Occasionally, even the best wingman missions go awry. Generally, this leads to public embarrassment and, sometimes, blue balls.
Or, it you're wingmanning with Ariel and I, it can turn into a belligerent shit show that ends with a slightly immature scavenger hunt through an Emmy Award winning actor's apartment.
A few Mondays ago, Ariel and I hit wingman turbulence. Short version: Ariel got blacked-out drunk in a midtown bar, told me she was going to the bathroom and disappeared. For an hour. Midway through her evaporation, I abandoned my drink and went tearing through the craphole, three-level bar we'd landed in to find her, accidentally stumbling upon an authentic freak show (no, seriously...bearded lady, burlesque dancers, the works) getting ready for their 1am performance in the process. Taking the bearded lady as a bad omen, I called Ariel's roommate--who calmly informed me that Ariel was already HOME, slurring drunk, and wearing MY coat. In QUEENS. Ariel did not find anything odd about this.
Soon I was standing on the streets of Times Square, around 1:30am, drunk and without outerwear. Naturally, because life is a sitcom, it began to rain. I did not have enough money for a cab to Brooklyn, and my Metrocard was in the pocket of the jacket Ariel was curled fetally upon, like a tiny, drunk, Irish puppy in a whelping box. A whelping box in Queens. Then, my phone hummed a text:
Mr. EMMY: Up to anything this rainy night?
Mr. EMMY is an older, unreasonably friendly, single and exceptionally talented actor we've affectionately nicknamed for the honor bestowed up him during one of those televised awards shows. We all met through mutual friends, resulting in his randomly joining Ariel and I for a platonic concert and meal one night. Whenever we catch him on TV, or whenever he's not off being successful and is bored, we occasionally like to verbally spar via text-message, because I am a smart-ass and he went to Harvard and bizarrely finds gauche smart-assedness amusing.
POLLY: I am wet, cold, stranded. May whore myself for cab money to the Lil' Wayne wanna-be giving me the eye.
Mr. EMMY: Only worth it if he's ACTUALLY Lil' Wayne. Do you need to crash here?
Which is how I woke up in Mr. EMMY's freaking beautiful apartment because Ariel went all fucking kamikaze on me. NO, there was no illicit behavior between Mr. EMMY and I. (This isn't US Magazine.) We kept conversation to the basics (Him: "I just finished shooting with Salma Hayek." Me: "I farted next to Howard Stern once. Everyone thought it was him.") until I eventually sobered up enough to sprawl on his couch. (It's a really nice couch.)
The following is a true-life transcript of the string of texts that were exchanged between Ariel and I after I woke up, alone, in said apartment. Mr. EMMY had left at some earlier time to do whatever it is successful actors do after 9AM, leaving me his spare keys to let myself out whenever I was not quite so pathetic again:
**ARIEL'S PRELUDE: "I think this text log is funnier when you include YOUR belligerent texting of me before you made it to Mr. EMMY's, you Hot Mess."
She's right, so I'm including it.
Also, on THE VERY OFF CHANCE "Mr. Emmy" ever read this himself, I hope he'd understand we love and adore his hospitality, and him, and hold his privacy in high regard (and have hence changed many details in this post to protect his identity)--but when broke and 26 just don't have the maturity NOT to be fascinated by things like Emmy Awards and really nice apartments in mainland Manhattan**
POLLY (12:45am): Where are you??? We are looking.
POLLY(1:30am): I blame you.
POLLY(4:55am): Goddamn you Ariel. Let's play Polly Ended Up ___________________.
POLLY(4:57am): And do you really have my jacket, or is that lost forever in some scum hole in Midtown?
DAY BREAKS.
(Polly wakes, hungover. Polly DID NOT have sex with the owner of said apartment, but is in his pajamas anyway. Her phone lights up.)
ARIEL: Based on these drunken musings......Shit! You're at MR. EMMY's, aren't you?(Polly wakes, hungover. Polly DID NOT have sex with the owner of said apartment, but is in his pajamas anyway. Her phone lights up.)
ARIEL: And I really do have your jacket.
ARIEL: You're totally spooning next to THE EMMY right now....... Amaaaaaahhhhhhzing.
(Polly finally acknowledges phone. Is thrown into blind, stubborn, but bemused rage by Ariel's texts, which are coming from Ariel's desk in corporate America.)
POLLY: Oh, fuck you. You don't know me!
ARIEL: He took you in his big drama major arms........
POLLY: I. Hate.You. I do. I. Hate. you.
ARIEL: Sooooooooo not true.
ARIEL: But points for punctuation on what must be a rough-like-mcduff morning.
POLLY: Also, big, beautiful picture of Mr. EMMY and [show he's famed for] in the foyer....
ARIEL: He has a foyer..... I hate him.
POLLY: You were sooooooo not supposed to take my jacket, withOUT me in it, back to Astoria. Wtf am I doing in Flatiron??
ARIEL: Making out with an EMMY.... duh.
POLLY: WEDIDNOTSHUTUP.
(Polly sees she's alone in the apt. Begins exploring apartment while holding phone.)
ARIEL: KEYS! Danger Will Robinson. Tread lightly. But make a latte first. He so has an espresso machine.
POLLY: OMG, HE DOES HAVE AN ESPRESSO MACHINE.
ARIEL: He has amazing skin products too, doesn't he? FML.
POLLY: OMG, HE DOES HAVE AN ESPRESSO MACHINE.
ARIEL: He has amazing skin products too, doesn't he? FML.
(Polly looks in bathroom.)
POLLY: Holy shit. Full Origin's men's care line. Like, every product. Are you hiding in this apartment with me??
(Polly pauses, peeks back at the pile of towells and the keys. She begins to text her hungover idiot wingman again.)
POLLY: Keys? Fuck. Keys..........................
ARIEL: It's going to be okay......
POLLY: I brought this tragicness upon myself.
ARIEL: Oh, it's so hard being 26 and pretty with a brain and sharp wit.
(Ariel gauges exactly how fucking hungover she is in the middle of corporate America and remembers she and Polly have to see a violent indie-film starring Willem Dafoe and Willem Dafoe's penis later that very same night.)
ARIEL: Also? Tell me we are rescheduling Willem Dafoe's screening? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease??
POLLY: Oh we are so not even a little bit going to that fucking film.
ARIEL: Holla......... POLLY: Holy shit. Full Origin's men's care line. Like, every product. Are you hiding in this apartment with me??
(Polly pauses, peeks back at the pile of towells and the keys. She begins to text her hungover idiot wingman again.)
POLLY: Keys? Fuck. Keys..........................
ARIEL: It's going to be okay......
POLLY: I brought this tragicness upon myself.
ARIEL: Oh, it's so hard being 26 and pretty with a brain and sharp wit.
(Ariel gauges exactly how fucking hungover she is in the middle of corporate America and remembers she and Polly have to see a violent indie-film starring Willem Dafoe and Willem Dafoe's penis later that very same night.)
ARIEL: Also? Tell me we are rescheduling Willem Dafoe's screening? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease??
POLLY: Oh we are so not even a little bit going to that fucking film.
(Polly passes by the bedroom. Looks around, then flops onto empty bed.)
POLLY: Oh, these pillows of his though. Thread count is HIGH. So wonderful...so...*buries face in pillow*
ARIEL: **slams head on desk**
(Peels herself out of bed. Continues exploration.)
POLLY: Hmm. Dipolma from HARVARD, huh?
ARIEL: Oh cool. He's crazy smart too...I feel smaller and more unimportant by the second.
POLLY: Floor to ceiling vinyl. Complete Bob Dylan next to Gorillaz Demon Days next to Fleet Foxes. ALL VINYL.
ARIEL: Omg. I want to make out with him...
POLLY: Do...do I...do I look for The EMMY?
ARIEL: FIND IT AND TAKE A PICTURE! Then text it to me immediately.
(Looks around at walls, shelves and desks. No luck.)
POLLY: WHERE IS THE EMMY?!?!?
(After a few more moments of wandering, amazed, through eclectic, Not-A-Rich-Douche apartment, Polly notices framed item on the wall. It's a picture, with a note hand written on it. She takes picture, sends it to Ariel.)
POLLY: No EMMY. But this. The signature: "With awe, love always, STEVE." As in SPIELBERG.
ARIEL: "With Awe"....Right, me too.
POLLY: WHERE IS THE EMMY?!?!?
(After a few more moments of wandering, amazed, through eclectic, Not-A-Rich-Douche apartment, Polly notices framed item on the wall. It's a picture, with a note hand written on it. She takes picture, sends it to Ariel.)
POLLY: No EMMY. But this. The signature: "With awe, love always, STEVE." As in SPIELBERG.
ARIEL: "With Awe"....Right, me too.
POLLY: DELETE THAT NOW.
ARIEL: Already done. Duh.
POLLY: So many humidifiers here. And dehumidifiers. And other nifty---oh, look, a Fender guitar.
ARIEL: I love that people let us stay alone in their homes...Fools.
POLLY: Fuck. What am I going to wear to work?
ARIEL: Right......no ideas. Buy something?
ARIEL: Cool shirt of his?
POLLY: Dammit. All he has is man hats. I cannot make yesterday's outfit, sans coat, sans make-up, work with an Indiana Jones hat...
ARIEL: Own it.
POLLY: I'm stealing his Harvard hoodie...............I mean borrowing.........
POLLY: What? I need a coat.
ARIEL: Sorry about your coat. I have no idea what the thought process was on that. But there was one...somewhere.
POLLY: Ur cute.
(Hot Mess Walk of Shame Polly leaves note for Mr. Emmy apologizing, explaining about the hoodie and confessing she went through his record collection. She begs forgiveness. She then emerges from apartment wearing last night's heels, jeans, a Harvard hoodie and smeared, black eye liner.)
POLLY (texting Bromeo, she and Ariel's gay, male wingman): Just stumbled into midtown morning in last night's clothes and MR. EMMY's Harvard hoodie. Um......right.
BROMEO: Bwhahahahaahahhaahahahahha.
POLLY: I blame Ariel.
ARIEL: Sorry about your coat. I have no idea what the thought process was on that. But there was one...somewhere.
POLLY: Ur cute.
(Hot Mess Walk of Shame Polly leaves note for Mr. Emmy apologizing, explaining about the hoodie and confessing she went through his record collection. She begs forgiveness. She then emerges from apartment wearing last night's heels, jeans, a Harvard hoodie and smeared, black eye liner.)
POLLY (texting Bromeo, she and Ariel's gay, male wingman): Just stumbled into midtown morning in last night's clothes and MR. EMMY's Harvard hoodie. Um......right.
BROMEO: Bwhahahahaahahhaahahahahha.
POLLY: I blame Ariel.
14 comments:
Thumbs up!
holyfrigginshit this story is awesome. YOU STOLE HIS HARVARD HOODIE.
Did you return it? Did you keep it? Is it on eBay?
Also, I cannot tell you how badly I want "A Whelping Box in Queens" to be the name of a porno.
I wish when I worked with said Emmy winning actor he was as nice to me. He introduced himself to me, then when I told him that I was the producer's assistant, he retracted his hand and walked the other direction. He was a miserable jerk when I met him a few years ago. Obviously things have gotten a little better for him since then. Good for you Emmy winning actor.
God I miss all the good stuff...well...not really, actually.
You've no idea how much I want your life. Just for an hour.
Okay, didn't STEAL the Hoodie. I'm going to give it back. Eventually. But it's really comfy and makes me feel smart so I might hold on to it for a few more days.
Hipstercrite: I WANNA KNOW What Emmy winner was a dick to you, so I can punch him in the neck if I ever run into him. Without explanation, of course.
And Tennyson:
Honestly? I had NO idea that was going to go down. Usually my life is pretty mundane.
I love your blog! Found you on 20sb and I decided it's worthy of being followed and linked. I even had to go back and read the back entries.
I'll take your mundane and raise you a mind numbing crush of boredom.
It was your Emmy Winner dear
Hilarious!
Hauteness!! You are completing me right now.
Dear Zeus, that was amusing.
This is a truly epic story. You make my life (which consists of gallivanting across Europe)feel boring and devoid of adventure.
Okay Polly, where have you been? I have told multiple friends about your blog, and about how much better my life would be if I would just get it together and make a hitch list myself...and now they come to read it and you are MIA? I feel like a creep getting on every day to check if you have posted anything and instantly deflate when I realize it is the same post from over a month ago! (I have to admit, what a way to go if you're stopping, that story was worth the second and third read...) I, too, want your life :)
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