THE MILK STORY

So I’m at this bar in Hell’s Kitchen with my co-star of a play I was performing in at the time called Tape, by Stephen Belber, when Duane, my co-star, says in a thick New York accent (even though he’s from Rhode Island)

Don’t worry. I’ll take care uvit.

Take care of what?

He notions for the cocktail waitress to come over and immediately I know what he’s about to do-

Dude no. Duane. I’ve got a girlfriend. Stop doing this shit.

But he grabs a pen from his pocket anyway and steals my cocktail napkin and sloppily starts writing something in secretive handwriting so I couldn’t see what it was as he mutters from the side of his grinning grin

I don’t see her here, do you?

She’s at fucking home, waiting for me.

That didn’t stop him.  He didn’t give a shit.  He had this notion that I was supposed to be running around Manhattan fucking as many girls as he could find for me.

Now the waitress walks over and Duane, with his chivalrous composure, greets her with a deep

How ya doin darlin?

And before the redhead from Alabama with some twang in her speech could respond I got up and walked away to go outside and smoke a cigarette.

I was so tired of him getting so damn drunk and making an ass outa us both after every single performance, but yet… we did it together, every single performance.  I call him too much of a drinker?  HAH!  So was I.  We were twins.  Anyway, on this particular night, I chose to be ‘the good guy’ and challenge his judgement as if I were a saint, which i wasn’t.

So I chug my cigarette and go back to the table. Duane had this ‘I’m the man’ twinkle in his eyes. God knows what he had said to that poor girl… so I ask him

What?

She’s on her way, he tells me.

On her way where? Who? The waitress?

Polly. Her name’s Polly. Am your brother or am I your fuckin brother?! EH!?!?!??

So I screamed at him I TOLD YOU NOT TO DO THAT.

and he drunkenly retorted ‘Like you really tried to stop me… and by the way, that’s the thanks I get? For doin my brother a favor?’ And he reaches his hand over the table to mess my pretty hair up.

Dude you’re a dickhead–

–Hey. Stop bein a fairy, take off that skirt an take a fuckin shotta Jameson with me.

I hadn’t noticed but he had ordered another round of shots.

So we do a shot.  Did I say a UH shot?  We do three shots and down two beers to wash down the sting.

She’s gettin dressed, he says.

For what?!

We’re all goin out. I’m doin this for you. My brother,

And he did that thing again where he smacks me in the face and messes up my hair like he’s my older cousin–

I HAVE A FUCKING GIRLFRIEND DEE!

And I gotta wife- which was true, he DID have a wife…

“Hey ya’ll.”

I turn around and there she is. All dressed in not-work clothes. Ready to go out.

Duane takes his card out but Polly stops him.

Ah’ took care a y’all. Put that away. C’mon boys, let’s go.

Duane winks at me like he’s done me the greatest favor in the world, like he’s solved world hunger and attained international peace and given me all the credit for it.

At that point, I had no choice, so we got up and went to the bar next door on 44th and ninth ave and I asked Polly where she was living now that she’d moved from Birmingham to NY to pursue acting, and she says

Foor’st ‘ills. Qweeens—

ME TOO!

And I did. I lived in Forest Hills too! With my girlfriend of four years.

WHERE IN FOREST HILLS?!?

okay..  PAUSE.

***So first of all, Forest Hills is NOT a common place for an expat to live. It’s quite far from the city. But what REALLY turned the tide was this:

Turns out this chick was my NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR.****

BACK TO THE STORY:

Yeah… so at the end of the night we split a cab home together and I fingered her the entire ride.

A week later, Christine and I, my girlfriend, are lying in bed not having sex… Like how a solid four year relationship should be. And I say

I’ma go get some milk.

Milk?

Yeah, from the Russian deli. U want something?

Btw I’m twenty years-old, this is eleven years ago…

Back to Christine tellin me what she wants from the Russian Deli:

Uhhh Twix I guess (befuddled and confused)

Twix. Okay. Be right back.

So I grab my keys and I casually leave the apartment and then break out into a sprint across the street.  I frantically buzz apt number 4.

Bbbbzzzzzzzz

C’mone up, I hear through the buzzer.

I fly up the four flights of stairs and arrive at Polly’s door.

I gotta fuck you real quick then go get some milk.

Without hesitation she takes her clothes off and spreads her legs.

Without getting too graphic.. Uhhhh– I fuck the shit outa her then run outta the apartment

Gotta go to the Russian deli!!!!

So I buy some milk and a Twix at the speed of light then run back to my apartment.

I open the door softly even though I’m terribly out of breath, stanking like sex and completely disoriented and Christine says

That was a long trip to the deli.

Anyway… That’s the milk story…. and if there’s one blog post that’ll make sure I’m single for the rest of my life, it’s probably this one.

Please send all hate mail to fuckyougregyou’reapieceofadulteringshit@scrambledgregs.com

But Christine and I didn’t ALWAYS have this kinda relationship… in fact, when we first got together four years prior in Worcester, Mass…

This Happened

Or if you wanna hear a story about me almost getting my face pummeled inside out by some random dude at a hostel in San Diego, well…

Be My Guest: The Hostel… Part 1