Monday, February 9, 2009

Taxi's are great, but free is better

My walk home Saturday night (2.0 miles):

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After spending no less than $50 on alcohol, cover charges, and unjustified tips, I rarely feel like paying for a taxi. And since my pheromones are the equivalent of a late night lady repellent, I’m constantly on my own at night's end and there is really no rush.

Excessive alcohol, while debilitating physically, makes a potentially dangerous and long walk home seem like the obvious solution.

It’s the same drunken logic that convinces you to call, recall, and continue to recall an ex. Persistence deserves success, and there’s nothing to lose. Two blocks or two miles will be overcome, and you don’t have anything better to be doing.

Plus, you see some interesting things.

Saturday was no exception. About halfway home, I was walking by Blake’s, a gay friendly bar near Piedmont Park. The crowds were still dispersing and a group of three young guys were not far behind me, seemingly on the same route.

I heard them all start to giggle, and before I could turn around they came prancing by me on both sides, pants down, boyish white butts highlighted by the surrounding darkness. One jumped to the side and hopped off of a brick façade. And 20 yards later they were back to normal.

I’m not sure of their intention. They could have been searching for a homophobic reaction, or a possible lifelong lover, but I left them flustered with my completely unfazed acknowledgement. I gave equal attention to their white bouncing butts as I did to their euro-inspired faux mullets.

They continued along, and eventually, from a safe distance, yelled back to ask where I was going, in addition to other long range small talk.

Nothing else notworthy took place, and they took a side street a couple blocks later. I was alone again, getting closer to my place. The safety of the gay community was now long gone.

I got bored and started to run, much to the delight of passersby, who had limitless witty comments ranging from my inability to find a companion to the mere fact that I was running in jeans and button up shirt.

Soon enough I was approaching the home stretch. And regardless of the hour, the same shady men seem to be milling about on the corners.

Prematurely winded, and trying not to attract attention, I returned to my lanky gait. My pace couldn’t be mistaken for a swagger. It’s certainly not “hard,” but if needed it can convey the I’m-intentionally-keeping-my-head-down-don’t-mess-with-me image that can be necessary in downtown Atlanta after 3 a.m.

I made it to my car, and drove the remaining three blocks. I figured I would be ok on the back roads, and my car probably wasn’t safe where it was parked.

I probably only saved $8 or $9 dollars, but I’m pleased with my decision. Still, if you think you see me walking down a pedestrian averse road early in the morning be a pal and pick me up.


Reneé de la Curée said...

Its funny you mention phone calls. Check your call log...

Carl said...

But of course. I always check my call log.

Brett said...

I have to agree with your penchant for the walk/run home. I have sadly based my favorite drinking establishments solely upon the walk home, regardless of atmosphere. Sadder still, I would estimate more than 50% of miles ran in my life until this moment have been after midnight and under the influence.

Carl said...

I'm impressed.

I'm either impressed by the frequency of your drinking (aka running home), or else your lack of not running.

Carl said...
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