Functionally ReTodded

When I last left you, I had decided not to go to the game. I took a series of catnaps that lasted about two hours, and left me a smidge disoriented.

I got dressed and called a cab. I felt like a total dick calling a cab to take me to a bar that I can literally see from my hotel. But shit, it was 20 degrees and snowing, I’ve been and still am sick, and if I had a rental car, I’d have driven and only gotten the cab home.

So I cleared my conscience, called the cab (and requested one that took American Express) and a dood showed up about ten minutes later. We headed down the road, me with my head hung in shame and he with a look on his face like he just ate a turd sandwich by drawing the fare that only wanted to go 500 yards.

We were about to pull into the parking lot, and I said “You do take AMEX, right?”

He looked at me and said “Que?”

Grrr. “Credit cards. You take credit cards?”

“Ah. no.”

Dammit. I don’t have any cash. Take me to an ATM please.

We hit a bank across the street and I get out and attempt to enter the bank ATM area. In Canada, and I assume other snowy places, the ATM’s are in a sort of sub-lobby, but they require you to have an account and card to get in.

Luckily, there’s a girl inside who, upon exiting, lets me in to get cash.

I take out money, open my wallet to put it away, and realize that I had a twenty, meaning this was unnecessary. Grrr.

As I walked out of the bank to get in the cab, he’s rolling down his window and putting out his hand. WTF? You’re not driving me to the bar now?

I pay him, get a blank receipt (which I will be more than happy to fill in) and he drives away, leaving me to walk about 100 yards. Fucker.

I entered a place that seemed part TGIFridays and part sports bar. I wasn’t sure which it would turn out to be.

I got similar treatment from the frog behind the bar as I did from the Firegrill people a couple of nights prior. Oh, and did I mention that this “sports bar” didn’t have ESPN2, meaning little old me wouldn’t be watching the Busch race this afternoon. This wasn’t promising at all.

I decided that I wasn’t planning to stay long, so I was going to order dinner or something like dinner, a couple of beers, hit the hotel to watch the game and call it a day. It was nearly 5pm and I couldn’t see sitting in this dead joint for over two hours waiting for the game to start.

But as game time grew closer, folks started filling up the place. This wasn’t a playoff game, but it was Saturday night hockey in Canada and it became clear that these folks took their hockey seriously. Families piled in with young kids and groups of 20 to 50 people filed in and took up residence at what appeared to be their usual tables.

About this time, a guy wandered up and asked if anyone was sitting to my left (the empty chair and no drink were two clues, but I let that pass) and I gestured that he could sit.

We made small talk as he tried to confirm whether or not I knew shit about hockey, which I do.

He then informed me that since The Habs had scored five goals the night before, this bar had given out coupons for eight free wings, and he had several of them. Further, he wanted to know if I wanted some free wings. I was beginning to like this guy.

At this point I was swapping emails with GBD, and I decided that instead of going back to the hotel, I was gonna stay here and get drunk with some Canadians and see how the crowd was during the game.

At 6:45 (15 minutes before the game), GBD sends me this message:

“Are you drunk yet?”

At the same time she was sending that, I had sent this:

GBD:

So I decided to stay. Met a nice canadian guy who game me a coupon for chicken wings. Hope he’s not trying to fuck me or kill me.

Fingers crossed.

xoxoxo

FRT

I then showed it to the Canadian guy. His name is Callum. He laughed.

The she replied:

FRT:

Enjoy your date. Are they garlic wings? Maybe he won’t want to kiss you.

GBD

The game started and I decided that this was gonna be fun. I sent the following:

GBD,

I think he’s attracted to me, but neither of us is ready for a one night stand or a long distance relationship. The 2nd period is about to start.

FRT

Callum informs me that he has two daughters (18 and 16) and has a son on the way in nine weeks. I send this bit on to GBD. She replies:

Good lord! Buy that man a drink (for many reasons). He has teenage daughters, he’s getting his son, he bought you wings. Just start drinking man!!

I replied:

He’s drinking coke and the wings were free.

As for the drinking, I’m doing the best I can. This 6% alcohol canadian beer sneaks up on you.

FRT

She replied:

Well, happy hockey, or whatever the hell I’m supposed to say. Vive La Hockey???

I showed that to Callum and he corrected GBD. I sent this.

GBD,

He said it’s “Bon Hockey.”

Oh and he said that HIS wife isn’t bothering him via email at all.

LOL

FRT

The game’s tied 1-1 going into the third period, and I’m having fun. Instead of ordering specific beer, I am now leaving it up to the frog behind the bar to decide which draft beer I should have. I’m hoping he’s not dipping his penis in it when I’m not looking.  I have fallen in love with the Belgian White they’re serving and am extoling its virtues and ingredients (it has corriander in it!!) to the couple next to me.  She thinks I’m funny.  Her date thinks I’m drunk.  They’re both right.

Then I start talking to Callum about Canadian stuff, like how much cigarettes are (since he steps outside periodically to smoke). He says that they run between six and nine dollars a pack.

WTF? Sixty bucks a carton? That’d be enough to get anybody to stop smoking I’d think.

The game ended with Le Habitants scoring the winning goal with just over five minutes to go, putting them alone in first place.  The crowd’s happy.  The bartender / emcee won’t even look at me as he’s throwing out souvenier t-shirts.  I have now decided that I may be forced to kill this bastard.

It’s time to go, so I paid my sixty dollar tab  and get ready to call a cab.  Callum says “Hey, you want a ride?”

So here it is.  The point where I am either killed, forced at gunpoint to blow a guy in a foreign country or simply get delivered unharmed to my hotel a scant 500 yards away.

I figure “WTF.  I’m drunk.  I’ll take my chances that I’m just resistable enough to be left alone sexually and just non-annoying enough that he won’t kill me.”

I’m right on both counts.  I thank him for the ride.  He says “There’s a game Monday.  I’ll be there watching it.  If you’re around, come on by.”

So I’ve got a date Monday night.  What do you think I should wear?