It was a typical day in Utah. Work at the Sundance Film Festival had been crazy as usual and my need for a beer and a couch was at an all-time high. Quittin’ time was fast approaching and I allowed myself a sigh of relief because I didn’t have to take the bus tonight. My roommate was picking me up.
Cue the large Jeep Cherokee on forty-inch tires barreling through a snow-littered parking lot like something out of Stephen King novel.
After an exchange of the pleasantries, my roommate said we’d be having people over. I acknowledged with the hope that, like other nights, it would end early so when the morning sun rose, I wouldn’t be so hung over that I’d want to pluck my eyes out with a rusty spoon.
On the way home, we stopped at Jeremy’s Ranch Liquor Store (neither a Ranch, nor owned by a Jeremy) and perused the aisles. Most nights, we’d be buying cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
But tonight was different. Tonight, I stayed his hand. Tonight needed triple hops brewed American pilsner. Tonight needed a Vortex bottle for a smoother pour; a gold-insulated can to preserve its royal flavor. Tonight needed Miller Lite.
I couldn’t tell you what it was that inspired the purchase. Fate, maybe.
When we got home, I ate some leftover lasagna, stepped out of my Vans and finally found the couch. Remains of last night lay haphazardly across the table: all the necessary accessories to Rock Band and a few dozen wounded aluminum soldiers.
On a normal night in this house, the guests were strangers. They were random girls from my roommates’ work, from high schools, or from the gas station. Usually, my interest in them never vaulted above ‘welcoming acquaintance.’
That didn’t mean I didn’t put forth an effort to make my relationship with these guests more, say, intimate, but the success rate of these efforts were as thin as my patience.
Tonight had a different twist that wasn’t just the Miller Lite. One of the guests was being brought over to meet me specifically, the fancypants ‘roommate from Manhattan.’ This ignited my nerves a bit, but not so fiercely that four Miller’s couldn’t cope.
But with each can of beer, I grew less nervous. I’d heard of girls being fashionably late, but this fashion trend was desperate for a reality show makeover.
To ease the anxiety, I continued as the iTunes DJ of the house orchestrating one 90s jam after another as if conducting an entire pit orchestra of synthesizers, key-tars and Devo hats.
And just then, midway through Marky Mark’s “Good Vibrations,” the door swung open and I saw her: mystery girl.
I had used the expression ‘frozen’ quite a lot in the state of Utah – what with it being mid December and a high of zero degrees outside – but at the moment the door swung open, it was like I had never felt frozen before in my life. I felt it from behind my eyes to the beer in the can.
I quickly turned to my computer to hide any fluster that may have been beaming from my face and diddled more with my playlist. Something New York-ish I thought. Next up: Julian Casablancas, the young New York Rock Star Extraordinaire! (He’s from New York, I’m from New York. You’d let him bang you, you’d let me bang you!)
The night wound on with no development between mystery girl and myself. To my surprise, I was unable to make a move. Me: someone who had the confidence to talk to just about anyone. But then…she sat next to me at the fireplace.
I decided enough was enough. I had to swing one line out there to show her I wasn’t scared. So I took one more sip of my emptying Miller Lite and said the first thing that popped into my brain.
“So how long have you known—?”
“Nothing’s going to happen” she interrupted.
And before I could answer like Rico Suave, I answered like Ricky Ricardo and said, “Okay.” I then excused myself to stare at my reflection in my bedroom as if it would change what I saw somehow. After I pounded a few more Miller Lite’s, I went back with a new mentality: apathy.
This new thought process lasted all of five minutes until I regurgitated a line and sharply changed directions from “apathy” to “cheesey.”
“You have beautiful eyes,” I said. “It’s not a line or anything, I’m serious.”
Wow, Phil.
For some reason I thought admitting the lines purpose would help.
And then the glory of glories…
It did! We totally made out after that! Well, not right after. I had to let the line simmer, but, eventually, after the Godfather Saga, baking a Christmas Ham, some Tae Bo and complimenting her eyes a few more times, we did. We so did.
Good thing I decided to class it up for once and buy Miller Lite.
Moral of the Story: “When You Want to Make Out all Night, Make it a Miller Lite”
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nice recovery! well, not really, but it worked!
good job “cheesey” beat being creative and it worked. “fancypants” from Manhattan