Zen Bar was dead, especially for a Saturday night in April. It was late; I had already been all around Hongdae, having drink after drink at Club FF and Papa Gorillaz. The evening didn’t have a great feel to it, especially since I’d been invited out by a girl, who I was interested in, only to stand there feeling dumb while she talked to some other guy all night. I looked good though – dashing! – in my Uni Qlo sweater vest and sports jacket. Or at least I thought I looked good, thanks to all the rum I drank. Rum, I’ve heard, is like a really really nice Mr. Blackwell.
“Heck,” I thought, “if she’s gonna give her number away to this guy and flirt with this guy, I’m gonna go find someone myself. Make her jealous.”
I hoped she would stop flirting long enough to notice.
Soon enough, I found myself chatting up a pretty Korean girl. “Let me get your number,” I said. Surprisingly enough, she gave it to me. I felt cool and confident, even though everything was blurry. I so drunk that forming words and sentences had become as difficult as assembling a home entertainment center without the instructions manual.
Or even with the instructions manual, really. Those instructions aren’t that helpful. It seems like they could be written better. And the illustrations! Don’t get me started on the illustrations!
The point is, I drank too much.
About an hour later, I moved over to dance floor, which was almost empty, and found another Korean girl. We started dancing and she seemed to like me. “Wow!” I thought. “I’m a stud! Too bad the girl I came here to meet is totally disinterested!” I started chatting with the girl I was dancing with, and then I took my phone out.
“Hey,” I said, in a smooth slur. “Let me get your number.”
She looked at me, confused. “I just gave you my number.”
“I gave you my number an hour ago.”
That’s right – it was the SAME girl as before. I had no idea. In my drunken state, I firmly believed she was a different person, a second Asian girl. It was impossible to play off. Not only did it make me seem like a moron, it also possibly made me seem a bit racist. I felt terrible. Like I wasn’t able to tell Asian people apart. Could you imagine if that was truly the case? Every time I’d go into school, the students would come pouring in and I’d think, “My God! Another brand new class! How many kids go to this school?!”
In the end, it was nothing more than one little, dumb, awkward moment. I was too embarrassed to text or call the girl. It would’ve been funny, though, if I texted her during the week, and then texted her the exact same message the following day, as if I still thought she was two different people. “Hey, what you doing Friday?” Then the next day, “Hey, what you doing Friday?” Or, if she accepted the first invitation, my second text could say, “Hey, I’m busy Friday night. What you doing Saturday?”
Dang, I could’ve had back-to-back dates with two good looking girls!
Play on, player. Play on.