By Nishanth S Coontoor
Its 5 pm on a Friday evening and my face-off with excel is interrupted by a text.
“Party at 8 pm at the Howling. Hope you can make it!”
Oh no, not an other party. We went out to the bar recently: November 3, 2016. It’s just April 28, 2017. Why again. Sigh.
I choose to return to excel instead.
5.05 pm and the cost actuals vs target graph still does not make sense. They seem to be pointing to opposite directions.
“You’re still here? Get out of here! You can always finish it tomorrow?” said an instant message with a ‘ping.’
“I’ve to leave early today to make it to a party,” I had lied to my colleagues in a meeting earlier in the day. <Insert a happy faced Nishanth here>
“My manager is making me work on a special project. Can’t get out of work today. <Insert a sad face Nishanth here>” I had lied to my friends.
My plan: Binge watch Narcos in my shorts eating Maggi. No human interaction necessary. No emoji needed.
I began packing up for the day still unsure if I should go Howling. There’s usually loud music and too many human beings. I’m too old for this. I am no longer 25. I’m 27 already. My definition of a good party has now changed to board games, pleasant music, good conversations and back home by 10 pm. The 10 pm deadline is within my dinner time and most restaurants close by 10. I can “party” but till 10 pm only. That’s when I go to bed.
But perhaps the biggest challenge to going out is getting ready. And it’s not even what you think it is.
The common man may put some effort to pick out outfits to wear. In my case though, the outfit chooses me. I always know what I want to wear. Negotiating with my shirt takes time. Let me elaborate.
I have a large wardrobe with shirts purchased at varying points in time. Some L. A few XL. And a few more XXL. I’d like to stop here. But they all fit me perfectly when I tried them on at the store.
When I need to wear them after the purchase though, either my head does not make it through the t-shirt, or the t-shirt chooses to not completely cover my tummy. In some cases, the two parts of the shirt button near the belly button simply don’t want to meet halfway to close the deal. Stubborn button bitch.
Now people have told me I’ve put on weight and I’ve lost weight throughout the year. But they are people-what do they know. I however truly believe the shirts and the dryers are jointly conspiring against me (and the humans). Think about it. One wash and a quick dry, the shirts shrink! By writing about this scandal, I urge you to speak up against these monsters!
I finally find one that fits me. I get ready and go.
*
Standing in a corner, pretending not to be the creep, I scan the bar and give it 3 stars. There is the usual loud music, people dancing, good lighting, a food menu (?) and bowling. Wait, food? I’m excited. I may give them a 3.5 stars after all. Do they have Gobi?
I push myself away from the wall and head toward the kitchen area to check out the menu when I am pulled to the dancing floor instead.
With a red drink in their hand, they are singing and dancing. “…got this feeling…bones…dance, dance, dance…got my sunshine…oooh…imagine, imagine, imagine…dance…”
I give the biggest fake excited smile I can make, simultaneously doing a left-right-left march. Those are the dance steps I am allowed in public. No, those are the only dance steps I can do. And if I notice anyone noticing me, I throw in a confusing Indian bobble head nod. Gotcha!
6 mins later, the music ends with a loud cheer. I think the song came to an end.
No, I know music beyond Bollywood. I have heard of a Sia chick and her song once during Apple’s keynote speech. I understood the lyrics. Two phrases in the song count as understood in my world.
“I’ll get a drink,” I say and slip away. I go get some water, without ice.
I see the kitchen again. It’s at least 40 steps away. Maybe even 60 steps if I need to go around that bachelorette party. I did not want to distract the bride to be. She had already made her choice.
I can make it to the kitchen. I’m going to make this evening count.
I take a shot of water, crush the plastic glass and leave it on the bar counter (not the dustbin). This is important. I’m being a badass tonight.
I’m interrupted by Rahul. “Bro, it’s so good to see you! It’s been such a long time! How have you been?”
Now, this guy was genuinely happy to see me. It’s uncommon. I don’t think I would be happy if I ever ran into me. So, I stopped for a bit to see how he was doing.
He had been very busy with a project.
“Oh what do you do?”
He went on to explain the financial module in SAP for a whole 20 minutes. We spoke about SAP transaction codes. He explained the procure to pay process. He spoke about warehouses. We discussed company stocks. All in all, a very good chat. I even made notes.
“Let’s get a drink,” he said.
“I just had. I’m pacing myself,” I replied.
Good guy. He was drinking an ice tea from Long Island.
I take a few more steps toward what may eventually provide gastronomic bliss. I see an unattended menu lying on the bar counter. If I can decide what to eat while I walk to the kitchen, I can save some time. It’s already 9.30 pm.
Before I could get there though, a very good looking girl gets there first. She’s just standing there, looking around, sipping some beer.
This food quest just got better. I could talk to her while attempting to get the food menu.
I take a deep breath, hold it in along with my tummy and walk up to her.
“I’m Nishanth. It means end of darkness.”
She stares blankly. Takes a sip of beer and looks away.
<Insert additional small talk here>
<Rains. Death. Crossfit. Job search>
She continues to remain silent.
Two guys approach us. One guy reaches to her hand. They hold hands. The three continue their conversation.
<insert more small talk from my end>
<MS Excel 2016. Pivots. What’s brown and sticky? A stick>
I end my speech with a “Good bye and good luck in all your endeavors.”
I pick up the menu. They don’t protest. Good people. I’m awesome.
10.05 pm and I now know what I want to order. This downtown Cincinnati bar did not have Gobi Manchurian, but they had a vegetable platter that sounded like Bajji Bonda! This would go well with tomato soup and a burrito!
I hurriedly make it to the kitchen. I had to even pass my wingman Nithesh’s idea on a slightly different quest. This was important-er.
“Yes sir, I’d like to order now. Bajji-I mean this, and this and this. And make it spicy.”
“But we closed the kitchen 5 mins ago. Sorry buddy.”
10 pm deadline. I should’ve known.
Glossary:
Gobi: Spiced fried cauliflower florets.
Narcos: Series on Netflix.
Bajji Bonda: Deep fried snacks.