Quesadilla of Shame
I just polished off this leftover quesadilla that was loaded with veggies and humiliating memories.
It all started Friday night when my friend and I got turned away from the Janeane Garofalo show, which was understandable since it was sold out. Except we had bought tickets in advance, tickets we had paid money for (the conversation went like “We’ll be happy to honor your tickets at the 11:00 show” “Is the 11:00 show the same show?” “Yes! It’s the same show. Except for Janeane Garofalo.”)
After spending some time discussing the absurdities of being out with nothing to do and the Bernie Madoff-esque business model of the EastVille comedy club, my friend and I found ourselves on our way to Williamsburg to meet another friend, who was apparently somewhere doing something. I wasn’t really fretting over the details when the mind-numbing desire to get drunker had taken over.
We get to Williamsburg, and more details get texted about what we are on our way to. It’s some kind of literary event, and we can “get wine at the front and bring it to the back, or just go to a bar after.” Building a mystery! We arrive at our destination, and it’s a practically empty wine store, with no sign of our friend. We awkwardly enter and explore the store, with hijinks like “Oh, this must be the door to the back room. Nope! It’s a tiny bathroom.”
Eventually we figure out that there’s a backyard, and that’s where all the people are. My friend hammily opens the door quickly to create a dramatic entrance, and we are shocked to discover a silent, crowded poetry reading where we are directly behind the reader (a softspoken older Irishman named Eamon) and everyone is facing us.
Eamon turns out to be the last reader, so my friend and I decide to split a bottle of rosé. After about 20 minutes and walking in on a lady in the tiny bathroom (it was the kind of tiny where the toilet is practically touching the door, so her privacy was most compromised), we’re informed that the party is moving to a stranger’s apartment. I am told to down my wine. I repeat, I am told to down my wine.
Down my wine I did, and since I was surrounded by smartypantses, I compensate by getting more and more crass. My (really quite lovely) friend asks “do you know where this apartment is in relation to here?” and I respond “I don’t know where my left nut is in relation to here.”
We get to the apartment after a stop at a bodega where some strangers asked how stoned we were (this was 4/20, mind you) and I told them I was not stoned at all, though I do get stoned sometimes, but what I am right now is drunk. The apartment is lovely and envy-inducing. I get to work on a 40. The evening becomes a blur of apartment dancing, apartment rapping (whoever put M.I.A.’s “Bad Girls” on whatever playlist was playing is surely regretting it now), smoking on rooftops, pissing on rooftops, and oversharing. I even told the most humiliating story I’ve got, which until that night I hadn’t shared with anyone (I’ll give you a hint: it involves incontinence—the less sexy kind).
At who the hell knows what time, we all go splabsies back to Park Slope. At some point in the ride we decide the evening is not over. Fuck it, let’s get quesadillas. There’s a really good late night Mexican kitchen by my friend’s place in South Slope (if you’re one of those people who likes to talk about how one can only get good Mexican food wherever you’re from, please save it. It’s a fucking quesadilla. Unless you have a Oaxaca IP address, you can suck it. Note: this is the second time today I’ve ordered people on Tumblr to perform fellatio on me based on their opinions differing from mine.)
Now, I’m really only going on the accounts of the other parties involved at this point, but apparently at this quesadilla place I started only speaking Spanish. I should note that while I can speak Spanish, I cannot speak Spanish well. I can only imagine that it was a deluge of “este quesadilla con pollo es delicioso—deliciosA!” and the like as I slowly translate every thought I’m having into the Spanish I learned from Pimsleur 3 years ago.
I get a doggie bag (o una bolsa de perrito!), we finally say our goodbyes and I stumble home, which was no small feat since I was literally stumbling and home is about 25 blocks away. I woke up at 8:30 am on my couch with a fresh pack of cigarettes and no lighter, and I reflected on how sometimes the best times can also make you feel like a dysfunctional moron.
