My Life as a Tri-Delt

The other night I was asked to celebrate the birthday of a new friend of mine at a bar close to Chinatown, aka Old Town, aka Bum Town. I was going minus Mr Chair, but felt fairly certain that the dependable MAX would get me safely there and back. It was still light out when I left (around 9:30 at night) but by the time I arrived, dusk in bum town made me fairly certain I would be looking for alternative transportation home.

I went to Kells, one of the only frat/sorority type bars in Portland and found my friend and "her girls" dressed up like someone in, oh, let's say, Scottsdale. I, being a rather anti-girl girl who is happiest in a pair of overalls, was instantly uncomfortable in my plain t-shirt and pants.

But two bourbons later I realized I was fitting in. I simply had to interject "that guy is hot" here and there and they treated me like a soul mate. Not only that, but other people were treating me like I was one of them as well. Guys were swarming us. I didn't have to buy myself a single drink the rest of the night.

I was getting ready to leave when one of the girls said she'd drop me off on her way. That was a huge relief, so I said I'd stay and hang out. They claimed they'd have one more round at another bar and then we'd head home. Great.

At the next bar, the girls met up with a huge pack of douchebag baseball players. These were the biggest losers I've seen in a long time -- in fact the biggest losers since moving away from, oh, lets say, Scottsdale. One of them, Javier, took a likin' to me. He told me how he "used to play pro", but now he's training to get back into the game. I asked where he played. Buttfuck, Illinois. Oh, really? I didn't know there was a farm in Buttfuck. Whose team is it? "Oh man it's, like, an independent team." Oh. "Yeah, it was real though. We got checks and stuff." Ah, the glamourous life of independent professional baseball.

By now it's late and by no choice of my own I'm getting wasted. I see a taxi and try to make my goodbyes. Once again, it was "No, just hang out. We're gonna go soon. We have to work in the morning. We're gonna go to one more bar for one more round, then we'll leave." The taxi was calling to me, but so was my ten dollar bill, so I agreed.

Next bar, two rounds in : I realize that all of the girls have paired off with one of the douchebags. Leaving me with Javier. And no matter how many times I "subtlely" mentioned that "my boyfriend and I live near PGE Park", and "my boyfriend and I went to Diamondback games", and "my boyfriend and I get the fuck away from me", he still seemed to think that I was interested in him. And then he started nudging me. In that stupid, frat guy way, nudge, hey, you havin' a good time? nudge, hey, you look good in glasses. nudge, hey, you want another beer?

I couldn't take another nudge. I looked out the window, at freedom, beautiful freedom and saw a taxi. I looked at Javier. I looked at the window.

"Hey, I know that guy!" I pointed at the empty window. I nudged him away so I could get up and half ran/half walked to the door, partly for show -- I was catching up with "my friend" -- mostly just to get the fuck out of there.

I grabbed my cab and never were ten dollars better spent. I got home and thanked my brain for not letting me be a girly girl. I thanked Mr Chair for being my constant companion and keeping idiots from buying me drinks. And, most importantly, I thanked Portland for being a town that, unlike oh, let's say, Scottsdale, will accept a girl in glasses and overalls.