The Second Test: The Dive Bar Hook Up

I spend the next few hours pacing around the five square feet of open floor space that I have, putting the next pieces of the puzzle together in my head. Then, I tidy up my place a little, stuffing the shit that I don’t want seen into the closet. Only some of it is clothes.

Then, I set up my laptop on the desk at the end of my bed and head outdoors. It is 9 pm, and there will be people at the bar by the time I get there.

Maher’s is the classic dive bar. You have no reason to be there unless you are looking to get wasted on cheap ****, or looking to pick up somebody wasted on cheap ****. I, today, fall into the latter group.

I make my way through the dim lights and the rowdy crowd, sizing up the room. There’s a gaggle of undergrads downing shots on the left side. The eclectic but undeniably hipster outfits on display makes me think theatre kids, and the broad-chested guy monologuing in their midst, thumping his chest after every line, all but confirms it. There’s something that passes for the regular crowd on the right. Old geezers past their prime nurse drinks with their tired glances, and professionals in their mid-forties come to terms with the fact that they’ll never make management and that, give or take a few years, they’ll end up as one of the geezers next to them.

The actual bar looks like where I want to be. I spy four women who aren’t obviously taken. There’s a curvy black girl, probably mid-thirties, who’s absolutely sloshed already. She’s laughing her head off with a redhead who I admit I find a little hotter. Then, there’s a feisty little Latina who’s splitting her attention between two guys, and finally, sitting alone in the corner, a stunningly hot blonde that I can’t believe is being left alone.

I usually end up going home with somebody. That makes this second test a test of falsification: if I fail tonight, then that’s a sign that there’s something real fishy going on. I fancy my chances tonight as I eye up the redhead, and I give her the classic eyebrow raise when she glances over my way.

But first, I catch the bartender’s attention, finding an open space at the bar. The place is noisy enough that I can get a private conversation with him just by talking in my normal voice.

“How’s it going, Dave,” I say, and he gives me a wide smile.

“I’m havin’ a ball. You here to find someone tonight, Markus? You better not mess it up like last time,” he laughs, and it is a deep belly laugh, a long series of chuckles that gets me grinning despite myself.

Look, when I said that I usually end up going home with somebody, I meant usually. It wasn’t my fault that the last girl was deathly allergic to shrimp when I got her to close her eyes and fed her a little snack.

“Listen, yeah, what’s the story with the blonde?” I nod over in her direction, and he lets out a low whistle.

“Oh yea, you don’t want to mess with her,” he says. “Take it from me, don’t stick yo’ dick in crazy.”

“She’s hot,” I counter, and she looks over at me in that instant. She’s got bright red lipstick on, maybe a touch too much eyeliner, but the crookedness of her nose is cute, and I dig the sapphire earrings she’s got on. Plus, she's packing great tits under that black dress. I flash her a smile, holding up a finger, and then turn back to the bartender.

“She's alone because she slapped her date out of here,” Dave says. “Plus, I think she’s looking to get hitched up as fast as possible. She’s been hitting on half the guys in here.”

“She’s perfect,” I say. “Get me the usual, and get her your specialty, eh?”

I don’t wait for Dave’s reaction, because I’m already sliding up next to the blonde.