Whether to Laugh or Cry?

I am back from Philly. Just got back, this afternoon, after once again coming incredibly close to being sick on the plane. I don't know what's up with me. I've been on literally hundreds of aeroplanes in the last 30 years and never have I been airsick until this month. The resting pilot sitting across the aisle, and looking happy about that fact, said I was a good little trooper.

But you don't want to hear about my airsickness, right, you want to hear about the Wharton StalkerGuy!!

Well, I met him. And, of course, it was a disaster.

My sister and I had decided earlier on Thursday that we would both go and meet him for a drink that night. (She had actually suggested going and pretending to be me, but that didn't really solve the problem of what to tell our mother in the event of the WSG turning out to be a mad axe murderer - in fact, from my perspective, it would be even harder to explain). We had even worked out a secret code, by which we could make a hasty exit if need be by triggering one of our stock of standard getouts: such as the "unselfish" excuse ("You have to work tomorrow, we don't want to keep you...") or even the tried and truster "jetlag" excuse ("Oh dear, my sister's tired, I need to take her home to sleep").

***

As it turned out, best laid plans totally flopped. My sister, who had been upgraded to BA business class where champagne flows freely down the aisles, passed out from "jet lag" before we had even left our room. I was left to venture out to meet the WSG alone, fortified only with a swift and large vodka martini from the hotel bar to see me on my way.

I got to the Irish Pub on Walnut Street first. At the bar, I randomly looked at the shelf, and on the grounds that if the WSG had nothing to say for himself I could at least drink something I liked, went for a Glenlivet straight up. The barman's eyebrows rose: not for the last time that evening.

Then the WSG showed up.

At first sight, not hideous, exactly, though it was clear he was going to need a really really really good personality. Unfortunately, it was not on display that night. The WSG was the sort of person who swallows Dale Carnegie without chewing. All he could do was ask me endless personal questions about myself. I felt vaguely resentful. I tried asking him a question. He dodged, and just asked me the same question back without replying. He was beginning to really piss me off. Then he started asking me what I was going to do about my visa situation. I really didn't want to talk about it, but he started going on about Vegas again.

"I told you, I can't afford you!" I am still trying to be light and polite.

He was not. "Well about if you pay me 10% of your future earnings?"

"You do realize, don't you, that 10% of nothing is nothing?" I asked, through gritted teeth.

"You could work as a waitress with green card, and you can pay me 10% of your wages and tips."

He really was not joking. Unfortunately, after this topic of conversation proved to be shortlived, he really had nothing else to fall back on. No humour or wit was forthcoming. There was only one option, the option of a desperate man. Get her paralytically drunk.

***

Five shots later (the two vodka, then three more whiskies straight up, all on an empty dinnerless stomach), he was finally getting somewhere.

"So. Wharton have this big party tonight, at Pure. It's Studio 54. Do you want to come?"

"Erghmm," said I, hiccuping. "I suppose it's not like I have anything better to do."

The WSG beamed. "I think you just paid me a compliment. Shall we go then?"

"Erghmm," I replied. I slid off my stool, and lurched towards the door, as the WSG leant over the bar to sort out dollars with the barman. As I lurched, I spotted a young guy sitting at the jukebox. I don't usually stagger up to strange guys in pubs, but he had a nice smile, not all beady and desperate like the WSG.

"Hullo! What are you playing?" Hiccup.

He smiled. He looked very young. "Come and look. I'm Joey by the way. What do you like?"

We flicked through the selection. Almost immediately, I spotted Achtung Baby, one of my favourites from my first year at Cambridge. And we were in an Irish Pub...

"I move in Mysterious Ways!!!" I cried.

"I know. Come and meet my friends," Joey said, comfortingly, "They're just over here.."

I went over. They seemed happy to see me. I was quickly introduced to Brillo, Pad (yes, really) and Jen.

"Hi guys, it's great (hiccup) to meet you. But I have a - um - friend over there, who's waiting for me. I ought to...."

I turned round. There was noone at the bar. The WSG had gone.


* * *

I didn't know whether to be outraged, or relieved. What a cheek! On the other hand, what luck escaping from someone who had so little self confidence he couldn't even tap me on the shoulder and say "Shall we go then?" or even, "Are you coming with me, or shall I see you there?" But still.

Joey's mates were less bothered. Come and join us, they chorused. I drew up a stool. Then a fifth friend arrived, Mike. He kissed my hand, and later they all invited me back to their house round the corner for more beer. Before I knew it, it was 2am, I was standing in a quiet street with Mike, surrounded by fairy lights in trees, and then I was being bundled into a taxi.

***

The next day I woke up with a crashing hangover. It took three Tylenol, a muffin and three bottles of water before I was able to get up and head out for some touristing with my sister, who was now annoyingly fully recovered and raring to go like a greyhound in a trap. Later, we walked home through the "Gayborhood" where Joey's mates lived, and in vain I tried to figure out which street had had the fairy lights; which house contained the sofa I had sat on the night before wrapped up in Mike's blanket, drinking beer; and what on earth we had talked about all that time.

So, a disaster that worked out OK in the end. And I guess I don't need to worry about how to reply to the WSG's emails any more.