The Long-Awaited Part 2. The Tri-City Trio Strikes Back!

I told Blake and Jordan that we should take the damn sign, go back in, and stick it in front of our table until we got some fucking attention paid to us.


STOP!!! Dont read this if you haven't read part one! Silly!

So there we were. Three painfully sober young men on a Thursday night.

The fact that we were leaving my campus bar should have contradicted our massive, ungainly, slobbering sobriety. But, instead, the only contradiction was the one between the sign at the door saying "Please seat yourself, you will be served shortly" (or something) and the ammount of service we were recieving. Namely, about as much service as I'm likely to get from a 2 year-old child, one of whose parent's sprang from the same womb as this character.

This was where contention began. For "contention" read, "Blake pussing out and wanting to go home". Now, don't get me wrong, Blake was still very interested in a drunken evening, unfortunately he just wanted it to be alone in his room with a 40 of rum and 500mL of Coke.

Needless to say, Jordan and I were against this little idea. Blake then suggested we go to Wilf's. Only one problem there: The price of a drink at Wilf's is about as constant as the love of most of the women on it's dancefloor. For those of you who... take up more space with the same ammount of substance, that means that a) the price of said dirnk may or may not include a built-in tip for the server involved, and b) Laurier Girls <3 the Cock.

Luckily for humanity, I suggested a compromise: We would go to Molly Blooms in the plaza by mine and Jordan's school. So we walked. And walked. Walking from my house to Jordan's was one thing, but then walking accross campus and onto the far end of the plaza was another (oh, and I also nearly missed Molly's, just so everyone knows).

Things were back on track. We practically slid up to the door we were so smooth, so supple, so ready for a fucking drink. I was nearly assaulted with the door by a patron on their way out, but I made it through. But here is one gentle distinction, dear reader, between the Molly looms at my school, and the one in our fair metropolis back home: In this MB's, there'a a big fat man sitting just inside the front door (and there is a second front door after it so that you can't dodge him too easily) waiting to take you ID. Also, it's just a huge slobbering nonsensical party-house. basically like every other bar on campus, except that it gets to use "pub" in its name.

I strode in boldly and dug out my credentials. The man at the door was suitably amazed, as was he by Blake's. However, Jordan's left him desiring something more. Something like actual credentials. Jordan is 19, he does have a beard like mine, but he still needs photo ID to get into bars.

We left Molly Bloom's, and truthfully, before I even knew the resolution to our lovely story, I was really kinda glad. The only thing that ever made me want to go there was my desperatre need for a drink after anticipating one for so long.

So, there we were, cast adrift, walking slowly back along the plaza in the direction of Jordan's rez. I didnt know what we were doing, and I don't think Jordan or Blake did either. We'd been beaten by the man. First through the work (haha) of his jaded bar-keeps, and then through his pathetic prohibitionist throwback laws. Man.

And then it was there: It wasn't crowded, but it was roiling with conversation. It wasn't clean, but it was a good kind of not clean. The kind where there's old newspapers and burger grease lying around, instead of empty bottles and ejaculate. I stood outside, transfixed. We had found the end of our journey. For a moment I believed that God had finally decided to prove his existence to me, by putting me through trials and then leading me here.

After a while, the sources of my... transfiction became apparent to Blake and Jordan. I was torn: I wanted to go in, but I didn't want to make Jordan walk all the way home alone to get his ID. He said it was OK, and that he would bike back so that the journey wasn't very long.

We entered. The scene was thus: The bar was straight ahead, behind it stood a greying barman. He was talking to a couple of guys on the stools at the bar. There were only 4, so it was good that jordan wasn't with us yet. To the right were tables and chairs. The only booth was at the back, right beside the two empty stools. On the far right wall was a massive projection screen showing sports of some kind.

We moseyed on down to the bar. The barman, not to be out-cooled by us, calmly informed that if regulars came in and wanted our seats, we'd need to move. We told him that judging by our first impressions, we'd be regulars soon. Our verbal blade-crossing continued: He asked us what we wanted to drink. I paused. A brief reconoiter on the way in had produced a number of beer taps, a fridge full of other beer and coolers, and a (small) back wall covered mostly in scotch. Blake entered the breach first: a double rum and coke. Now that he'd opened the subject of mixed drinks, I called in a screwdriver for myself. The barman asked for ID. We rolled initiative, and jumped for our wallets.

"Don't bother, if you're reaching for it that fast it's either real or a good fake. Here you go, my name's Bill."

I looked beside me, Blake was grinning. I looked the other way and saw a bookshelf. A bar with a bookshelf. I reached for the nearest novel to see what it was. Can you guess? Can you fucking guess? It was Master and Commander.

Blake and I consumed a few more drinks, talked to Bill about ourselves (he's from Woodstock, and he knows the guy who owns the Book vault!!!!).

After a while, Blake went out for a smoke. I chatted to Bill and watched the Tv, sipping my drink. When I looked up again, Jordan was out there with Blake. I put down an order for 2 screwdrivers and another double R&C.

I don't think I need to say any more. I'll let Jordan handle the evening's conclusion.