Natalie has to go home to relieve her babysitter. Her friend decides it would be better if she stayed and gave Brad a ride home – nice fucking recovery for him. Adam and I call 699-9999 and split the $90 bar tab. Ten minutes later we're in a cab, preaching to the cabbie about how much better 30-year-old women are in bed than 21-year-olds. We then decide it would make more sense if we got dropped off at Will's Pub instead of home. But first we have to stop in Wally's for more "smokes." The cabbie drops us off in the center lane of Mills and we float inside.
Two whiskeys later we lose our dignity at Wally's and finally make it to Will's. The band is done, and Will is walking around with his shirt off cheering sake bombs left and right. I decide to keep it classy and order a Busch Light, only to be informed by the bartender that I already have a pre-existing tab I have not paid. I come to when the lights flicker, and I decide to slam one more before the walk home. Once home, I let the dog out front, smoke one more cig while watching all walks of life stumble out of Wally's, and text my friend's ex-wife, letting her know she equals poop.
I awake the next morning on my couch to a Seinfeld DVD menu screen and a rumbling stomach. I reach for my phone and call Brad to let him know I will be scooping him up on my way to Junior's so we can OD on corned beef hash. I jump up to brush my teeth and take a look in the mirror. Hair looks pretty good.
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