she who had given me the fake ID in the first place.
“His name is Mark,” she replied, “I’ve known this homo for seven years. We grew up together in D.C.”
“I thought you said you were from Columbus,” the bouncer said.
I didn’t know what to do. If the bouncer found out that I was lying, I would not only not get laid, but never be allowed into Posh again. I had to think quickly. I looked at Valerie, looked at the bouncer and turned away. I then ran out the door, never to return to Posh again until after my 21st birthday.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The evening before I was supposed to go home for Christmas break, sophomore year of college, my friend Jason and I decided to celebrate the fact that we had made it out of another semester of college alive. We decided to head down to The Park, which was a really trendy bar at the time in the west twenties that hosted an all-gay event every Sunday evening. Jason and I agreed, on the way down, to a three-martini limit because we both had to catch an 8:30 train the next morning. One thing led to another, as it usually does, and before we knew it, it was two in the morning and both Jason and I were severely trashed. It had been a really difficult semester and I felt a long girls’ night out was long overdue and well deserved. As Jason and I continued drinking, I spotted a really hot model-type standing at the opposite end of the bar. I gave him a drunk half wink and walked over. Before, walking over, Jason grabbed me.
“Oh my God, Mark,” Jason yelled into my ear, “it’s Boy George!” Across the room stood Boy George, and his entourage of British teenaged hangers on. Jason had had a man crush on Boy George since he had been able to apply his own lip-liner, so this was quite the sighting for him.
“Go talk to him,” I said. I was trying to get Jason out of my way so I could talk to the hot model at the end of the bar. Jason was notorious for accidental drunken cock blocks, so I needed to get him out of my way in order to make my move. Jason walked over to Boy George and I approached my model.
“Hi,” I said to the Adonis that stood before me.
“What’s up?” he said.
“Nothing,” I said as I put my hand out to shake his, “my name is Mark.”
“Jared,” he replied.
We made the usual small talk, but I could tell he was not interested. I had to think of something quick to draw his attention back to me.
“So what do you do for a living?” I asked.
“I’m a model, but I am trying to get into acting.” Of course he was.
“That’s amazing. I was a teen model for Dockers in the JC Penny catalogue.” There goes my drunken word vomit. When I drink, it’s like I get full of Tourettes and shit just comes flying out of my mouth.
“Cool,” he replied, “what do you do for a living now?”
I had to think quickly. Being a student and waiting tables is not nearly as glamorous as something I could lie about. Besides, he would never find out if I made something up. “I’m a casting director for All My Children,” I said.
“Really?” he asked.
“Yes,” I had my awkward half smile on, as if I had just had a stroke. I always get a half-lazy face when I am drunk and lying.
“I have an audition for All My Children right after New Year’s.” Of course he did. Now being borderline obsessed with Susan Lucci does not a casting director make. I had absolutely no idea how to follow that remark so I just replied:
“Oh, let me give you my card so you can call me before the audition,” I said. Apparently, I had fake cards to go along with my fake job. “We can go over lines together. I am just warning you now, that you will most likely have to take your shirt off.” I searched my pockets for my “card” and told him that I must have left them in my other pants. I gave him my number and told him to call me.
All and all it was a great night out. A hot model had gotten my number and a D-list celebrity from the 80’s had manhandled Jason. I passed out that night and woke up the next day at four in the afternoon having missed my train home for the holidays.
I had completely forgotten that I even met anyone that night until a few weeks later when I got a message from Jared: “Hey Mark, it’s Jared from The Park. Just wondering if I could come over to your place and run over lines with you. My audition is in a few days and I would love some pointers. Give me a call.”
My fake profession had caught up with me. Previously when I had told people that I was Angelina Jolie’s stunt double or Ray Charles’s Seeing Eye dog, people knew I was lying immediately and didn’t bother. This guy was totally buying it. Models are usually not the brightest crayons in the box, but I figured if he came over to my college dorm room to run lines, he would have had enough sense to know I was lying. I had to think quickly. I picked up the phone and called him back, but it went straight to voicemail. I left a message:
“Hey Jared, it’s Mark. Sorry I missed you, but it’s been chaos on the set. We just found out that the girl who plays Maggie is pregnant so we are either going to need to recast or rework a whole six months worth of storyline. I have a feeling that she may just get raped and become pregnant with her rapist’s baby and be torn about what to do, but you never know with these things. Anyway, good luck with the audition and give me a call if you need anything.”
How layered and elaborate. There was no way he would ever find out that I was completely bullshitting him.
I never ended up hearing from Jared again. Probably because once he got there, he realized that I had absolutely nothing to do with All My Children and that the girl who played Maggie was totally not preggers. Next time I create a faux profession for myself, I am going to have to do a little more research beforehand.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I had met a few friends out at Therapy one night for a few psychotic episodes. Therapy is a bar in Hell’s Kitchen that serves the most delicious drinks in New York called psychotic episodes. For a while, they were my favorite drink. It’s basically just a bunch of liquor dumped into a glass but it tastes like fruit punch. I had tried to master the recipe at home, but never could so I began to frequent Therapy so I could get my lips around the delicious cocktail. The thing about psychotic episodes is that they go down really easily and before you know it, you are drunk off your ass. I had about six of them on the night in question and went outside to get some air and smoke a few cigarettes. When I got outside, there was a handsome man smoking, so I struck up a conversation.
“I’m Mark,” I said.
“Eric,” he replied as we shook hands. He was hot and he smoked so things were looking good already.
“Are you here by yourself?” I asked.
“My friends just left. I am procrastinating going home. I have to move in the morning.”
“That sucks. I hate moving.” Having done it about seven times in three years, it was not something I ever wanted to do again.
“Yea, me too,” he replied. “I am so not ready. I’m packed, but I have no idea how I am going to move. I have not hired movers yet.”
“I’ll help you.” There goes my drunken Tourettes again. Not only did I hate moving myself, I hated helping other people move even more. I guess it must have been the six cocktails talking but at the time, it sounded like a really great idea.
“Really?” his eyes lit up.
Fuck. Did this guy think I was serious? I was really just trying to get laid. I would be in no condition to move my neck in the morning, let alone his bookshelf.
“Sure, why not?” I replied.
I ditched my friends and got into a cab with Eric. We chatted on the ride up but I don’t really remember what we were talking about. The drinks were strong and sweet and I was beginning to feel them. Once we got back to Eric’s apartment,