I instantly felt bad for my friend, Tim; he’d been divorced once before, and now it was Round 2. After talking to me and to another friend, he agreed to meet us at a local bar. Tim said he was coming straight from work. The plan was for him to get drunk and dull the pain.
It looked good on paper.
The other friend, Frank picked me up at my house and we headed to the bar. I won’t characterize the place as a townie bar, as students from two exclusive colleges frequented the joint. As a result, there was always a good mix of yuppies and gas station attendants.
Frank and I were sitting at the bar, drinking beer and watching a baseball game when Tim arrived. When he said he was coming there straight from work, he wasn’t joking: he was still wearing a suit and tie. So, he already stuck out like a sore thumb.
Me? I was wearing a plaid shirt I’d bought for a Pearl Jam concert. Don’t judge me. At least I fit in.
Me and Frank had agreed that we would buy Tim a string of shots, and then give him a ride so that he wouldn’t have to drive home. The guy is pouring his guts out, and we were giving him words of encouragement, when two young ladies came in. One of them was in a wheelchair.
I’m gonna back up the bus for a second. Ever since I’ve known Tim, he’s never had a filter. He says whatever comes to mind. In school, we’d called him “Tactless Tim.” That’s as good a reason as any for what happened next.
Tim was intrigued and left us, deciding instead to chat up the young woman in the wheelchair. Before long, he started buying HER shots. He was sitting on the armrest of her chair, shouting in her ear because the music coming from the jukebox was so loud.
That’s when me and Frank began to argue:
Me: “Let’s get out of here. He obviously doesn’t need our help anymore.”
Frank: “No. I want to stay for a while. I haven’t been out in a long time. Besides, I want to watch the game.”
Me: “Hey, it’s getting late, and we both have to work tomorrow.”
Frank: “I just bought you a beer, now drink up and behave yourself.”
It was then that Tim decided to make his move. Just as the song ended on the jukebox, he yelled at the top of his lungs:
“YOU’RE THE PRETTIEST GIRL I’VE EVER SEEN IN A WHEELCHAIR!!!!!”
Frank: “We’re out of here!”
Me: “Are you kidding? We can’t leave now! I want to see what happens next!”
We decided that Tim needed to be rescued from the situation in which he’d gotten himself. We each grabbed him by an arm and began the Walk of Shame into the parking lot.
The patrons at the bar will remember that night for the rest of their lives. They’ll tell their grandkids. And their grandkids will swear off drinking forever, to keep from becoming a “Tim.”
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