Something I’ve noticed from the multiple times I’ve ventured out into Chicago’s nightlife (Wrigleyville edition) is that no matter what club you’re in, or what day of the week it is, or the time of night, you will always see THAT GUY.
No, I’m not talking about That Obnoxious Douche-y Frat Guy who thinks that his bleached tips/grossly over-gelled hairdo, wildly flailing arms, overwhelming cologne, and vigorous grinding up on girls makes him God’s Gift. I’m not even talking about The Nerdy Guy who has finally mustered up the courage to don his favorite striped polo shirt and take his private bedroom dance moves public (but probably isn’t getting the desired results).
I’m talking about That Creepy Old Guy who may or may not be old enough to be your grandfather but is certainly old enough to be your father, evidenced by a comb over, paunch, and glasses whose thickness rival a telephone book. The guy who lurks in the corner, or stands at the edge of a group of 20-somethings, seemingly obvious to the myriad of “WTF is this guy doing here?!” looks.
So,this is where I’m supposed to talk about a horror-inducing Creeper experience, right?
Nope! Actually…. it was with much surprise that my recent JBC experience did NOT include any direct interactions with such “material,” and instead featured a rather pleasant encounter despite a somewhat inauspicious beginning.
Time: late Saturday night
Location: JBC (Wrigley)
Setting: Decently crowded dance floor
My friend and I had already been to a couple other Wrigleyville establishments before heading to JBC to case the joint and see what was going down. The DJ was faltering in his music selections, and we were on the verge of bouncing when a polo’d guy approached.
“You should really dance with my friend, he’s a fantastic, fantastic dancer,” he said to me.
I’m about 99% sure I reflexively rolled my eyes as I envisioned The Nerdy Guy just waiting to pop over, eager to put his nascent grinding skillz to the test. Instead, a tall, cute guy glances over and sees his friend talking to my friend and me and heads over, saying something along the lines of, whatever he’s saying about me, it’s not true. (I’m assuming my friend and I got Wingmanned, and we’re wondering if this was carefully orchestrated or actually happens organically?)
At any rate, the guy and I started chatting it up in the middle of the dance floor, much to his friend’s chagrin, who urged us to “just dance already!” several times. It turns out he and the other guy had gone to college together in another state, had randomly ended up running into each other at JBC that night, and apparently entered into some sort of wingman contract (the friend was chatting up my friend this whole time). Cute boy’s “fantastic” dance resume includes being Usher’s dance instructor “back in the day,” even though I’m pretty sure we both knew he possessed rudimentary white male dancing skills, haha.
We did end up dancing a little, but mostly talking/yelling into each other’s ears, and I don’t think I ever quite recovered from the surprise of meeting/talking to someone at JBC who was taller than me (and while I was wearing 3-inch heels, no less), had a bachelor’s and was pursuing higher education (in a good field, to boot), was actually quite cute, did not obsessively try to grind up on me, was gainfully employed, and seemed like a nice guy.
Over all, pretty good night.