That Guy. Who knew?

I must have pulled off a dozen “That Guy” moments last night. It was amazing, in a very sad, sad, sad… but ALIVE sort of way.

When I got off work (left early, at 5pm, word), I was beyond irritated. I was raging to the point of being unproductive. One cannot be expected to execute a specific set of complex tasks effectively while outraged at the existence of the tasks themselves. I would compare it to being asked to “properly” raise someone else’s pack of rabid wolves. I’m no wolf, these issues are fucking uselessly rabid, and “proper” is so beyond vague that it will only serve to piss me off (rather than give me a goal to aim for). Blah-blah-blah, suffice to say: I was extremely irritable. So I decided to go for a run to work out the stress.

Three sweaty miles and two levels of body odor later, I remember that I am supposed to meet up with Dan and Sophie for a drink at Deville. It was already 6:30 at that point. Dan and Sophie are absolutely fantastic people. Just hanging around them puts you in a better mood. All smiles. They were heading to the Busta Rhymes concert at 8pm, and I had agreed to a pre-show happy-hour thing to see them off. I did not intend to pay twenty bucks to see Busta bust his same ol’-same ol’, but I had not seen them in almost a month. Had to go to Deville.

Parked my ride on a steep side street around the corner from Deville, put up my parking break (noting to myself how seldom I use it), took off my sweaty jogging shorts and shamelessly got out of the car. “That Guy” moment 1: I was that guy who you periodically see out in public, in his boxers, looking about all nervous like a pervert. But I just wanted to wear my pants instead, which would better house all my pocket-filling possessions. I have to be standing to put on my pants, right? Whatever. After clothing my sweaty self, I wandered into Deville, smelling like eau de suwetsoque. Dan and Soph were outside with two friends of theirs. We started drinking. The other two friends jetted, and Dan bought a few lemon…ish shots.

Dan was persistent about me attending the concert, plying me with evil liquor. I gladly took the booze, and held out until he offered me a free ticket. Word. I was willing to go… for free. That would be worth it. So we downed our drinks, shot some shots, and headed to Austin Music Hall, racing the booze in my blood. We arrived and parked LONG before I was fully marinated.

In the front of the line: Sophie and a friend of hers. I suck with names. Dan and I jumped the barricade that housed the line and got right up front with them. I remember two little asian girls looking at me, with the eyes of grand disappointment, as my nuts cracked on the top of the railing when I tried to hurtle it with one jump. They hated me the way business hates tax. “That Guy” moment 2: I jumped into the very front of a long, well established line. I hate that fucking guy. I always have. And as it should be, security hates that fucking guy too. I was removed from my spot and placed at the rear (Dan muscled his way through and was not detained). While in line, the booze in my veins spread like fungus, and I began to pickle. By the time I was being frisked at the front, I was completely plowed. “That Guy” moment 3: that fucking guy, who is in line (baseball game, ATM, grocery store, Drivers’ License, whatever line) by himself, and is almost too drunk to stand. That guy sucks\rocks. Whatever lines I joined after that: I was that fucking guy.

Once inside, the concert was doing its thing. We shot Jager and what not, throwing a few cans of shit beer between, just for good measure. Soon, I was taking on a variety of other obnoxious “That Guy” personas:

Moment 4: that dumbass that shouts “words” really loud during a concert, even though they don’t know any of the lyrics. Shut the hell up, will you? No.
Moment 5: that irritating louse who smokes in a NO SMOKING establishment (I was asked four times by security to cut it the fuck out).
Moment 6: that really stoned-looking hippy guy at the concerts who ends up dancing with no one, in the back rows of the crowd. He always creeps me out. I’m sure I was creepy.
Moment 7: that rude motherfucker who plows ALL the way up to the front of the concert crowd, cigarette and beer in hand (cigs NOT allowed), smiling and laughing the whole goddamned way. Yep. Gimme a medal, I earned it.

When it was apparent that there would be no encore, we all staggered out to the parking lot. Dan, Sophie and their friend took off. It was only 10:30, and there was no way I was manning a vehicle. I needed food. So I set off to find some.

“That Guy” moment 8: that staggering-drunk fool, wandering about, apparently without aim, that you see meandering on the sidewalk of some dark side street as you cruise past. You know the one, that guy who you always wagered was one of the “newer” homeless drunks? “Oh, he’ll look as bad as those others pretty soon.” Yeah, that’s what I looked like. Classic.

I made my way to Katz’s (never Kloses!… or spells properly) and got a seat in what used to be the smoking section. Here in Austin, there was an ordinance passed sometime this summer (without my approval), which barred smoking from just about everywhere. Unbeknownst to me, Katz’s is within the reach of this ordinance. “That Guy” moment 9: that inconsiderate SOB that smokes in the NO SMOKING section. Technically, I was that guy twice. When I was told to put out my second smoke, I did so in the remainder of my food, per the waiter’s request. What a crock. No smoking at Katz’s? Jesus, come back and reclaim this shit-hole for your own.

While at Katz’s, I managed to wrangle a nice woman into conversation. She was busy with some paperwork at an adjacent table, and I was bored (and steam-grinning drunk). So I leaned over and introduced myself. Cool lady. Somewhere near my parents’ age. She works with the Victims’ Unit at the Sheriff’s Office as a volunteer counselor. Her husband passed away a couple years back and she is in the process of finding her own groove. Very easy to talk to. She didn’t seem to mind that I was completely obliterated, partially incoherent, and smoking in a NON SMOKING restaurant. Her name was Patti, I believe. But my memory is utter sheeeeeeite, especially when the memory is Jager-soaked. Good soul on that lady.

I left Patti at Katz’s and wandered around the streets for another couple of hours, thinking, considering, pondering. I got home after midnight and immediately went to sleep.

“That Guy” moment 10: when I got into my truck this morning to go to work, the fucking parking brake was still up. It had been engaged since De-fucking-Ville. I used to make fun of that guy. Fuck it. I think I still will. Sometimes, I redefine “dumbass” downward.

Not a dozen moments, but ten is still not respectable. Man, sometimes, I think I love life too much.