Well, I guess we finally know who the real victim in the Boston this past week was. It’s some guy who writes for Esquire whose one night stand was made, like, totally awkward because of all those people in his immediate vicinity getting shot at and dying.
And it was then when I realized I had a problem. The whole city was locked down. Taxis were suspended. Public transit shuttered. Cops were going house to house. Armored vehicles were roaming the streets. No one could go out. You weren’t even supposed to open the door unless it was for a cop.
With a deadline to hit and a cell phone running on 8% battery, it quickly became clear that my plan to quietly slip out and return home to fulfill my work obligations would be a near impossible feat. I was trapped.
I am sure the families who laid their kids to rest yesterday totally feel you on how LAME that is, dude.
At that point, I really had no option but to just pull up my socks (literally and figuratively) and deal with the moment. One of the great joys (or at least essential requirements) of the boozy one-night-stand is the ability to throw on whatever clothes of yours found strewn across an alien bedroom, and saunter out the door on your own volition. Without it, you face the very real and comically awkward situation of hanging around, reeking of stout and sex, until the city resumes its regularly scheduled programming.
It’s good to remember that this was never the kind of guy who, after sleeping with a girl, would, in a polite embarrassed way, offer to get breakfast. That is to say, it’s good to know that this guy was pretty much a douchebag to begin with, and this piece isn’t brought on by some sort of completely understandable trauma about, well, about Boston’s very close proximity to real evil in the past week. No. No, this guy always sucked.
Then time elapsed and cabin fever began to take hold. We slipped out the door, contravening the governor’s orders, and hustled down the deserted Boston streets, hoping not to get shot by a SWAT team,
Yes. That is why the SWAT Team was there. To stop you from getting hashbrowns. The SWAT team is also known as “Team Buzzkill.”"
to go to Dunkin Donuts (if Dunkies closes, the terrorists win)
That is a hilarious joke at a time when terrorists are not actively trying to kill people.
So here I am. Still in her apartment, the lockdown still in effect, the suspect yet to be apprehended, public transit still shut down. And I’m sitting at her kitchen table writing this on her computer. Her roommate is on one side, slightly baffled, and she’s standing behind me, reading this over my shoulder and absolutely laughing her ass off.
I know. People died, but, like, whatever. Glad all the terror and mayhem worked out for you two crazy kids.