The Wingman

March 23, 2006 by Pocahantas

Although I am still young and most would envy my ability to function immaculately on 2 hours of sleep and 5 aspirin, I have actively avoided the partying lifestyle for pretty much my whole life. I don’t know what it is about it that has always simply repulsed me: maybe the sweaty, over-scented, under sexed crowd of losers stepping on my newly pedicured toes all willy-nilly—which I wouldn’t mind so much were they not firmly ensconced in my brand new stilettos. Possibly it’s the raucous disregard for common courtesy and manners; or, it could be the slack-jawed losers grabbing at my ass as I strut my magnificence through the crowded dance floor. It could just be the fact that I have absolutely no rhythm can’t dance to save my life, and prefer alternative to rap any day.

The main reason though is that I’d rather stick hot needles through my eyeballs than ever date a guy with the three strikes that you’re most likely to meet while engaged in these activities: 1) Baby’s Mama; 2) No ambition, education, or common sense i.e., you ask him what his occupation is and he in all seriousness replies (and I quote) “I be hangin’ with rappers”; and 3) Grills or gold teeth.

Having only been tricked into clubbing twice and once it was my 21^st birthday, and I was so drunk I don’t remember a thing, I pride myself on the fact that I’ve managed to have an active social life without resorting to said methods. To date I’ve done very well. My friends are pretty much like me, although with each other I’ve noticed that we’re
significantly braver, so I’ve never faced pressure to club-hop. With my social life in Atlanta being, well, nonexistent I find it helpful to occasionally socialise with my co-workers. I started casually socialising with a co-worker named Adrienne, one of the few unmarried women in the department and we decide to get together. We went out to lunch a few times, went shopping together one weekend, and I hung out with her at her house once. Then, one day, she asks if I’d like to go out with her and her friends to a “restaurant” in Alpharetta—a suburb a little north of Atlanta—that has a cool night crowd.
So I’m just a wee bit surprised. I don’t know her friends that well and who just goes out to dinner on a Thursday night, in Alpharetta?
Me. “So what kind of restaurant is this?”
Her. “Well, they have some of everything, they have chicken fingers…?” Apparently thinking this was like a definite plus.
Me. “Hmmh, chicken fingers hmmh?? So is there anything else on the menu?”
My thoughts. “Why the hell is she inviting me out to eat chicken fingers?”

Armed with the knowledge that I haven’t had a real relationship in over a year and my last date was with a guy who’s wife called the next day to let me know that they had twin three-year olds and she would be happy to leave them with me as well if I continued to see her husband, the truth was I had no real reason not to go. Except for the fact that my
nagging intuition was certain that it would be a bad idea. Too bad I was too bored, depressed, and too stupid to listen.
So I went.
When she picks me up, she looked at my outfit (in my mind totally acceptable for eating out on a weeknight), which consisted of jeans, a cute top, boots, and a hounds tooth coat, and immediately suggested that I put on a skirt.
My thoughts “What is she, freaking nuts, its like 30 degrees outside?” We get there early, like 9:30. The place looks like a normal, run of the mill, lower class eating establishment and its name is like Tentacles or something I can’t remember - to do with the sea. We get to the table that her friends have reserved and she takes off her coat, and I know.
This can’t end well. Her “girls” consist of three “older,” and by older I mean at least one of them could have, in theory, been my mother. All of them are all dressed like it’s LL Cool J’s farewell concert; you know easy access to remove all undergarments and hurl in fits of passion.

Middle-aged hood/club rats actually physically frighten me and I immediately regretted my decision to come.
Thirty minutes later the last member of the group had still not shown up and the waitress, who was scandalously clad and wearing way too much makeup for a family restaurant, informed us succinctly that “the kitchen will be closing in twenty minutes” and if we didn’t order, we’d be, and I quote, “shit of of luck.” At this point, I’m pretty convinced that we should just go and be done with it, I didn’t get a chance to glance at the health rating, but by the looks of the bathrooms I knew this was NOT a place I wanted to chance the food.
I was vetoed.
Forty minutes later our cold, unappealing, all-fried (as frying anything to Southerners makes it palpable) “platters” of unrecognisable seafood are unceremoniously deposited in front of us, and, I immediately realise that; 1) my order is wrong; and 2) our waitress is NEVER coming back. No one at the table seems to mind and, as I glance around, I suddenly realise that everyone at the table is on their fourth drink, and the bar area behind us is now packed with skulky and
suspicious looking persons. I’m slightly alarmed.
Suddenly I hear a deejay’s voice come loud and clear over the speakers and I see the crew scrambling to move all of the tables out of the center of the floor. Then, the lights go out.
My Brain: “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!”
The DJ starts into his intros…you know… “let’s get this party started riiiiggghht…yall.”
My Brain: “In the event of emergency, the exits are to your front left corner and your far right. Please move slowly and cautiously ….It’s okay I can always take a cab. Wait. F*******CCCCKKKK. My keys are in Adrianne’s car. Must. Find. Adr……….” And the next thing I hear….“SMILE FOR ME DADDY. LET ME SEE YOUR GRILL.YEP YOUR GRILL, YEP YEP YOUR GRILL…..”

Who would say that?
Why would they say that?
Why oh why did I leave my car?
WHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY??????????
Too drunk to drive I was at the mercy of my companions who promptly deserted me to go seek out “eligible” compatriots to (a)buy them more unnecessary alcohol and (b)possibly drive [take] them home…I was completely, totally, and utterly alone.
Realising that these chicks meant business—Adrienne and her friends had disappeared as soon as the lights went out—I ordered another drink and prepared to wait them out while quietly and surreptitiously hiding in the corner.
My efforts to go unnoticed were for naught because suddenly the spotlight was upon me and I heard, “give it up for the birthday girl, yall who’s gonna buy her a drink???!!!” It wasn’t my damn birthday and, even if it had been, that was pretty jacked up.
From that moment every loser in the club bombarded me. Everything I didn’t want in a man came crawling out of the woodwork to talk to me, offer me another drink, and congratulate me on my “birthday.” Adrianne and her friends obviously thought it was extraordinarily amusing as, not only did they leave me to my own devices, they actually sent several of these American Pimp rejects over to our table.
Three shots of what I thought was Patron later, I was booty-dancing on the table with a guy that looked, if you squinted your eyes and held your head at exactly the right angle, like Bobby Brown’s baby brother and belting out my own lyrics to the 50-cent song “Wanksta.” Anyone who knows me knows that I dance like an epileptic octopus in mid-seizure, know nothing about rap music, and my singing rivals William Hung’s in its atrociousness.
I did, eventually, go to the bathroom and throw up the entire wretched contents of my sorely abused stomach as well as the tattered remnants of my purloined pride, but the moral of this story ladies? Men protect their buddies from the crazy girl, the girl with the 5 kids who’s trying for another baby’s daddy, the girl with the cold sores she’s tried with a black pencil to disguise as Cindy Crawford-esque “beauty marks,” and from just making an ass out of himself as usual. Men would never let their partner leave with that girl with the vague resemblance to Fat Bastard who’s been sitting at the bar alone buying guys drinks all night. NEVER.
The Wingman. That patron saint of the single male, that benevolent friend who will sacrifice his own plans with the virtuous goal of helping his buddy hook-up. Men support each other, they act as a team and in the best interest of the poor soul on whose behalf they have come. No matter what, they stick together. Ladies. Please. Learn from their example. And if not, at least learn from mine:

Free liquor is not always good liquor & ALWAYS DRIVE YOURSELF

Pocahantas is a 23 year old fiesty female with loads of common sense and yet an unstintingly healthy dose of cynicism when it comes to men and relationships.Tune in weekly for her reality check on single living in the great US of A.