2002-01-18 - 12:15 a.m.

What the hell happened?

So I had my sushi date with my S. We went for $25 all-you-can eat (it's actually a very good deal), and C. (from work) came too. There was no night work, so C. and I made up some stuff to do, and I made up some work for my S too--it was just us three. It was fun, and so was the walk through the Combat Zone and then Chinatown.

I know that area is "safe" now, but I remember war stories from my youth... I always get a little nervous in that neighborhood. I discovered a hidden pocket in my jacket and stuffed my $50 inside.

My S. and I placed massive orders, and C. got some vegetarian stuff at normal prices. The conversation was good. The place was big and run down--something to tune out, and we did just that. We had more than adequate time to drink before the first course came. And when it did, the first thing my S. and I noticed was that they were out of tomago again, which is kinda funny 'cause it's eggs.

Tacky and fascinating karaoke DVDs flibbed on teleprompters in the background, and we ate some pretty friggin' good sushi. It took me longer than it should have to realize that the rainbow roll I ordered was chock full of avocado. I'm allergic to avacado.

The $25 all you can eat sushi place has a policy that forces the diner to pay extra for all uneaten pieces. I had always (and lamely) joked that it was impossible for such a penalty to be handed down to me.

Well, I traded the remaining three chunks of rainbow roll with My S.

She ended up getting way too full, and I sick. We had both placed second orders.

I did my best to not be a baby, but I felt pretty friggin sick. I hope I didn't ruin anyone's time--I didn't want to focus anyone's attention on me. When the second round came out, neither MyS. or I were in much shape to eat. What's worse, both of us tried to force down our favorite food to save some bucks--hopefully our parsimony did not mar our love for the sush.

My S. got pretty toasty and was feeling sick too. She decided to leave, and (thank God) allowed me to walk her back to South Station. It was a nice walk, and the fresh air helped me feel a little less poisoned.

We had a nice goodbye, and as I was walking back, who did I run into but the Art Gurl! I've a run of luck when it comes to randomly meeting people, and I'll be sad when it ends (knock wood). The Art Girl invited me to join her at J.J. Foley's for a beer or two. I was still feeling pretty sick, and I didn't want to have a recurring excuse experience with her, so I told her maybe and went back to meet C.

We decided to go!

It seems that people who work in sushi establishments want to go home at some point. It also seems that I have somehow become the enemy of their collective (and noble) aspiration. C. was the sole patron and happy as a clam maki when I got back--she had gotten the better half of the two scorpion bowls she had split with My S.

We had a fun adventure finding the place. I had passed by the joint enough to pre-register it in my subconscious, but I didn't know exactly where it was.

We found it, and we had fun. It was nice to see the Art Gurl--I talked her ear off. She fed me beers, too.

It came time to catch the last train, and C. and I decided to take the train home together. It was nice. Got to see the Art Gurl again, and it wasn't like I was going to really call her--I wasn't sure if she really wanted me to. I figured that fate has been helping me run into the right people lately, and that the Art Gurl was one of those folks. I searched around for my lost hat and found it in my bag. I was embarrassed when I found it because it looked a little contrived--the Art Gurl had gotten down almost to the floor to help me look for it, and I had gone under the dark table with a lighter, hastily forgetting that a girl was wearing a short skirt. Leaving looking like a pervert chimes an atonal note.

C. was more toasty than I had ever seen her, or maybe I was more sober than I had ever been when the two of us were getting toasty together. On our walk to the train, she surprised me by busting out a Bud Light that was given to her in the bathroom by some chick too drunk to finish it. When she offered it to me, she was impressed by my gulp. I didn't want to be unfair. I was just afraid of cops. Yeah, I'm an idiot.

C. is proud that she can "take care of herself." I have no doubt that she can. But when she realized that she had forgotten her hat, I insisted on accompanying her back to the bar. Tough neighborhood + really late + her drunk = me missing last train. S'cool.

I stopped at the ATM. If I'm going to miss the last train to return to a bar in order to re-collect someone else's hat, I may as well drink some beers! Damn straight.

We got back and were welcome. I met a friendly version of this guy. I offhandedly mentioned two things that set off massive conversations. Felt proud. The juke was excellent. I liked the place again. C. and I decided that J.J. Foley's was our official after-work-drink bar. I hope the Art Gurl cuts her way through society, like she wants to. I have no idea why someone as composed as her would want to be friends with me. C. got lively and tried to dance on (not a table, but a) barstool, unsure and wobbly all the way. That was cool. She was politely asked to step down. C. and the Art Gurl got into a tearful discussion on the topic of long, dying relationships. Some drunk Irish chick kept calling me "chickie" and did a jig with me. And she sang horrible songs for me. I liked her, and I wanted to talk with her more, but I didn't want the other folks to thing that I was hitting on her/taking advantage. I learned more than I never needed to know about Dr. Hook. The Art Gurl kept feeding me beers.

'Twas magical.

The lights came on and game time was over. Excellent goodbyes.

Cab. C. and I split it, and when we got to Harvard and Comm., I got out so that I could buy some smokes. C. planned on walking the rest of the way, but I told her that she should take the cab the rest of the way. I gave C. more than half of the money with tip, and bid her adieu.

Got out. Patted my back right pocket. No wallet.

I remember in 3rd grade when we had a race for Olympic Day. I was not an athletic kid, and I was extremely proud that I came in fourth. I was also proud in a wondrous way that when I finished the race, I didn't feel like I had run as fast as I possibly could have.

For the fist time in my life, I ran as fast as I possibly could have. I ran three blocks in about fifteen seconds and I did not stop. I tired, so I decided to run faster. I knew where that cab was headed. It stopped at a light, and catching up was possible and possible and possible, but not very likely. It took its predestined right turn just as was within grasping distance. I caught my breath, surprised at how much breath I had let go. Four cabs simultaneously honked at me, hoping to get a fare, thinking that I was running after them.

I found it ironic--it kept me running--that I've had so much fear in terms of making my life better, but that I spent so much energy trying to gain back something I already had.

I lost my fucking wallet. It wasn't even dramatic. It was just stupid and pathetic, like all of the bad things that happen to me.

Stunned, I crossed the street. In the back of my mind, I wanted to get hit by a car. Like how you deliberately kill off your character in a Nintendo game when something bad happens, and starting over seems like a good trade-off for your time.

I had safely crossed the street, looking both ways (of course). I tapped on the window of a police car that was waiting for the light to change. I was still hopeful.

Like the cops could do something about it. The light turned green, and I walked away, all apologies.

Nothing I could do. Nothing I could do.

I got back to the apartment, and I cried. A little bit. But like a Queen. It's pretty embarrassing to admit.

My own stupidity relieved me of the burden of my wallet, and I have to wake everybody in the apartment. Pussy.

I've never been so mad at myself in my life. Everyone but me will forget this hours from now, but I won't. I'll never let me live this down. Ever.

Adam and Eve have been banished from paradise. I've joined the ranks of the people who lost their wallets/purses as a result of their own stupidity. One of the few mental comforts I have afforded myself was the mocking and rejoiceful fact that I was not a member of the dolt club.