Tonight, kung_fu_mike, samfu, and I travelled SCS‘s Open to Close. It is doubtful our expectations were to be assaulted by the notorious Club Punch. samfu can describe what happened to him in his own journal. I’m going to describe what happened to me in mine.
Open to Close was held at the shittiest bar in all of Pullman: Valhalla. samfu and I arrived around the bottom of the sixth. kung_fu_mike and matrixboarder arrived around the top of the seventh, and alcohol was produced for us. Three lemonade & vodkas later, I was loud and smiles were spread amongst faces all around. (Except for Brandi Visker who fucking hates me for her own mistakes.) Several hours later, almost everyone from SCS had cleared out - but we remained.
About this time, Mr. Pants and Miss. Thang entered my life. He was flicking ice at the Miss. on the dance floor - she was obviously not enjoying this. In an effort to a) get in other peoples’ business b) solve the problem c) reduce my boredom, I flicked a piece of ice at him. In order to give you an idea of my aiming abilities, let it be known I’m consistently picked last in ultimate frisbee. However, on this occasion, my aim proved true! The ice glanced off the crest of his head, eliciting surprise. At this point Miss. Thang exited my life, but Mr. Pants remained. He saw me, laughed it off, and later in the evening gave me the high-five-fist conversion. All seemed well in The Club.
It was not to remain. Not long after last call was announced, our troupe made its way towards the Freedom Stairwell. In our organized retreat, samfu‘s jacket needed to be located and evacuated. This goal necessitated the divorce of my body from our group in order to more effectively assay the locale. Unfortunately, the jacket was determined to be MIA. As such, I made my “beeline.” (as well as one can be done in a bar) En route, I found my path hindered by the aft of a young male and a table. I asked the young male to excuse me, but naught could be heard above the din of our surroundings. Accordingly, I lightly placed my hands upon the small of his back and pushed as I walked past. (I gave him the crotch because tables’ edges and my genitalia do not mix.)
This is when shit goes proverbially downward. I continued towards the exit of the bar, unaware the young male and Mr. Pants were one in the same individual. Mr. Pants was apparently aware I was the same only frizzy haired, only filtration mask wearing, only African-American student in the joint. He also apparently felt the need to grab my shoulder and ask, in what might be considered impolite terms, “What the fuck is your problem?”
I have a lot of problems in my life. My lack of focus on school, my roommates not getting along so well, and the distance (~400 miles) from my girlfriend. However, when I was queried on this occasion, my mind went blank. I responded, expecting he was about to become one, “Umm, nothing?” My worries were justified as he continued (something along the lines of), “Why did you push me?” I explained, in almost the same terms as above, the predicates and conclusion of the earlier situation which resulted with my stimulus and his movement. Mr. Pants was not pleased. He placed his drink upon a nearby table, cleared some space, and was suddenly endowed with a child’s curiosity. “Do you want to start some shit?” I am decidedly against “start[ing] of some shit,” except flushing down the toilet and the infrequent clandestine rendezvous in the forest. I informed him with less detail. He pressed the subject. I turned and walked away. The Samoan bouncer was impressively competent and kept Mr. Pants blocked downstairs as I attempted to exit the building.
I say “attempted” as upon the stairs, I was almost immediately accosted by an attractive young female operating under the alias of “Keri.” (samfu would do her.) She found herself intensely interested in the tantalizing filtration mask snuggly attached to my neck. Her mouth moved with questions drowned out by the noise, and my mouth moved with answers similarly afflicted. I’m under the impression she thought I was “awesome.” samfu entered “stage up” and thankfully interjected himself between us. I then became aware Mr. Pants was still at the bottom of the stairs, babbling incoherently in my direction. I turned, and asked, “What do you want?” (I know, not the best decision. I make worse ones later.) He indicated my general presence was intolerable and offensive. I indicated to the bouncer to continue defensive blocking maneuvers as I exited.
“Bouncer” is a word which instigates thoughts of fat men bouncing drunks from their flesh. These drunks then fall to the ever-loving ground, finding their faces collapsing from the supple caress of concrete. Sinful establishments would be far more interesting if my imagery could be realized. The Samoan gentlemen in this story failed to bounce Mr. Pants. He also failed to bounce Mr. Pants’ saliva from its rapidly decelerating trajectory into my face. Guess who wasn’t happy? I left the establishment, and entered the ice cream shoppe, a floor above, to meditate on the situation. Enter the final bad decision of the night... (What’s really good or bad?)
I was determined to receive an apology. If you’re male, you know what I was thinking and what I expected. If you’re of the fairer sex, I’ll lie and say it was for honor. Regardless the impetus, after assuring the Samoan of my continued aversion of fecal matter, I returned. I tapped Mr. Pants on the shoulder, and he turned. I think he was surprised - got you twice! I asked him to apologize. He asked me to penetrate myself with a sexual intent. I asked again. He informed me he was the variety of individuals, such as myself, who would not be taken with penetration with a sexual intent. I agreed wholeheartedly, but still I asked. He reiterated our mutual aversions to penetration with sexual intent. “Why don’t I want to fuck with you?” regrettably escaped from my mouth.
Mr. Pants is shorter than me, but far-far bigger than me. Too much fermented sugar, I would venture to guess. It seems individuals, such as Miss. Thang and myself, don’t involve themselves in the business of penetration with sexual intent because Mr. Pants wields the crest of his head. In our encounter, his target was my own sexy face. It’s a pity, for Mr. Pants, I’ve been involuntarily handled in this manner previously and decided to present his nose with the crest of my own head.
It is doubtful Mr. Pants’ expectations were his nose would be bloodied. It is also doubtful Mr. Pants’ expectations were his following two club punches would be deflected by several years of fighting experience, and several months of kung-fu training. It is doubtful fellow club members expectations were to pull an angry Caucasian beast from a startled African-American student with his palms in the air. It is doubtful the Pullman Police Department’s expectations were to involve the receipt of multiple statements.
Tonight, everyone was disappointed.