Matt was a friend of Kelsey’s from Full Sail. He came to NYC on the first night I decided to start drinking. He was gay. By the end of the night six Jack and Coke’s compelled me to say, “You’re the coolest gay guy—“ “I’m the coolest faggot?!” He interrupted. I corrected myself, “You’re the coolest faggot I’ve ever met!” It was the start of a beautiful friendship. I was jealous of his gayness. If only I could be so blessed. Gay guys could get sex so easily. All it cost was a look through the phone app Grinder and away you went! Damn that orientation.
Matt and I had some great late night adventures together. He reminded me of myself at a younger age. I told him he’d mellow out as he got older, which was a statement he refused to believe. I didn’t get a chance to have many stories with this man, but there’s one I’ll never forget. I had decided that I was finished with New York, despite my love for it, but before I left I wanted to accomplish two things: I wanted to have sex with a blonde, and I wanted to get into a fight. When I told Kelsey and Matt about these two wishes, they both offered help at the former, and refusal at the latter. It was my last weekend and Kelsey said, “If you get arrested, we’re not gonna hold your shit. We’ll throw it out on the street! And that’s it!” I didn’t care. I’d never been in a fight. Matt was also hesitant to help, but he still wanted to go out that night. As we pre-gamed with what little liquor we had, we heard a knock at the door.
Matt answered and I thought it’d be funny to lean against the door in my undershirt. It was two girls who lived down the hall. They wanted to invite us all over for breakfast the next morning. They were as friendly as they were attractive. They told us to come over at eleven and the door would just be open. We thanked them for their hospitality and said we’d be there, before shutting the door and finishing our pregame session with a trip down musical memory lane. Being just a younger version of myself, our high school music tastes were similar.
After all the liquor had been depleted, we ventured forth into the night. I informed him of a place in Brooklyn called the Zombie Hut, known for two things: being the best place to hook up with someone and being the best place to get into a fight (with other guys over the girls). He shook his head to the latter, but I bet the name intrigued him enough. Upon approach I emphasized how important it was that we find a blonde. This was, however, before I discovered my luck with blondes. As we reached those tiki bar gates, we noticed an attractive black-haired woman outside smoking. Matt still had a cigarette to finish, so we engaged in a conversation with this woman. She told us that she was here with a friend and that the place was pretty crowded. Then it happened.
Just like in the fuckin’ movies.
A blonde, petite, gorgeous woman in a classic long NYC trench coat blew through the double doors, most likely in slow motion. Her phone was ringing and she ran straight up to the black-haired woman we were talking to. She was freaking out about something.
With an accent.
An English accent.
I felt like fanning myself. Her friend apparently was as puzzled as we were about the situation. She took the phone from the blonde. That’s when the blonde passed out. She fell backwards. We heard her head hit the pavement. “Holy shit!” I said. Matt and I reached down and tried to pull her back up. Her head rocked back and her eyes rolled around. I thought she was dead. Dead weight was heavy. We got her about halfway off the ground before she blinked a few times and stood on her own.
“Am I all right?” She asked.
“You just—“ the bartender burst out the door.
“I’m gonna call an ambulance.”
“Oh, no, no that’s quite all right.” The blonde exclaimed. “That happens sometimes.”
“What!?” We all asked.
“You just…pass out sometimes?” She turned to me, nodding and smiling.
“You probably shouldn’t be drinking then.” The bartender said before excusing herself.
“Well that doesn’t really have anything to do with it.” The blonde retorted. I asked if she knew what was wrong with her, but she didn’t know. I guess she didn’t take advantage of that universal health care over in Britain. I wanted to pursue the lead, because we seemed to hit it off, plus she was an editor, but Matt disagreed and wanted to dip out of the situation. Eventually I obliged and we gave them the old “We’ll be right back.” Routine that had been used on me many a time.
On the way back we raced, causing Matt to force himself to throw up. Needless to say we woke up wearing the same clothes we were the evening prior, headaches and upset stomachs going around. Kelsey had also gotten herself quite inebriated somewhere as well. Carlos was nowhere to be found. Matt opened the door to go outside and smoke. He walked back in. “Oh shit! Weren’t we supposed to go over to the neighbors for breakfast?”
“Damn it.” I groaned.
“What?” Kelsey asked. I told her we had agreed to eat breakfast with them at 11.
“Their door’s open.” Matt said.
“All right well let’s go.” We all moved like zombies into the apartment next door. We probably looked like them too. Their apartment was so bright. Light Sunday morning music echoed from the kitchen. When we made our groggy appearance one of the girls had a bowl tucked under her arm, stirring away while the other was dancing around. They looked like they’d been up since six. They had made all kinds of breakfast treats, including pancakes with real honeycombs on top.
We all looked at the meals before us, which would have looked delightful had our bodies not been in the process of rejecting the previous night’s toxins. We forced a fantastic meal down our throats while we apologized for our behavior. Every time I go back to New York I go back to the Zombie Hut, in search of my long lost Blonde British Narcoleptic, and every time I go back I remember that night and the morning after with Matt.
One day in the future I’ll be trying out their special, the Frozen Zombie and that first shot of 151 in the straw will hit me hard, like it always does. I’ll wonder why Matt and I didn’t get them when we were here, and a fight will break out behind me. I’ll be pretty mellowed out by this time, so I won’t participate, but that won’t stop a blowback of epic proportions as a barstool swings at one of the instigators, who wisely ducked and allowed the back of my head to become the new receiver. My face will squash the plastic cup with the zombie drink inside it, and I’ll slink off my stool, dead to the world, still wondering why Matt and I didn’t try the Frozen Zombie before.