Coddled
My posse met up at our regular haunt and ordered the bar's signature hamburger and fries. To top it off, most of us ordered a beer with a few more in the shadows. That night, nine of our group met up to discuss the previous week and to complain about our classes, professors and anything else worth complaining about. The large, rectangular room held roughly eighty raucous party goers who played darts, pool or just stood around and laughed at each other's misfortunes and occasional successes.
Three girls and three of us guys sat in a large booth enjoying each other's company and talking about the last week.
"Who do you have for calculus?" asked one guy, Lee, a tallish man with a crooked nose and hair dangerously close to a mullet.
"Whitaker," replied our Hispanic friend, Joshua.
This was met with a chorus of boos. Apparently, Whitaker was a bad professor but that opinion was highly objective. I still needed calculus to graduate, however, and took notice of the other's opinions on which professor to take.
The night progressed slowly and people who were normally reserved and collegiate slowly lost their inhibitions and grew increasingly louder. I had my share of beers and was feeling rather jolly. I grew up with an old pool table in my house, so I eventually made my way over to one of the tables and placed a quarter on the table to reserve the next game. I played pretty well and looked forward to showing off my skills. Feeling sentimental, I remembered back fondly to us playing slot cars on the old table. We enjoyed the races greatly even as our fat tabby cat swatted the little cars off the track as they raced by her.
Back in the bar, my group of nine were getting pretty lit as they had taken to tequila shooters. Not really interested in puking out my guts, I resisted the liquor at first but was soon shamed into participating in the weekly ritual.
"Where's Layla," asked one of the girls, Katie, a shortish brunette who was the natural leader of our group.
"I'm not sure," said another girl, Lisa, a redhead of average height and weight who was typically polite and exceedingly focused on her studies but made it out with our group a couple times a month to blow off some steam.
"I saw her over by the dartboard a few minutes ago," I said, hopelessly in love with the leggy blond. "I'll go get her."
"After that," said Katie, "I think we should get out of here and go over to O'Blarneys."
That sentiment was greeted with enthusiasm from the group so I placed my shot glass on the counter and excused myself to fetch Layla.
Now, you had to see Layla. She looked like a young Cameron Diaz but was even more beautiful. I had been in love with her for three years since sharing an economics class with her where she sort of paid attention to the professor.
Layla was fun to be around as she was a perennial flirt. Already drunk, she was in the process of flitting around the bar like a fairy, sprinkling her pixie dust before flitting off to the next group. In her wake, she left many a guy hopelessly in love and believing that one day she would take to him and fulfill all of his dreams. but that wasn't Layla. She only flirted.
Slowly, I wormed my way through the crowd and eventually made it to one of the dartboards where Layla held a group of guys spellbound with her coquettish flirtations. As I feared, she was drunk and had begun to hang onto several of the hopeful players. Undoubtedly, I was going to be met with scorn and derision, but we were all ready to go and couldn't leave behind one of our crew.
Unsure of how my presence would be met, I walked up to Layla and told her we were leaving.
"What?" asked Layla over the loud music.
"We're going to O'Blarney's," I said then grabbed her gently by the arm and started to pull but one of the guys, a guy I recognized as one of the players on our university's football team, wasn't having any of it. Clearly, he had plans to have his way with our beautiful mate.
"Hey, beat it asshole," he said. "She's with us."
Then to my great relief, Katie appeared from through the crowd and told Layla to get her ass moving so we could make our way over to O'Blarney's.
"She doesn't want to go," said the large football player.
"That's too fucking bad, jerkoff," replied Katie, always in command of a situation. "She's coming with us." Katie finished, grabbed Layla by the arm and pulled her away from the board and into the scrum of patrons. Only then, did I realize how drunk Layla was as she was barely able to stumble her way through the rowdy throng. Unsteady on my own feet, I did my own stumbling behind her.
Finally, the three of us rejoined our group and finalized our plans. Then from nowhere, the bar's owner, a short, stocky man with a grey goatee squeezed his way through his customers and made his way up to our group. Aware that Katie was the head of our group, he leveled a finger at her. "You need to get her out of here, " he said and pointed to Layla. "She's going to be sick and I don't want to clean up puke."
Ready to go anyway, Katie again grabbed Layla by the arm and tugged her out of the bar. The rest of us traded glances then followed our group leader through the crowd and out onto the sidewalk.
"What are we going to do with her?" asked the final girl in our group, Sara, an attractive brunette with a ponytail. "She's too drunk to go to O'Blarney's."
"I can take her home," said the last guy, James, a self-described lady's man who did actually have some success with the ladies.
All in unison, the three girls said no. That left us in a bind so I spoke up. "l can take her home," I said, eager to spend a few minutes on the way home with our beautiful friend. And I was in no condition for more booze anyway.
"You sure you don't mind?" asked Katie, more or less deciding who was going to escort Layla home.
"I don't mind," I replied, knowing that the group trusted me to get Layla home and in bed without trying to get into her pants. Over the years, I had become that trusted friend in whom others could confide and tell their darkest secrets knowing that their business would go no further than their lips. "I'll get an Uber to take us home."
Ten minutes later, the Uber arrived and I helped Layla into the backseat.
"Is she going to be sick?" asked the driver, a man in his mid-thirties with brown, curly hair and a mustache.
"She'll be fine," I assured the driver and got into the other side of the car.
Our first stop was at Layla's apartment, a nice place not far from the campus. My first inclination was to carry Layla up to the second-floor apartment, knock on the door then shove her through the opening. Somebody inside could take responsibility for getting her into bed. But then I had second thoughts.
