The Wasted 2

Sometime last week I was forcibly removed from my comfort zone. I was fooled into believing a quiet night out would occur. Instead, I was surprisingly greeted with "Do you have your ID?"

This question is a variant of the boatman's asking for 2 coins before he takes you down the river Styx.
"Yes," I answered, "but it's expired." I am attempting to escape. "Don't worry about that," answers the boatman. He walks away briskly, leaving behind a scented trail of cologne. He has been planning this.
But why was I not informed? I am in the play pen, surrounded by bullies. I shoot poison tipped darts disguised as glances towards my partner (girlfriend) to no avail. She will go along with this.
Neither of us are dressed "appropriately" I exclaim. I'm trapped in a 4 wheeled vessel that is ripping down streets, desperately attempting to reach its destination. "It's okay," says the boatman.
I was not lying. My pants were dirty, my tee shirt long, its neck stretched. My poor excuse for footwear clinging on to life, looking like a Jackson Pollock of dirt and grime. To some of you, my wonderful readers, I must have had no business even leaving the house in such a state. But sadly, maybe for the both of us, I care not about your appropriation of appropriate.
Being told you are going out for dinner and a movie only to find out you are actually going to a "Bar/lounge thing on Queens Boulevard" cannot be considered anything less than treacherous. I have no more exit strategies, no more whiny observations as to why this should not be happening. I am submitted.
The den of desperation we enter needs no description. You have most likely been dragged to one of these places before. There is the bar, over there are the seats, here is the walkway, back there your holding cell, watch out with the girl dancing alone.
There is nothing vegetarian, except for a couple of the appetizers. Of course. "Giants/Cowboys season opener here..." read 3 small pieces of paper on our table. "No thanks." (I thought out loud, my cover blown.) By the end of the night those 3 pieces of paper become 3 small paper planes fueled and ready to fly my mind, dignity, and spirit out of here.  My body is sacrificed.
I am told twice that the beer I order is the most boring thing on the menu. I smile at the messenger, the flag bearer of all things not boring. I do not provide her with a verbal response. Such is war.
I make my way through a plate of chips and guacamole while being a mute witness to a conversation about "good tv shows." What would I know of the subject, I ask when pressed, I rarely watch tv, and when I do I watch sports. They must know now that I am a double agent. I finish working on my boring drink and ask for its boring twin brother.
From here on out it's protocol. I listen to a couple of stories dealing with crazy nights out. They are told in exquisite detail and include the next morning's hang over as a "hidden track" sort of thing. I manage to smile and excrete chuckles throughout it all.  Later, a DJ with impeccable, I say impeccable!, taste is introduced to everyone in the place. I occasionally catch glimpses of the live, non recorded Bud Light commercial going on around me. My paper planes commit suicide simultaneously.
Fortunately, I survived. This is nothing that a good night's rest can't fix. Such is the nature of this war.

-Alex