With the latest school semester beginning and even these late summer days only sporadically warm, it makes sense that we begin phasing out the whole beach bum superhero costumes. Time to get back down to business, perhaps. But when we are unexpectedly blessed with a gorgeous, cloudless, ninety degree afternoon on an otherwise normal Thursday, with cash in our pockets from recent paydays and an inclination to spend it, a patio serving cold adult beverages appears mandatory. And therefore following his own morning spate of classes, even Pete Ravage is in the mix, meaning he and Dylan and I concur that we can scarcely avoid a scouting mission down to precisely those coordinates, i.e. rating the current crop of college females.
Never opposed to at least intermittently think about covering our bases half the time, however, after we park within the belly of the beast, we first drift by Cassie’s apartment, to leave a note pinned upon her door explaining where we are. Calling in advance is entirely outside the realm of our modus operandi, and nobody answered the door just now. However, hope remains that she and some of her cute friends might yet grace us with their heavenly essences, as a decent failsafe whether we do or don’t meet any new recruits down here.
Considering our destination is the most prominent, centrally located bar with outdoor seating, at the very end of sorority row, it’s unavoidable, nay, possibly even our god given duty to intently scrutinize the landscape en route. And lawdy, as Marvin might say, what a landscape ‘tis! Having sunglasses on might disguise our bugged out eyes to some extent, which helps, at least in situations where our craning necks are not dead giveaways. Most notably in response to bikini clad beauties enjoying one last chance to sunbathe, on their balconies and roofs and occasional front yards, though slightly more within reach targets are not exactly verboten, either. Thousands of centerfold quality girls drift by with metronomic insistence, whether skimpily clad to take advantage of this unexpected furnace blast, or well-dressed professional broads cutting a no nonsense path home from either work or school. Even the other fifty percent, dressed plainly in shorts and a tee shirt or something, mostly do not fail to impress.
At this gateway to heaven, we grab a pitcher of Killian’s and an outdoor, prime viewing table. Apart from us, there are enough other twentysomethings to fill eight or ten more, though our viewfinders are focused more intently upon the passerby. The digital clock across the street says it’s not yet five o’clock. Next thing we know, one pitcher becomes two becomes three. It’s fortunate that this very spot happens to serve decent sandwiches as well, so we are able to fortify our bellies against future floods of beer. Still, Cassie and her potential friends are nowhere in sight, we haven’t made any effort to interact with the fellow patrons — and some are beginning to question our theoretical endurance.
“It’s not even seven o’clock!” an aghast Dylan gasps, horrified as he glances at his watch, “there’s no way in hell we’re gonna make it all night!”
Total nonsense, of course. And though I’m mildly scoffing, Pete as expected launches into his latest Big Dog rant. Which is debatable as a motivational tactic, though amusing enough in its own right. Morale and battery charge both receive their most significant boost, however, when, right around the appearance of the fourth pitcher, here come Cassie, Melora, and some other dude strolling up the sidewalk. Having received our scribbled plea, and deciding to join us.
Cassie slides into this picnic table to my immediate left, Melora and the other fellow, who is introduced to us as Brett, directly across from her. Dylan and Pete remain facing one another to my right, with all three of us trailblazers, despite the steadily darkening skies, keeping our sunglasses on throughout. Brett seems to regard us as jackasses, at least during the moments when he’s not thoroughly nonplussed. Then again, this goes both ways, what with his spiky, perfectly gelled jet black hair, and shiny polo shirt. These ladies have at least enough sense to wear much appreciated tank tops and jean shorts.
Still, you don’t want your initial surface categorizations of someone to color your opinion of them forevermore. That’s something I’m always railing against, after all, as a mistake people often make regarding me. We’re all three falling into another of those attribution error traps, maybe, because I can tell each of us is basically thinking, yeah but we’re acting like jackasses on purpose! It’s different! This is a stunt! Whereas you sir are a preppy tool all the time.
But, you know…the flipside here is that this all seems to be true. He mostly snickers at and derides most of what we say, assuming he isn’t just tuning us out. All of nineteen, too, it soon emerges, which means if nothing else he should instead remain eternally grateful that we are his pipeline to this underage beer. Having an attitude is fine, so long as we are the ones dispensing it.
Nothing a million pitchers of beers won’t drown out, though, and we do our level best to reach this lofty goal. George Killian is good people and is indeed treating us quite well this evening. Of much greater importance, however, Melora and Cassie have suddenly brightened our horizons, with the former especially looking mighty alluring tonight. And not only, but it’s amazing how the other random females in your midst always take a more favorable view of you when you have any other chicks around at all — a point I often even forget myself, during the all-too-frequent moments where, beating myself up about whatever girl I’m seeing, believing I can do better, I typically do my best to avoid bringing her around.
It’s admittedly a relief to see that Melora is not involved with this Brett clown. Maybe the interest is there on one or both sides, who can say, but at the moment he’s apparently just some guy she knows. A blessing not only in that we have designs on her ourselves, but because she avoids the whole besmirching by association bit, whereby our opinion of her might take a hit in seeing what kind of buffoons she finds attractive. Which is doubly crucial in that she’s not only hot, but is also on our warped yet laidback wavelength, given to oddly timed confessionals and other bizarre subject matter turns we don’t exactly expect from this demographic.
“I watch a lot of porn. Like, a lot of porn,” she interjects with a laugh, as our group is only barely touching upon current relationship statuses and to which this only tangentially applies. Not that anyone’s complaining, as our ears likely gain an inch or two in height from straightening up into fully focused attention.
While we turn to her, beaming encouragement, it’s Dylan of course who poses the question, “well, why do you think you watch so much porn?”
“I don’t know, maybe I can’t find a good man,” she admits with a luscious lipped, closed mouth expression somewhere between a pout and a smile, “but yeah, I like, sit around with a vibrator watching them all the time.”
To say she’s an outlier among Cassie’s friends is an understatement. Some have been specifically booted from their inner circle specifically for excessive sluttiness, which as one might gather, signifies that the rest are mostly prudes. Cassie herself meanwhile mostly walks this tightrope by being as coy about these matters as possible. Therefore her muted, reserved inquiries into what we might all have going on in our romantic lives right now.
“What about you, Mason? Still seeing that chick that gave you all your furniture?”
“Jenna? Well, you know…she might stop in for a bootie call everyone now and then, but that’s about it.”
“That’s it? Other than the bootie calls, you’re not really seeing that girl?”
I shake my head no, while deciding what to say and how much of it. This is actually slightly outdated information, but she doesn’t need to know that; there’s also a sizable wedge here where I might insert Helena’s name and possibly one or two others, although she didn’t specifically ask about this and there’s no need to touch upon these points, either.
“I just finally, finally broke it off with that boyfriend I’d been seeing since last summer,” she tells me, though I didn’t ask, and furthermore consider this more information that nobody really needs.
Meanwhile, on other fronts, these picnic tables are jammed so closely together that, once full, we can scarcely avoid interacting with our brethren. And we wouldn’t have necessarily considered this in such a manner before, but this elbow to elbow seating arrangement might work to our advantage, even if battling against the inevitable swarms of frat boys. Reason being that if you can scarcely turn your head without being face to face with some cutie, making acquaintances becomes inevitable, you could even say avoiding such would even make you sociopathically weird. But the question then becomes: how can we distinguish ourselves above the competition and the noise? We didn’t even wear any props, for Christ’s sake. Well, in this instance, the randomness of proximity works to our advantage. The next table over, up against the rail, one tantalizing option concerns a trio of girls — accompanied by a couple guys, but so what — who were among those plainly not the least bit interested in us at the outset, though much more receptive once Cassie and Melora arrived on the scene.
The clicking of our plastic beer cups formally accompanies eventual introductions. Zoe is the tall brunette with the killer body and just a touch of smugness, though not overly so. Ashley the tanned blonde who laughs at everything, a trait which might well illuminate our pathway to success. Then there’s Anjelica, a short Latino girl, her body the right amount of soft, nonetheless boasting some mighty fine curves, a pretty, doe eyed face accentuated by long thick eyelashes, and incredibly dark, curly hair. While Dylan is plying his wares with the other two, mostly, I take an immediate shine to her. One intriguing twist, though, is that she pronounces her name in proper Latino fashion, with the j sounded out as an h. An-hell-ica. Which can only mean that quite naturally we insist upon calling her Ah Hell Na.
I’m not even sure what we are doing specifically to bedazzle them, because the other two chicks in particular would ordinarily seem, if not out of our league entirely, then at least not the types we typically do well with cold contacting in bars. Or outdoor drinking patios, or anything like this. But Dylan’s on a roll with the comedy gold, whereby every word leaving his mouth is either genuinely hilarious, or interpreted as such by these females. And I’m just sort of coasting on his coattails this time around.
It certainly helps our cause that we have these other women at our very own table, however. Like a relay switch we can fall back on, to divert our interests in another direction when one track threatens to derail us. And of course to potentially play off one another. Semi-cheap draft lubing up the gears never hurt matters, either, and while on a robust night, Dylan, Pete, and I have gotten to where we can polish off something in the neighborhood of ten pitchers, we figure to easily exceed that figure at a not even all that late hour this early evening. Even with Brett clocking in as a total lightweight, Cassie and Melora both can hold their own and deliver impressive showings. They even take matters in their own hands when, at a point where Pete and I have momentarily gotten sidetracked into a discussion about the music blasting out of the house speakers, and Dylan’s over clowning around with the other table, our latest pitcher nowhere near killed, here come Cassie and Melora drifting out of the building with another pair of freshly poured, ice cold ones apiece to keep this party train moving.
But, after we’ve ground down conversational pathways with Zoe and her friends, one of those track switching maneuvers is in order. Dylan asks Melora to take a walk around the block with him, so he can smoke a cigarette and learn more about this purported porno obsession of hers. In as much an effort to block out this Brett buffoon as anything else, I’m stretched out for a spell on the other table, trusty plastic cup with me, tilted ever precariously so when requiring a sip, while I converse with Anjelica. Whatever the hell we might be talking about, it sure does include a lot of fierce agreement and clicking our cups together with a merry conspiratorial smile, so something here is apparently working.
Dylan and Melora return soon enough — soon enough for not much to have happened outside of the stated goal, that walk around the block. But here we are, at the crossroads again, supplies dwindling and nobody flinching first to reach for their wallets. Which is totally fine, I’m down for whatever it takes to keep this boisterous vibe aloft. But Anjelica and company are also enjoying our largesse at the moment, which means even four pitchers doesn’t stretch too far when split ten different ways. Now that she’s returned, as the closest specimen hewing to his anorexic thin specifics, Pete attempts charming Melora, while Dylan wanders inside to take a leak. Collectively, along with having apparently blown through the last of her funding, these points all factor in some degree to the latest unexpected conversational turn, when I plop back down next to Cassie and we discuss our next moves.
Leaning into me, she says in my ear, “I’ll suck you if you go buy another pitcher.”
Yes ma’am, and where do I sign on the dotted line for this proposal? Well, whatever the case, I’m fine with sorting out the fine print later, and do indeed sally forth for another pitcher. George Killian was obviously whispering in her ear shortly before she blew this hot air into mine.
By now, nightfall has begun dimming the tint around us. The patio, steadily filling with bodies throughout, now borders on standing room only status. In this light, it’s a good thing we made that connection with Zoe and Anjelica early, or we probably never would have stood a chance.
As if Cassie’s phrasing weren’t enough — unless she planned on escalating the stakes still higher, somehow — it becomes immediately obvious she knew this would be her last pitcher, however. It’s only now that she first begins speaking of a 45 page school paper that is written, she claims, yet needs to be properly typed up by daybreak. Dylan’s off entertaining the troops the next table over, and Pete’s embroiled in some serious discussion with Melora, leaving us two to hatch out a battle plan. She references a reputation I have for somewhat speedy typing and is asking if we might like to stop by later, to help knock out this thing; with that in mind as well as one or two other key considerations, I agree to see if I can.
“Give me a kiss,” she requests, and I surreptitiously oblige her before she and Melora and Brett shove off.
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