The Pancakes Story

In my adventures with Ryan, my trust in women has started to decline…dramatically. My reason? Pancakes.

The story starts off normally, where we take a cab to Campbell and head to Katie Bloom’s. It’s been a while, so I don’t remember if we hop to other bars and came back, or just stay here all night; in all probability, it’s the former. But the night is about halfway through and we’re on the dance floor looking for women to dance with, to no avail. I leave to get the next round of drinks, and when I come back, Ryan is dancing with two women. I really don’t understand how these scenarios happen. One of us leaves the area to get drinks or go to the bathroom and the other is approached by women. I wish I could tell the Taqueria Incident, because that one was funny, but alas, I cannot.

Anyway, we pair off and we’re dancing with these two women for the rest of the night. It hits last call, and the club starts to close down as the four of us are outside discussing what to do next…oh, before I go any further into the story, the one I’m dancing with has a ring on her left ring finger. I’m still not sure if it is an engagement ring or otherwise, but I reserved judgement while also being very aware of a potential disaster. Let’s call this one Samantha, and the one Ryan was dancing with shall be named Marcy.

Samantha admits to be in her thirties, and Ryan, being the youngest of us four, claims to be her age as well. This isn’t really pertinent to the story, but it’s one of the dumb things we tend to say while drinking. Who am I kidding, we say stupid things when we’re sober, but I digress. Samantha and Marcy want to go get pancakes, so being the idiots that Ryan and I are, we say okay and walk to the restaurant, which is about a 30-minute walk.

While ordering and waiting for our food, (I forget if who brought it up, Ryan or myself) someone calls Samantha out for wearing a ring. She responds with, “I have a fella.” THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN?!

…and we ask her that, though maybe not in that strong of a tone. She declines to explain if it meant she was engaged, married, or if it’s just something else.

After small-talk and sustenance, we leave the restaurant and part ways. Ryan then looks at me and asks, “Should we?” I say, “Yeah, why not.” The girls are about 30-40 feet away from us when Ryan shouts, “Hey Marcy, can I have your number?!”

Marcy calmly walks back and says okay, but that she has a boyfriend. Ryan and I are then confused as to why she still gives him her number. So I think, what’s the worst that could happen and shout, “Hey Samantha, can I have your number?!” She walks back as well and gives me her number, even though she has a “fella,” whatever that means.

Numbers are exchanged, goodbyes are said, they walk off, and we walk to Ryan’s place. Ryan thinks it would be faster to just walk back (which took about an hour and a half) instead of trying to find a cab, which is true, because we’re on a street where cabs don’t really drive by. So we start our hobbit’s journey back to Ryan place, confused and swearing, “Why did they give us their numbers?!”

After this incident, them giving us their numbers and doing what they did on the dance floor, I kind of feel bad for their fellas and lose trust in womankind.

There are technically 2 more parts to this story, but the second one is short enough that it’ll be combined with the Act 3 of our story later on.

-Patrick

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