massive nights

We were just another pack of 20something urban punks, hoping-we-didn't-look-too-much-like-hipsters, scurrying to the relative warmth of the car after a stellar performance at First Ave. I remember thinking briefly, between icicle-sharp inhalations, how Saturday nights are more pleasant when you can straggle back to the parking ramp, enjoying the people watching along Block E, picking up tidbits of conversations as you walk by tightly-entwined couples, sprawling, caterwauling whinos, pods of suburban posers and throngs of hipsters in white belts.
But we all just look the same in December: huddled masses under knitted caps and lined mittens, swathed in scarves and ensconsed in outerwear, scurrying like silverfish when you turn on the light in the basement laundryroom.
And so we scurry like the rest of the hardcore Saturday night Minnesotans, like insects into the parking ramp. 6th floor. Always the argument about which floor we are on. Remember, we had to park on 6th -- that damned Guns and Roses concert.
Yah. Suburban idiots.
We huddle around the car and I point the key fob to open the doors.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
OK, my key fob must be dead. I'm a mechanically adept woman; I can open a door manually with a key.
Except that the lock is frozen.
and I can't even get the trunk open.
And why won't the lights come on in the car?
There's suddenly a mouth-to-mouth moment on the driver's door, and I for a moment think I will have to call 911 as Joel's lips instantaneously freeze to the my driver's side door. But it's all good, and we don't have any frozen emergencies.
Not until I put my keys in the ignition and hear:



Shit.
I glance slowly, downward and left.
Of course. My lights were on.
Until they drained my battery.
And now, 5 of us stood, cold, exhausted, needing to pee, needing to sleep... and no ride.

Suddenly, and almost as if I have stopped to think but the rest of the world continues on, everyone disperses, asking random strangers speeding out of the 7th street garage for jumper cables.
No dice. No, sorry... suburban idiots and white-belt indie kids don't carry those practical things.

And then it's settled: it's cold, we want to go home. Or at least to last call. So we scurry like silverfish again, into and out of the elevator, spilling into the intersection of 1st Avenue and 8th Street, hailing a cabbie who seems way too happy to see us. Four of us squeeze into the backseat of the otherwise nondescript cab, with Dave calling shotgun.
I notice then: our cabbie is laughing uncontrollably. And it seems to be catching.

Cabbie: Are you guys drunk?
Us: Yah/Not really/Working on it (it was a mixed crowd)
Laughing
Cabbie: (driving past the Saloon) Those guys are soo gay.
Us: Yah...
More laughing, mostly by the cabbie.
Cabbie: (noticing a Passat driving the wrong way down Hennepin): You are going the wrong way! Turn! Turn!
Uncontrollable laughing
Cabbie: (to Dave) Do you want to see my titties?
(note: cabbie is a middle-aged African Immigrant).
Dave: (stares out window ferverently)
Joel: Dave, I bet you are so glad you called shotgun, huh?
Dave: (makes an angry Dave face)
Severe fits of laughing, wheezing, chortling and a snort
Cabbie: where am I dropping you off?
Us: (uncomprehendable shouts of several different addresses, landmarks and cross-streets!)
Fits of laughter
Cabbie: (dropping us off) Have a good night!
Us: Give this cabbie a massive tip. That was the best cab ride of my life.
Laughter
Dave: (collecting ones like a cheap stripper sporting a banana hammock, tips the cabbie) You guys realize we just gave that cabbie over 100% in tip?
Sarah: That was epic, and completely worth it.