a drunk guy named evan.

Last night after a particularly heinous Financial Analysis class which required me to give and listen to several 40-minute presentations on returns on investment and P/E ratios (SNOOZE!), my friend and I decided to get a drink.

As we strolled down 2nd ave at 9:30 on a wednesday, surveying our options for booze, we encountered a drunk guy smoking out on the street whose opening line to us, now forgotten, prompted a series of shouts to our back to the tune of "girls, you're dirty! you're nasty! nasty! nasty girls!" The Janet Jackson tribute was completely unwarranted, of course, but at least he didn't feel the need to show us his penis, like many other drunks would.

As his cheers faded behind us, we turned into this one bar and grabbed a seat. It was uncrowded, despite the yankees/sox game on all tvs. We sat at the end of the bar, pulled our lagging asses onto stools, and ordered drinks.

"Nasty girls!!"

Oh no.

In came the staggering, tobacco-stenched, bald white guy from the street. He beelined right for me, came about 8 inches from my face, and said "Hhhhi. I'm Evan." I backed away slightly from the last breath of smoke he just exhaled into my face, and smiled. "Hi Evan."

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Stephanie."

"And you?" he said to my friend. She answered him.

"What's my name?" I asked Evan. He grinned at me.

"I don't remember. I'm kinda really drunk right now."

Tina, the bartendress, said "Evan, leave her alone," and then to me said "He's a close talker, but harmless."

"I am NOT a close talker!" Evan screamed. Then he looked at me. "Am I a close talker? I'm not a closer talker. THIS--" he moved 5 inches closer "--is a close talker. But I am HERE--" he backed up again "--and that's NOT a close talker. Right?"

"Actually," I told him, pushing him back further, "I think there's like a...12 inch radius and anything INSIDE it is a close talker. So...yes. You are."

"Am I? AM I?" Evan panicked. "Aww. I meant no offense ladies. No harm here. I didn't know I was a close talker. I'm sorta wasted." Evan backed onto his stool unsteadily. "Nasty girls!"

Evan then proceed to ask everyone in the bar--everyone except us--to go to a party with him in a few minutes, and told them all they sucked when they said no. I wondered how we'd get out without the invitation.

We turned back to our drinks, then our long-awaited burgers with tasty bar fries, and feasted on our 10:45pm dinner. For several minutes, we didn't speak, we just devoured our food. The baseball game ended, the music was on, and Evan released his inner DJ by repeatedly reaching over the bar to change the song.

"Evan, knock it off!" Tina warned from the other end of the bar. Evan didn't like the next song either, so he reached back over, essentially lying on the bar on his belly, feet flailing behind him, and changed it again.

"Evan, I'm warning you!" But he was undaunted, and reached again, this time with far more effort, and landed on the bar with a moan.

"I just crushed my cock," he said, mostly to himself. He stood up and winced, slumping back onto his stool like a little kid. "I hurt my cock." I turned away and laughed hysterically, trying not to choke on bar fries or spew ketchup out my nose. Evan was quiet after that.

Upon completion of our meal, and payment of the bill, and seeing Evan distracted by a bar buddy, my friend and I picked up our bags and bolted. But Evan noticed...

"Nasty girls! Wait! How was that burger??"

"Delicious!" I shouted as I walked away.

"Gonna burp now? Come on, let's hear a BIG BURP! Burp nasty girl!"

And then, despite my desire to blast a floor-shaking, foghorn-style, make-yo-daddy-proud type belch in his face--which I am VERY capable of doing on command--I simply adjusted my skirt and my little blue shoes and walked out the door.

And that is the story of a drunk guy named Evan.