Saturday, June 21, 2008
Drunk Girls With Cell Phones
As I was escorting a case of Coronas to the South Loop on the el last night, I encountered a group of fun-loving gals in pink Cubs shirts on their way to a party they weren't supposed to be throwing at someone's parents' condo in the Gold Coast. I carefully observed them, trying to figure out which one of them was the Carrie, as they drunkenly bickered about the amazingly complex carry out order they were phoning in. After making the case for the inclusion of some breadsticks, one of them had the following phone conversation:
"Dad. Dad, hey dad. What's up? No, shut up, I'm trying to tell you. Shut up. So you'll never guess who sang the seventh inning stretch at the Cubs game. The Cubs game. Dad, I don't care about stupid class. I'll go next week. Shut up. God, I'm trying to tell you about the seventh inning stretch. It was Kristin's favorite singer in the whole world. She's my friend, dad. My friend, Kristin? From tri-delt? Shut up. God, dad, why won't you just listen? You know what, fuck it, you know what? I'm hanging up on you."
This was closely followed by this conversation:
"Sarah? Hey, Sarah, what's up? We just went to the Cubs game. Yeah. Yeah. Well, we only had four tickets. I didn't even know you wanted to go, okay? Jesus. So you'll never guess what I did afterwards. I just made out with a thirty-year-old guy! I know. Oh my God. I know. What? No, I did call you back. Sarah, I left you three fucking messages the past three days and you never called me back, okay? Never. So don't play that way, okay? You know what? Fuck it. I'm sick of you."
I thought about giving her my number, but I didn't want her to get the wrong idea.
As I was escorting a case of Coronas to the South Loop on the el last night, I encountered a group of fun-loving gals in pink Cubs shirts on their way to a party they weren't supposed to be throwing at someone's parents' condo in the Gold Coast. I carefully observed them, trying to figure out which one of them was the Carrie, as they drunkenly bickered about the amazingly complex carry out order they were phoning in. After making the case for the inclusion of some breadsticks, one of them had the following phone conversation:
"Dad. Dad, hey dad. What's up? No, shut up, I'm trying to tell you. Shut up. So you'll never guess who sang the seventh inning stretch at the Cubs game. The Cubs game. Dad, I don't care about stupid class. I'll go next week. Shut up. God, I'm trying to tell you about the seventh inning stretch. It was Kristin's favorite singer in the whole world. She's my friend, dad. My friend, Kristin? From tri-delt? Shut up. God, dad, why won't you just listen? You know what, fuck it, you know what? I'm hanging up on you."
This was closely followed by this conversation:
"Sarah? Hey, Sarah, what's up? We just went to the Cubs game. Yeah. Yeah. Well, we only had four tickets. I didn't even know you wanted to go, okay? Jesus. So you'll never guess what I did afterwards. I just made out with a thirty-year-old guy! I know. Oh my God. I know. What? No, I did call you back. Sarah, I left you three fucking messages the past three days and you never called me back, okay? Never. So don't play that way, okay? You know what? Fuck it. I'm sick of you."
I thought about giving her my number, but I didn't want her to get the wrong idea.
