January 25, 2017
It was the first BIG party after the Big party. All the Elites of Manhattan and beyond came to applaud their lower level workers for persevering the entire boating season. Dukes of Boston, Sires from New Jersey, Queens of Washington and Chicago all found themselves crowded annually on a humongous yacht sitting dockside on the Hudson harbor; they gathered for a night of festive drinking, gambling, showing off the clothes they never got to wear in the summer and well- the money that came with the awards!!
The party had started around eight-ish, or at least it did for us, pregaming at a hotel on west 42nd was only customary for the occasion. Taraji had gone for the more masculine taste this year, less makeup and more suit and tie. In either attire, my friend was unflawed.
His two friends, Alexa and Melquin was accompanying him to the party- the female, Alexa, wore a frilly soft pink dress, very Manhattan Cocktail Attire, but suitable for the vegas theme we were about to encounter. Her guy, Melquin, wore a deep blue suit- kind of in recognition to Taraji’s but darker and seemingly pinstripe.
Oh, almost forgot- I wore black leather pants from Zara (love that store), this blood-red shirt that had this majestic floral pattern that had like swirls of blueberry and fig trees made of black roses- very dope, and black Chelsea boots that had two zippers running up the side.
(Incase my description sounds a tad wonky, you can click the Instagram link on my page and it should direct you to my page, the pictures are there)
After countless rounds of Malibu & Jameson shots and two glasses of champagne- we were on our way out the door.
The boat’s layout was fantastic, the vessel was filled with glorious whorl, magnificent bright white lights lined the deck halls, countless casino tables spun in a sporadic gesture, there were large crowds at each table, often giving off a shimmer of metallic glimmer- the table masters quick with all different shades of luminous cards to match the gold and silver chips.
The woman at the door ask for our names and escorted us to another table, where they asked for our names again, and once again- the process continued, I was ready to interject and see what the runaround was about, but before I could manage to actually get the words out, a thousand gold pieces were pushed into my hand.
That was enough to get me to shut up.
‘IT WAS A RED SEVEN!!’
A busty boy yelled by a table that had people clawing their way to take a look at the excitement. I didn’t really understand much about Roulette- I knew it was about chance and more importantly, luck- and I was out of that for the time being. So I stuck to a game I knew well. Blackjack.
Nice and simple.
There were a handful of people at the table, silver and gold chips passed my eyes, some towards me. The dealer had a stern grip, held the cards with a clip on the end of his finger- everything was automatic as if all the banker had to do was reach in his back and rewind for more time.
“What’s the move after here?” A random rasp of a voice whispered in my ear- dark and husky, kind of reminding me of Edward Cullen from Twilight. I wasn’t surprised at the mysterious gesture- it typically happens a lot coming to these sort of award shows, just never so intimate.
“Not sure yet,” I replied. He was a tad cute, matched the whole Edward Cullen description, so I continued- “Do we know each other?”
“We will if you go to the after party.” He was cool, with a certain sense of gentility suave, but then, he just walked away. I stood astonished, but flattered.
Though, I knew I wasn’t really going to search for him later.
To answer the question lingering in your head- yes, we come for the top shelf open bar, the boater scenery, the conversations, the dancing, and even the awards! However, that was all things we could’ve acquired on a regular shift working on a boat; the majority of coming tonight was for pretenses, but the real motive was the after party.
It was the moment all masks were torn off and you actually get to see who you have been working beside for the last 364 days. From the eligible wealthy bachelor in the managerial department, to the pristine ‘housewife’ on the sales team, the server/ NYU nerd you thought was innocent- isn’t, the very associate you thought you knew best was probably making out with one of the bartenders she told everyone she hated- things were tricky when you aren’t in front of the beating eyes of a higher ballet than corporate.
Settling on a bar in a familiar neighborhood that has captured my soul, Union Square.
Yes, Bar None.
Now, I recommend the bar highly to anyone who likes a jukebox and a back room for extracurricular activities. Although- saying it over the telephone it might take some convincing, several questioned ‘Why is it called Bar None?’ ‘Is it like a protest thing? I’m all for it if it is. That’s cool.’ ‘Is this like a religious bar?’ ‘Are you sure this is a bar, not a church? How is it spelled?’
Or my absolute favorite, ‘I already had sex, I can’t be a Nunn. Wait, what? What we talking about? Man, I don’t know if Nunns can drink- I’m drunk.’
Let me be the first to tell you, this bar is not god-like or saint-like in any way possible, it wouldn’t even classify as holy- I’m glad I went, though, it was here that I learned how far the Bro-code might take you, even if you’re gay.
Bro Code 249: Taking One For The Team
Randal, a twenty-something-year-old captain of one of the boats, called my name overtly louder than the DJ’s track, the music wasn’t overbearingly loud- but it was enough for you to have to strain your voice to call out- the Jack Daniels granted my friend all the ability in the world to yell my name out.
“Bro, Bro-” He stopped to catch his breath, I wondered if he had just come back from a five-mile jog or was the brown liquor making the trip from the bar seem like that for him. “You have to help me. This girl, she tryna go home with me, but she need her friends gone.”
I almost slapped the Hennessy out of him, no matter how drunk he was- he could’ve chosen ANY other STRAIGHT male to seduce her girlfriends, but he chose me.
“I’m not stupid bro, guys. They are guys.”
“What type of sausage factory do you think he’s running?” Magenta questioned, jolting in laughter. “Besides, you got the wrong guy for the job- he will show it on his face if he doesn’t like them.” I nodded, she was right- the expression didn’t last on my face for long, most men probably didn’t even catch me when it happened- but I seemed to always make it quite evident when things aren’t going well.
Sorry, I’m just not a stickler for wasting people’s time, especially my own!
“So you not gonna do this favor for me, bro?” Randal pleaded, he gripped onto my hand, a tight affirmative pound (handshake), his words softly caressing my ear making me wish he was asking me for a different favor, and with that thought- another came from my mouth.
“What are you going to do for me if I do this for you?” I lifted my eyebrow, insinuating all the dirty antics he probably had coursing through his brain at the moment, and possibly because he is a tad slower than your average turtle or possibly because he was contemplating the price of pussy, but he took an extra two minutes to recoil what I had said and then slowly pulled his hand away.
“I’m pretty sure you just made a pass at me, why you always doing that?”
“Hoping one day you will crack, almost got you, though… Or maybe I did. I’ll look at them! If they are ugly, I am turning back around!”
Everyone started laughing, but I made the bet- I released myself from my seat, moving back towards the front of the bar and heading straight for the bartender.
I did one of those casual ‘Where did my friend go?’ turns, it was one of those spins that you did when you didn’t want to be obvious when looking at a guy- so you just pull out your cellphone after and pretend to text someone- never did one of those? Try it, it will make embarrassing moments 10x easier.
To be quite honest, I probably saw the guys he was talking about, or maybe not- I dropped my iPhone on the floor in the midst of me drunk-turning and before I could pick it up- someone else had.
Long and behold, the mysterious whisperer from earlier.
“Are you stalking me?”
“I told you I would see you here later, thought I was kidding,” He laughed, handing me back my cell and picking up his drink from the bar- he tried to wiggle past me but I caught his arm baffled in the trenches of confusion.
“Wait, that’s it? You manage to see me twice, flirt with me and both times you walk away out of nowhere.”
Randal called my name from the back of the bar, now fighting his way to my side, meanwhile- the boy is stuffing a piece of paper into my front pocket- he mouthed ‘For After’
Randal finally got to me, slapping the boy on the back of his shoulder, almost knocking the beer from his hands, “Did you see them? You gonna do it?” he crunched his fingers into the boy’s shoulder blade, almost in a way of familiar Thunstetten Commandery gesture. “Steve, your girlfriend is looking for you.”
“Of course she is, why wouldn’t she be-” Was all I could reply before I noticed it wasn’t his turn to walk away, but mine.
The Best Wing Forward
One whole recovery day later, when in the midst of me thinking the after party was just a tad too much, there seemed to be much more, a whole weekend more.
The New Destination: Atlantic City.
Five friends shared a glorious and humongous bunker that expanded out into two individual suites, Destiny and I had planned on sharing a suite already- Alexa and Melquin shared the suite next door, and Taraji tagged along with us- the suites were gigantic enough to fit almost seven people- so we had no problem taking one more into our room, our friend Margaret and her new boyfriend Elliot was staying at the Marriott hotel two doors.
Before the drinking commenced and paraphernalia was going to be activated, I sat with Taraji over a mini lunch of gas station purchased Starbucks coffee and Sour Patch Kids, the conversation had started on the events from the award ceremony, then travelled to what happened at the after party- Taraji told me that the boys weren’t to our liking and Randal knew we wouldn’t be comfortable entertaining them- but he pursued into asking us to court them.
Although I found no stronger connotation to his actions (I just saw it as a guy just being a guy, doing whatever it takes to get the girl), it seemed to hold a stronger force with Taraji.
Which only got me to thinking, should I have been more offended? I mean, I’m sure I would’ve been if I had actually met the guys instead of being distracted by the bi-curious bystander, but still- I had to think… Would I have been upset if the boys were cute?
“But they weren’t even cute- any man could see that- even a straight one,” Destiny yelled from the bathroom. “If you have to take one for the team with one ugly guy- kay cool; but three? That’s literally how many strikes they give you in Baseball.”
“Being the wingman is not cute. I’ll tell you a tale, this kid got his two friends into a relationship and thought it was cute, it actually was, it was very cute actually. Until ten years later, they are yelling, cursing, fighting, practically want to strangle each other every day of their relationship, and I-” Taraji paused midway from popping another sour patch into his mouth, recoiling to see if I had caught onto his confession, “HE had to hear about it for the whole relationship. He was basically the middle man, the plug into both their minds, the keeper of the key to love, they were so in love it made him want to puke, and he got sick of them arguing- fast. It’s a dangerous place to hold in your friendship with two people, not only is their relationship at stake but one of my friendships. Although, I wouldn’t trade the job for anything in the world.” Taraji had made another slip, and this time I called him out on it. “Well, you know it’s me now bitch, no need to lie anymore.”
I chuckled, taking a handful of his Sour Patch kids- “Are they still together? If they fight as much as you say.”
“They sure are, still make me sick til’ this day, go right next door.”
The Wing Squad
BEING A WINGMAN IS HARD!
You are never going to know what outcome can happen after you give that verbal declaration to be enlisted in the Wings Academy, I hardly knew all the outcomes.
There could be the instance where you need to maneuver the guys away from the girl (Glamour Wingman), or times where you don’t know when to leave your friend alone, you become the Tag-a-long Wingman; the mild times where the girl thinks you two are friends but you actually just telling ya boy everything (Snitching Wingman). Literally, the possibilities were limitless, however- I give you one piece of advice and I hope it does some good deed to help in your time of need.
As I said from the beginning, this is not an advice column, I am sorry to say I am not Phoebe Halliwell and cannot grant myself premonitions to write a detailed response on what to do for every circumstance; however, I have come here to give elaborate examples of how I get out of some difficult debacles and dilemmas I always seem to be involved with.
So I leave you one piece, very small- but a grand sliver into my brain.
IF YOU ARE COMFORTABLE: Give a mild start off (soft advice on what they should do) and immediately the next sentence out of your mouth is ‘I really want to help but I just forgot I am lactose intolerant and I just had a four cheese omelet and yogurt parfait with a milkshake to wash it down.’
From that moment forward, whenever they ask you for advice, just say that you just scarfed down some Haagen Dazs or put whole milk in your coffee instead of soy. Keep your friend on a hunt for the answer you know they crave so much, but allow them to figure this one out on their own- sooner or later, your friend will understand that this isn’t your place and you really don’t feel comfortable getting in between.
Hey, *shrugs* everyone can’t be qualified for the wingman position.