Friday night started by driving willy-nilly all over the Westchester County/Northern New Jersey/Southwestern Connecticut area trying to find Stamford. I finally found the house I was supposed to be at and commended drinking. I’ll have to say we pretty much drank two or three beers an hour straight up until we left for the bar. We were doing all right. Of course, Curt had to leave for three hours to go hang out with his girlfriend, even though it was the first night in six months he had seen any of us. Out of respect for Curt’s masculinity (aka. Allison), I’ll say no more.

We left for the bar at about 10 and immediately placed dibs on the shuffleboard table. As we had learned at The Ruck, where we were schooled in the way of the Buffalo Burger style of shuffleboard tossing, we devoured our opponents with such voracity that they were left dumbfounded by our puck-sliding prowess. We took over the table with our first game and didn’t let the table slide from our grasp until last call . . . And that’s when the altercation that made this night noteworthy occurred.

I was playing shuffleboard with Marf, a man who is no stranger to pub shuffle and scuffle, and we were doing fine until a disputed point caused the fifty-year-old looking girl (who was the most time-ravaged twenty-something I’ve ever had the misfortune of laying eyes on) beside me to lose her temper, and thankfully nothing else. We settled the dispute and went on playing, but on the next point, it seemed that her boyfriend believed she couldn’t fight her own battles, and he leaned across the table to kiss his lady friend and stayed there.

I really didn’t understand what this was all about; I think he was just a townie who didn’t really appreciate a newcomer joining the fray, especially when the newcomer was arguing with his girlfriend. Now I can see that part, but there is a time and a place for picking your girlfriend’s battles, and this clearly wasn’t either. I asked the guy if he could let me toss the puck and he came back with something like, “Well, at least I don’t come to a bar with a hole in my shirt.”

So I had a hole in my shirt . . . I borrowed it from Curt since I hadn’t wanted to iron one of the shirts I’d already worn at my training class earlier that week. When was the last time a guy tried to tear you down by commenting on the inadeqacies of your wardrobe? This was my turn to be dumbfounded; I just stared at the guy with a confused look on my face as Marf came over stepped in the middle of us as if something might actually happen.

Nothing did, I don’t remember saying much of anything as their friends grabbed them and left, and at that time Wilkens and I began to make complete fools of ourselves on the dance floor for the last fifteen minutes that the bar was open. Wilkens was one of those down-for-whateva type brothas; my roomate in college. We’s gots some good stories between the two of us.

We departed with our hands raised in victory, shouting ROCK! and YEAH! in succession to make sure that we were completely ailienated from the pub. We were hungry, as guys that leave bars at closing time usually are, so we went across the street to this Stamford sub shop called the Hubba Bubba. Lo and behold, we saw the chump and his chump entourage; you know we had to say something. Wilkens and I, being completely obliterated, caused a total scene (as was intended) and had the cops called on us (as was not intended). Weighing our options between staying, trying to look tough, and being arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct and the converse option of booking it and sleeping in our own beds, we were out of there.

As soon as we hit the steps, the black and white rolled up, so we hightailed it over a couple of fences and got the fuck out of that place. We hid between apartments and behind hedges watching cop cars go by, and we were that careful because we were told that the police in their town had nothing better to do than bust kids for being a little tipsy.

Obviously, the most of the fun derived from this expedition was that of the running and hiding from the cops. There’s nothing like the adrenaline rush that you get when you know someone’s out looking for you, and you know you’re going to be fucked if they find you. It’s not so much the getting away that’s fun, it’s definitely the chase. . . I guess I’m just a chase kind of guy. I’ve never really run from the cops before (wink, wink, nudge, nudge).

I don’t usually ask for responses, but when was the last time you ran from the cops? I wanna hear your stories! Comment away!