Last night after braving the rain and humidity* for a trek down to the Ray LaMontagne / Guster concert in Prospect Park, The Girlfriend and I, plus her brother and his girlfriend who are visiting from Maine, cabbed back to the Upper East Side and went to DT/UT for a nightcap. DT/UT is one of those really eccentric, hip places, where people use the word “vibe” when describing it – the kind of place that requires adjectives, which I hate, so here’s a picture.
The place ended up being packed, but there happened to be a couch and a few chairs available in a little side room; the reason being, of course, that also in the room was a couple dry humping one another on a separate loveseat. And presumably because dry humping is so awesome, no one wanted to interrupt them. We stopped outside the little enclave and silently motioned to one another, “No, you go first. No, YOU,” for about five minutes before finally I walked in and said, “Hey, you don’t mind if we sit here, do you?”
Of course, because dry humping is so mind blowing, and you really can’t stop once you’ve started, they pretty much ignored us as we sat down with our drinks and tried desperately to talk about anything besides the awkwardly intimate moment happening right besides us. I mean, my foot touched his foot. And I was like, “Oh, sorry,” and he was like, “(muffled sound of tongue on tongue).”
At that point, the only thing to do was take pictures.
The quality is so poor because we were afraid to use the flash. (Personally, I like the “surveillance camera” look. It gives it more of a “night vision, end of Silence of the Lambs” feel.) But once we realized these two were utterly oblivious to anything except his jean erection in her hip bone, we were like “Weekend at Bernie’s!”
Finally after a third shot (the title banner shot) they were roused to attention with the guy saying, “No pictures, please.” I felt like saying, “Listen dude – one, it’s a free country. Two, I have a blog. Alright? Do you know what that means? That means when two people engage in heavy petting in a bar, I’m going to take a picture of it. Third, I think it’s safe to say the GHB is working, you an take her home now.”
But before any of us could say anything, the couple sat up and the guy, after collecting himself, said, “How old do you think I am?”
Stunned, but for some reason perfectly happy to play along, because I love games, I say, “28.” He then says, “Interesting . . . and how old do you think she is?” gesturing to the girl sitting silently, primly next to him.
Here is where I think, for the first time, that these two may be the type of couple you hear about on shows like “American Justice” who lure strangers into their web of kindness with quirky question and answer games and then, after gaining trust and confidence, murder their new friends and use their preserved corpses as “guests” at future “dinner parties.” Of course, though, I still play along. “27,” I say.
The guy then smiles a big, glowing smile and proudly says, “What would you say if I told you I was 34. And she is 36.” Our jaws drop in exaggerated astonishment, because really who gives a fuck? Sure, they looked young for their age, but already we liked them better when they were making out with one another and leaving us alone. We try to go back to our own conversation, but now that they are free from one another’s embrace, they seem to need to acknowledge us. Eventually, it gets to the point where they are pushing this age topic so much that this bit of dialogue happens:
Brother’s Girlfriend: (trying to find something to say) “So do you use moisturizer?”
Girl: “Yeah, moisturizer is good. Important.”
Guy: “And she has a child! (gesturing to her flat stomach) Can you believe a baby came out of that?”
It is here that everyone in the room who isn’t insane (the four of us) want to run. But the guy, unprompted, immediately goes into his sales pitch: “There are three things you have to do to stay young looking: 1. no smoking (dramatic pause, waiting for nods of approval); 2. no drugs (dramatic pause, waiting for nods of approval); and 3. no drinking.” We all look at the drinks in our hands and say, “Oh well.” Then the crazy girl offers to take a picture of us, the guy makes a joke about stealing the camera, and as we prepare to leave, my head swirling with awkwardness as I try to sort out the night’s events, I am sure of only two things: That even if I survive some chemical accident that causes me to age in reverse and I look seven years old when I am in fact 45, I will not ask anyone, “How old do you think I am?”; and that, despite my entire high school experience, dry humping is about as satisfying as digging for a coin in your pocket.
* About halfway through Guster’s set, the lead singer gave the standard “thanks for coming out” speech, only he started it with, “The weather reports were bad, but you guys all came anyway. Thanks for braving the humidity to be here.” WTF, braving the humidity? Does this guy know there’s a war going on in Iraq?