Date from hell

You can’t stop. This time, I settled for the vodka martini (feeling James Bond) and drank it straight up. Whoosh! And at that particular moment, I thought the gulp did me in because every woman who passed my view looked like a lingerie model — even the three giggling elephants who were having the time of their lives at my expense. I again got a message from Heather, saying that she’s caught in traffic and that "it may take her another hour" to get here.

I didn’t know if she was telling the truth (bumper-to-bumper in northbound Edsa on a Saturday night?) but I should have just cancelled the date. I should have told her that I couldn’t wait any longer (as was true) and that I was getting drunk (as was not true since I already was). I really should have, but I didn’t. Instead, I just let the expletives fly and got a glass of white wine. This was the first time in my existence that I had four different drinks in one night and after that bit, I could no longer see clearly. There was only one consolation, that being I had trouble fixing my eyes on the girls who were laughing at me. Ah, Heather should see me now, I thought.

My long-sleeved shirt was already up to my elbows and the bloody crease in my slacks seemed like eons ago. I was a mess. And since the damn alcohol was already in control of my pea-sized intellect, I believed that I was as cute as the male models beside the bar. I was dead drunk and was really pissed that I was getting stood up. Oh, how I’ve fought the urge to give up weekly drinking sprees with my friends and now this. I felt like a recovering alcoholic who was just given free beer for the rest of his life. And to make things worse, the three nincompoops across me were giving each other high-fives while thoughtfully pointing at me. Why? I sure wished they’d just do it privately.

At 11:15 p.m., two hours after I was supposed to meet the blasted girl, I finally called it quits. I asked for the check and was about to reach for my wallet when I felt a soft tap on the shoulder. I turned around and expected it to be one of three-headed monsters at the "giggly table" that probably wanted to thank me for such an entertaining night. But to my disappointment, it was Heather. And smashed as I was, I knew it was her — the hot pants, the blue blazer.

My date sheepishly apologized (guess she didn’t realize I was THAT drunk) and I wanted to bash her head in with an empty beer bottle because I looked like a total idiot and she was there to see it. Now it doesn’t matter if she was pretty or not (she was), because that’s not the point. Besides, I never called her again after that night.

She sat herself and ordered a couple of tequila shots "for you and me." I almost gagged and looked up to the heavens to take me away from all this shit as the waiter looked at me with sympathetic eyes. I was about to protest when Heather suddenly jumped up and walked across to the other table with the fat chicks.

"What’s going on? Tinitingnan ka din ba ng mga ’yan?" I angrily asked.

"Yeah!"

"Ano ba problem nila?" I wanted to give them a piece of my mind.

"Matthew, I’d like you to meet some dear friends of mine..."

I never turned down an invitation from my drinking buddies again.

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Comments about nothing are welcome at reuben_matthew@hotmail.com.