Whoa, this is my first column of the semester. For the three of you who remember me and might be wondering, not much has changed.
I still hate school and technology (evil mind-control garbage). I’m still positive aliens are watching me and plotting to abduct me any day now. My diet is still worthy of a TLC special.
So where do we go from here? Honestly, until a few minutes ago, I had no clue.
Before starting this semester, I felt a bit anxious about writing this column again. It’s kind of a weird situation. In no way am I worried about writing as an artform. But how many dumb parts of my personality can I exploit before it becomes completely mundane—before even I start seeing myself as boring as f?
I clearly needed a different approach. Beating the ol’ paranoia drum into oblivion is getting objectively dumb.
Here’ the new concept: I’m dropping hyperbole for truth. From here on through the rest of the semester, my columns are going to be 100-percent real, unabridged stories. I’ve told all these stores countless times, refining them to spoken perfection. It’s never occurred to me until now they might be entertaining as a writing type thing. Sit back and enjoy the first of many pathetic tales.
Why am I in a taxi with this passionately drunk man who claims he’s part of the mafia?
When I went to school at DePaul University, I got around. The slogan there is “Chicago is my campus,” which is largely true because there is quite literally nothing to do on campus.
However, not even I typically got into trouble on Sunday nights. But for whatever reason, I allowed this Sunday to end up the exact opposite of typical.
Maybe not the exact opposite, because I didn’t get into any actual trouble.
I think it started with the torrential downpour—cold, cold rain. It must have been November because even though in those (freshman year) days when I always wore my highly reliable, green Cabela’s rain coat, it was freaking freezing. Like that point where you can see your breath, but it’s still too warm to snow. Numb fingers remain wronged even when snug into dry pockets.
Back in the day, I smoked lots of cigs. Even on rainy days when they got soggy and disgusting, I loved ’em. Mmmmmmm Newport Reds.
So it was about 10 p.m., and I craved that smooth non-menthol haze. Dominick’s (now out of business) was the closest place to my dorm. Yes, even I once lived in a dorm. Normally, 7-Eleven was my outlet of choice, but three blocks was way too far. This was SERIOUS rain, people.
Outside the revolving glass door was a man, a remarkably drunk man. He pulled me aside and sort of belch/puke said “I’ll give you two dollars if you go in there and buy cigarettes.”
In no way was I in the mood to speak to anyone for more than five seconds, but since I was already getting some smokes anyway, I figured, “What the hell, sure.”
I did the deed, went outside (somewhat hoping the dude had wandered off somewhere just to simplify things, but nah, he was there harassing random passer-sby) and this guy handed me a fifth of vodka with maybe three backwashy shots left at the bottom. He said “Here, take a drink.”
This character looked like he could have made it to the second round of auditions for “America’s Next Top Model,” but ultimately been rejected for simply not being skinny or super attractive. But he was suave, despite his crossed eyes—a formality of finding oneself knee-deep in 80 proof liquor—somehow, he knew I was exactly the kind of person who was just lax, crazy and desperate enough to do something relatively random and insane.
I took the bottle and drank. Then did that thing where you kind of barf in your mouth, but it kind of just stings your throat instead of coming out. I fucking hate vodka. That’s a story for another time though.
At this point I figured I was just going to walk across the street, take off my hypothermic clothes and settle down for a nice night of procrastination. But something else happened instead. This well-kept, tragically drunk man said we should go to a bar. It was “his” bar.
Since I was an eager 18-year-old at this time, without a fake (I never had one, mind you), getting into a bar seemed like a pretty chill plan. So I said “Sure.” And before I knew it, we were in the back of a cab, flying down Chicago streets, rain sheets massacring the windshield as this strange man and I were cusped in the taxi’s damp, ass-end seats, blatantly smoking heavy cigs with the windows up and killing a bottle.
The first few minutes were a blur, but eventually the guy introduced himself. His name was Dartanian and he claimed ties to organized crime. (Here’s where I exclude a tiny bit of information, just so this doesn’t come back to haunt me and I end up at the bottom of a lake with cemented feet. Use your imagination and decide for yourself what group he told me.)
At this point I was slightly perturbed. And then my new friend Dartanian told me all the people on “Jersey Shore” were just poseurs because they stole their swag idioms from him and his cohorts. Now I was terrified.
What sick individual tries to seem cool through a self-juxtaposition with Pauly D?
We finally pulled up to Dartanian’s bar. It was a classy place in a part of town known for attracting young professionals (I totally fit in with my blunt-green rain coat). And we walked right in, despite harsh glares from the intimidating bouncer who must have known I wasn’t nearly of age. Was this actually Dartanian’s place? Was this guy legitimately named Dartanian? So many unanswered questions.
We immediately went to the men’s room (I don’t know)—never seen a nicer shitter in my entire life. There was a dude whose job was to stand in the bathroom and offer people cigarettes—menthol or non-menthol—to whom I wasn’t sure how to respond. Was this heaven?
Unfortunately we didn’t stay at Dartanian’s bar for long. I wanted to drink, damnit. Within 15 minutes we were back out in the wet. Dartanian needed to make a phone call, his phone was dead so he needed to use mine. I thought this was the point where I somehow died.
By this juncture, however, Dartanian was too drunk to do much harm. He asked if I wanted to participate in more illicit activities, but I was done for the night. I peaced out somewhere around the Rainforest Cafe, simply by not walking with him anymore, hopped on the Brown Line and went home.
It’s hard for me to pinpoint exactly why I love telling this story so much. Maybe because Dartanian is one of the most absurd names I’ve heard in my entire life; maybe because this bizarre progression of events metaphorically describes my life (at least parts of it). Hope you all enjoyed this first installment of scary stories.
Want Andy to serenade you with one of his off-kilter, totally real stories? Email him at andy@holsteens.com and he will be outside your window in half an hour.
