Fort Lauderdale Pub Scrawl
by Doug Miller
June, 2005
You might have heard I run with a dangerous crowd
We ain't too pretty, we ain't too proud
We might be laughing a bit too loud
- Billy Joel
So I’m crammed into the back of new-guy-Jason’s shiny red Volvo on the way to a pub crawl in Fort Lauderdale. Tall-guy-Jason is in the passenger seat and appears to be the slightest bit uncomfortable with new-guy-Jason’s driving. It’s all in the body language really; arms extended straight out to the dashboard, bracing for impact, blissfully unaware that when the airbags deploy they’ll be the first things to break. As for me, I’m trying to offer helpful navigation tips along the lines of, “Pardon me, I don’t mean to be a backseat driver, but putting the car where I think you seem intent on putting it will require our developing an entirely new theory of Physics in the next 280 milliseconds” but is instead coming out as a kind of manic, “Ha Ha! We’re all gonna die, aren’t we?” His pupils constricting to the size of theoretical particles, he does a quick down shift while slamming the gas to the floor and nudging the steering wheel the way you do a good friend when you’re about to tell a dirty joke and the next thing you know we’re in the clear, way ahead of the pack. As well as the people we’re supposed to be following.
New-guy-Jason’s driving sets the tone for the pub crawl. Gas pedal slammed to the floor, brakes and turn signals ignored, and only a vague notion of where it is we’re going.
We arrive at this place that claims to have 3-for-1 drinks but when all drinks are ten bucks I think it’s just a trendier way of saying they have a 3 drink minimum. Since there are seventeen people on this pub crawl we’re stretched out at this table like it’s some kind of last supper. I’m on the side of the table with Gail W, Lydia, Lock, new-guy-Jason, tall-guy Jason (I couldn’t think of any other way to tell them apart) and my brother Mike. I’m assuming we’re at this place because, just like some people like to stretch before exercising, some people want to eat before drinking too much.
As the martini glasses accumulate there are some Mensans near the center of the table who are stacking them into a tower to, I guess, play some sort of weird Gen-X form of Jenga. I’m of the opinion that each drink temporarily knocks about 10 points off your IQ, so after three drinks we’re all hovering around average now (with the exception of our amazingly cool, attractive, witty, and intelligent designated drivers who are keeping the rest of us safe). Anyway, when the tower inevitably crashes, as we all knew it would, I pop outside to have a cigarette.
I can only assume that somewhere in the back of this place there is a manager who screams at the employees like a drill sergeant on the first day of basic training if they so much as slow down to twice the speed normal people walk in a crowded restaurant. On the way back inside I have to dodge out of the way of one of them leading a group of about fifteen people to a table. So now I’m pressed right up against another table with, I’m certain, very nice Fort Lauderdale residents who have had a difficult week and are just trying to relax and certainly don’t deserve to have me, reeking of gin and tobacco, wedged right up against their table.
Fight or flight reaction time and humor is my defense mechanism. I look at them and gushingly say, “Hi, my name is Doug and I’ll be standing awkwardly by your table this evening.” They laugh and I escape back into the restaurant where, despite the menu having but two prices - $10 for drinks and $7 for food - people seem to be having difficulty figuring out what they owe. Mensans.
It’s on the interminably long water taxi ride to the next set of clubs that Jessica boasts that she can take anyone shot for shot, Raiders of the Lost Ark style. I accept the challenge, after establishing that I get to be Karen Allen (she wins). I try to explain that alcohol affects you based on body weight and that I have a three to one advantage, but she seems determined and says she’ll order tequila shots, a tactical nuke to some people, if she has to. I mention that I’m basically an alcohol toilet that you can pretty much pour anything down and that if she attempts that then I’ll raise the ante by following the Cuervo with Frangelica shots so we can see who can really mix their alcohol. Having already established that Miller Boys are so full of crap that after taking a dump they need to stand up to get off it, someone (I think it may have been Gail) mentions that’s all well and good but when the toilet backs up you have a pretty big mess on your hands. Well played, Clerks. Touché.
We get to the bar and order 4 Cosmo martinis. One hundred twelve seconds later we order 4 more. Three hundred seconds later we order 4 more. As Jessica is downing her fifth I offer to let her off the hook and thankfully she agrees to call it a draw. Followed to its logical conclusion the pub crawl would have ended in about fifteen more minutes for one, possibly both, of us and that would have sucked. Instead we both survive to end up in the games room somewhere around three a.m. trying not to giggle at the sober people who have foolishly insisted we play Taboo with them.
At some point Julie gave me a brief shoulder massage and as we weave our way to the next club I attempt to return the favor. Despite four years in the Army I never did learn how to keep in step and I smash my size twelve on her heel. Smooth.
For me it’s pints of Guinness and bar games at the next place. There’s this ability curve for games like pool, darts, or bowling where a drink or two relaxes you enough to slightly improve your game. But once you reach the peak it’s a steep slope down the uncoordinated side. After talking smack to him, Matt tells me he thinks it’ll be fun to shoot a game with the “infamous” Doug. Infamous? December 7th, 1941 comes to mind. He wins easily. Next I shoot against Palu. “Pa-lu, is that how I should say it?” “Close, it’s Palu.” “Palu?” Close enough. He beats the snot out of me too. Lydia, who will in 24 hours top us all in the very first round of “I never” has the honor of teaching me my third, and final pool lesson of the night. I end up playing shuffleboard, kind of, with Crystal. Mostly I’m just kind of knocking the pucks around.
Searching for cabs and trying to round everyone up becomes a baffling ordeal. These frisky Gen-Xers, I suspect some of them may have snuck off together. Somehow most of us end up back at the parking garage but two are missing. Going above and beyond the call of duty, Lisa sets off on foot back to the water taxi stand to see if they’re waiting there. Lisa will later compliment me on being a gentleman and insisting on escorting her through the alcohol fueled mayhem of the bar district but it didn’t really cross my mind until Jessica gave me this look and said, “You’re not letting her go alone are you?” Put that way I wouldn’t let one of my sisters wander off alone in this neighborhood at this hour so I take off after her. By the time I catch up she’s already walking with that I-mean-business stride that Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon had when they walked up to take on Darth Maul. I have the feeling that had anyone gotten in her way they would have been on the receiving end of some Tasmanian Devil action. No sign of any wayward Gen-Xers but, hey, we gave it a shot.
I end up in the cargo area of Gail’s car, crammed against the hatchback. This entire evening was a blast. I can’t wait to party with these Florida punks in New Orleans!
Back to Borderline Mensa Website Exclusives page
Back to Borderline Mensa