A late start brings out the ugliness of St. Pat’s

In a span of a few hours, I learned that it’s not particularly fun being the only sober person in Chicago as the sun begins to set on St. Patrick’s Day.

Due to some work that needed to be done to get this issue ready for print, it was about 6:30 before I was able to meet up with a group of friends at our chosen bar. In other words, I was hoisting my first adult beverage about eight hours after the average Chicago 20- or 30-something had done so, and I felt as out of place as an Englishman at the orthodontist.

Maybe it’s because I recently crossed that 30-year-old mark, I don’t know, but it really hit me this year. I can’t believe how much of a mess people become on March 17.

I talked to a few friends about it, and they concur. By late afternoon, I was already seeing people stumbling through Wrigleyville, where long lines were prevalent outside of nearly every establishment. Guys wrestling in the middle of the street, and girls walking ahead of their boyfriends in disgust everywhere I looked. My friend Dan said he witnessed a guy sitting on a front porch, crying his eyes out and apologizing to his wife (perhaps) on his cell phone.

Good times.

After I dropped my car off, I was surprised to be able to snag a cab right away outside of my building. For fun, I asked the driver what he thought of St. Patrick’s Day. I was expecting a couple of sentences for an answer, but what I got was a detailed monologue riddled with four-letter words.

He claimed to have picked me up because I looked normal, sober, which I did, in both cases, I hoped.

“I’m not picking up these assholes anymore,” he says in a thick Middle Eastern accent, pointing at a group of revelers wobbling down the sidewalk, hailing the cab. “No more. Their money I’d rather not have. It’s no good. Their money’s no good to me. I’d rather go home and listen to my wife complain than drive them around.”

Once in the car, these drunkards are loud, he says. Always loud. They argue and smoke and yell things out the window at people. Sometimes, they get sick in the car, which, as you might imagine, brings with it a stench that is hard to get rid of.

“I can’t do it,” he says. “I won’t do it. I don’t care how many of them are waving at me. I’ll let them freeze to death. It’s bullshit. What’s wrong with them? I don’t know. Society, I guess. I’ll stay away from neighborhoods with those bars, even though the money is there.”

He was fed up with St. Patrick’s Day and those who choose to celebrate it with over-indulgence. He looked like he was ready to crack. It was 6:15, and his shift had six more hours to go.

When I finally got to the bar, I couldn’t even get in the door without drama. A trio of guys who looked like they’d have trouble finding their way home were getting tossed for some less-than-desirable activity. One had a few words and a shove for the bouncer, which got him launched airborn, horizontal to the sidewalk. He didn’t exactly stick the landing, causing some blood to begin trickling out of his chin. The other two were pointing and swearing at the bouncers, drawing attention with each harmless F-bomb that made them feel better about their cause.

Inside, it was chaos. Three rooms full of sweaty close-talkers dancing and toasting and spilling and yelling and dancing with little regard for what they looked like or who they were bumping into. The floor looked like Bourbon Street the morning after Fat Tuesday.

My friend Scott told me about a woman who was using a stall in the men’s bathroom rather than waiting in line for her own facilities. When the bathroom attendant warned her not to do it again or he’d get her kicked out, she flushed a urinal, reached in to grab a handful of water and threw it in his face.

Lovely.

Later, while in the bathroom myself, I noticed a uniformed officer standing next to me. Figuring he was still on the job, I asked how many fire-code violations he’d seen that day. Nothing like small talk at the urinal with a member of the law enforcement community.

He gave me a look that could melt ice, pointing to the patch on his jacket that indicated he was part of the Chicago Police Department.

“Does this look like I’m some kind of paddywacker fireman?” he asks.

No, guess not.

My friends, having started the festivities well before me, eventually began bailing in bunches. Some for food, some for bed, some for peace and quiet and a floor they didn’t stick to.

Soon, after nearly getting knocked over by a girl who slipped off the steps, I decided it was time to head off to a birthday party, away from the highjinks of a town immersed in green beer.

But at the first stoplight my cab came to, I was reminded the day wasn’t over. I heard the driver hit the door lock and looked up to see why. A drunken fool was standing in the middle of the street, trying to open my door. With his eyes closed.

“Crazy bastard,” the driver says. “I never pick up those guys. Especially if it’s a group and they’re propping someone up.”

I asked him if it gets worse as the night goes on.

“It does, because then they get more belligerent,” he answers. “And when I don’t pick them up, they’ll yell or try to kick the cab or something.”

As he dropped me off at the party, I told him thanks and wished him luck. About a half-block ahead, he stays true to his statement and ignores a group of five people covered in beads and beer stains and speeds past them.

Sure enough, one guy tries to kick the bumper and falls into the street. His friends laugh and try to pull him up.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day. Maybe next time I’ll start earlier. Or not at all.

Trent Modglin
Publisher
The Real Chicago
Trent@TheRealChicago.org

Click here for more Up Front