Chicago Nights... Well, Night

So I meant to post this last week. But hey, better late than never. Unless you’re a cold or the bubonic plague or something…

As promised, I have downtown stories. Friday night, 5 of us arrived in downtown Chicago around 715 or so… I forget where we alighted. I do remember, however, that we were starving. We figured we would walk around for a while and choose a nice restaurant for Tom’s birthday dinner. Tom, in case you didn’t know, was turning 26. Anyway, about 40 minutes in, we realized we had a problem. Naynesh eats no meat (religion). Christina can’t be near nuts (allergies). Shahyan doesn’t drink alcohol (religion and fear of parental backlash). So several bars and restaurants were off the list automatically. The number of dining establishments in Chicago that insist on using meat and/or peanuts in every single one of their offerings is astounding.

Eventually, we found one and ate (the overpriced, high society Tavern on Rush, if you must know – even paupers have their days). Dinner was uneventful for the most part. We discussed which of our Fisher College of Business professors would be most likely to commit a murder AND get away with it. Then we discussed which of our professors would be most likely to completely mess up the execution of a planned murder… you know, normal stuff.

After dinner, we found that downtown was a bust as far as bars-that-Ohio-State-students-wanting-to-get-drunk-would-approve-of. So we got a cab to Wrigleyville, home of the Chicago Cubs and also lots of interesting bars and clubs. I sat in the front and the other four crammed in at the back.

The cabbie’s cell phone blared, of all things, a cheap Indian movie song ring tone. “Excuse me” he said and answered the phone. Thirty seconds into his conversation I heard the following sentence: “Behench*d, saree zindagi kum karaan ge, maa dee k*ss” which translates to something I’m sure I shouldn’t have written here, even in partially censored Urdu.

Five minutes and many such utterances later, the phone was shut off, and I gently inquired of the gent, “Are you Punjabi?” Anyone who understood what I’ve typed above knows that was a stupid question. OF COURSE he was. Anyway, after introductions, the fellow jokingly berated me for listening to his conversation then apologized if he had said “anything he shouldn’t have.”

He proceeded to regale us with stories of other desi (South Asian native) cab drivers in Chicago who had carried on similar conversations while on the job not realizing that their customers were understanding every word and enjoying themselves. Oh, and when he learned we were interning at a large telecommunications company (company to remain unnamed), he spent 10 minutes explaining to us exactly why the XXXX phone, manufactured and sold by said company, was a terrible phone and why he hated his own so much. Talk about unsolicited feedback from the end user. *sigh*

So Wrigleyville. We first went to this bar called Moxie that was rather quiet and had a nice relaxing atmosphere. Which is exactly why the others didn’t want to spend too long there. So we left, after the beginnings of drunkenness. After 30 indecisive minutes of walking up and down Clark street, we picked a German bar, The Uberstein, where “It’s Oktoberfest every day!”

At The Uberstein, we were treated to three elderly gentlemen in lederhosen playing various musical instruments and performing polka after polka. This was entertaining for me in the beginning. However

As novelty for me down,
Alcohol content in others’ blood streams up,
Equals novelty for others’ up

They were clapping and shouting along to the polkas (all of which sounded the same after a few minutes) and Christina got to perform a number on the “verrückter stück” or “crazy stick” that was brandished with much aplomb by the lead performer and offered to any audience members brave (or drunk) enough to have a go at it. The crazy stick was a stick (believe it or not) with a mounted tambourine, some type of horn and several things that made noise when you tapped them. Good times.

The highlight for me was what I later learned to be the “Too Fat Polka”

I don’t want her.
You can have her.
She’s too fat for me, HEY.

I get crazy
I get numbo
When I’m dancing
With my jumbo jumbo

I don’t want her.
You can have her.
She’s too fat for me, HEY.
She’s too fat for me. HEY.
She’s too fat for me… and so on.

So around midnight, we left The Uberstein and headed over to SmartBar, one of the trendier clubs in Wrigleyville. We had to pay $10 each just to get in. *sigh* But, I will say the house DJs were quite good. The bald fellow who took over from the kid on the Mac was the much much better though.

Now I’m not much of a dancer. So I took my bottle of water (thank you Christina) and stood at a bar that looked out on the dance floor. I was all cool like with my gelled hair and my contact lenses and my I’m-too-manly-to-dance semi-sneer. I glared at people who had no idea I existed and bobbed my head in time to the bass. Yeah. That’s right.

About an hour or so into my coolness, this short fellow walked up to me, leaned in, and said,

“Hey man, do you know where I can get anything?”

Excuse me? I, still in cool mode, just shook my head while staring straight ahead.

“Are you sure?”

Still cool mode. Nod my head silently. Yes, I’m sure, peon.

“I’d be really happy for you to not be sure.”

Turn head slightly towards speaker, oh so coolly, and shake it once more. I was such a stud.

And he left. “What exactly was that all about?” I wondered. And then it came to me.

Needy boy thought I was a drug dealer!! My evening was complete. I was all cool and glare-y like and patron of stylish Chicago club thought I was a drug dealer. Fantastic! I’ve never felt so alive… so powerful… so much like a drug dealer. So I stood and sneered at people some more. Life was good.

The others, all this time, were either on the dance floor or at the bar, getting drunker and more uncoordinated by the second. At around 2 am, Christina stumbled over to me and loudly proclaimed her love for the city of Chicago. Then she started trying to hump my leg.

I took this as a sign that the evening was surely drawing to a close. We left SmartBar a few minutes later and made our way to the CTA (i.e. Chicago Transit Authority subway).

That should have been the end of noteworthy events. But no. On the subway, we had the pleasure of encountering a very angry African American lady who took offense to Christina resting her hands on the headrest of the seat the lady wanted to sit in. There was a lot of yelling by the lady. Christina was challenged to a fist fight. Christina looked bemused. And the rest of the people in the railcar tried to hide their smiles. Then there was more yelling about whores and bedrooms, completely off topic, I might add. And then lots of muttering. The lady left us only a stop later, thank God, with more memories to cherish.

Chicago can be a strange place.