…before they turned on us!
I knew it! On top of having crappy taste in clothing and music, they’re vicious! Today I am recuperating from a traumatic hipster attack that occurred last night. I may never be the same!
Well, okay, that’s an exaggeration, I’ll probably survive without extensive therapy. But I do have a very bruised and scabbed elbow and my favorite vintage coat has some scuff marks on it. Lawsuit!
Last night I went out with my two favorite and most gorgeous hookers–HEATHER (who we call Rabbit) and HEIDI. A dangerous trio if ever there was one, things can always go awry with this bunch but that’s also where the entertainment lies, it’s never dull.
I met the ladies, along with Rabbit’s boyfriend Rob and Heidi’s boyfriend Jeffrey, at Lucy’s, which is a cute little bar on Avenue A that I’ve never been in before. Lucy is an actual person, an adorable little old lady of Eastern European descent with old school beauty parlor hair who owns the place and works behind the bar. It’s warm and the people were cool and it was crowded but not so badly that you couldn’t move.
Rob and I immediately got into an argument about how the neighborhood is full of douchebags and NYU students now. He just baited me to watch me spin and I went on my usual rant. Two drinks in and I’m frothing and shouting as he grins and shakes his head. Heidi yells, “Hit him! Hit him!” And Rabbit says, “Go ahead, he’s used to it!” So I slapped him. But he’s tougher than he looks, or a glutton for punishment, and refused to acquiesce.
Heidi wanted to go to Motor City to see the lovely ANGELA. I was not very excited about this as Motor City, for those of you who don’t live in NY, is located on Ludlow Street, which teems with afore-mentioned douchebags and NYU students on the weekends. It’s like Bleeker Street used to be, hordes of drunken idiots and the sluts that love them wander from bar to bar, shouting at each other and clogging the sidewalks. Every time I have to walk through it I get completely depressed.
But we went. And I held my arm out expansively to the street as sloppy girls in headbands slammed into us and said to Rob, “Well, how do you like it? You like these people, you want to hang with them on a regular basis? NOW will you admit I’m right?” He still would not admit it but I spared him the slap because we both knew my point had been proven.
And so we listened to rock and drank tequila shots. And then we drank more tequila shots. And Rabbit yelled at random guys that tried to talk to her. And then we got stuck in the bathroom trying to get her corset organized. And then Heidi and I tried to catch up while shouting over the music and around people’s heads. And then I bought tequila shots for random strangers. And then I yelled at Rob some more. And then I realized I was totally wasted and had to go home immediately. I hate when I do that to myself, but there it was. I was toast.
Rabbit shoved Rob out the door to get me a cab but it was clear there were none to be had. The street was just teeming with party zombies. The only option was to walk the six blocks home, so I sent Rob back inside. The word “walk” may be too narrow of a term for what was actually going to happen. I could ambulate by teetering and weaving, but walking–kind of out of the question. And it was fucking freezing.
Sigh…just get on with it, Mary…
As I began picking my way through the rabble on high heels, cursing the bitter cold and the collegians standing in the way of me finding a vehicle, a large body slammed into me from behind, completely swiping my feet from underneath me and knocking me hard into the ground.
I was completely dazed by the shock of it, and just sat there confusedly watching a large group of decidedly hipster types scream happily as they ran by me. I was so freaked out (and, oh yes…drunk) that I think it was my intention to sit there for a while. Maybe at some point someone would come out of Motor City and carry me home. Or maybe I’d just live there on the ground. I wasn’t sure.
But one ironically bearded young gentleman broke from the pack and came running back. He leaned over me with a very concerned look on his face and said, “I am so, so sorry! Are you okay?” I continued to sit and said, “You fucker! Look at me!” He asked, “What can I do? Please tell me what I can do!” And I said, “Well, goddamnit, you can help me up.”
So he did. And then he stood with me for a minute while I collected myself, and then I put my hand in his arm and he walked me to the corner. So I guess, truth be told, some of today’s facial hair-challenged youth isn’t actually as vicious as I like to pretend they are.
But I still had to get home. And that was still a tedious and interminable walk through the cold, getting slammed this way and that by Saturday night assholes who in my newly vulnerable state seemed more dangerous than before. It was so depressing, and by the time I got into the apartment I felt good and sorry for myself. I loaded the pets onto the bed and burst into drunken weeping and sent Drew (who was working) an overly dramatic text that said, “I got knocked to the ground by frat boys, please come straight home when you’re done.”
Of course he called right away, freaking out, and I did have the decency to tell him that it really wasn’t that bad. He came home directly after work and cleaned and bandaged my wounds while I sniffled piteously. He said, “I told you not to go down there on a Saturday night, Mary.” And then he pushed me in the chest into a lying position, where he knew I would pass out immediately. Which I did.
I told Rocket about it on the phone today and he said the same thing nearly happened to him recently and we lamented this latest influx of running gangs of happy, badly dressed youth. We vowed to continue to shake our canes and shout things like, “Slow down, you whippersnappers!” until things turn around in our favor. And maybe I’ll call Rob and yell at him again.
MISS ANTHROPE'S HOUSE OF HIGH DRAMA 