“Yeah,” she says. “Not really something I want to talk about right now, though. Hey, look at that,” she says, nudging me. “560! Go up and introduce yourself.”
I look at the wall, and there’s a tall guy with long blond hair holding my bag and giving the camera a thumbs-up.
“He’s way too excited about my dirty laundry,” I tell her.
She shrugs.
Our drinks arrive, and before the bartender can walk away, I order another one.
“You ready to go sniff out some hotties?”
“I’m nowhere near drunk enough to even handle that idea,” I tell her.
“Come on,” she says, “it’ll be fun. Let’s find someone who smokes weed and see if there’s a party to go to.”
“I didn’t know you’re a pothead,” I tell her.
“I’m not,” she says. “Stoners just seem to like the best music. Come on.”
I laugh and drink my second shot.
“Hold on,” I tell her. “I’ve got one more coming, then we can go.”
She waits—I can’t say patiently—while the bartender hands me my shot and I drink it down. When she’s not looking, I ask for one more and drink that down before I’m ready to go partake in something that I can’t claim to understand.
“How much B.O. should I be expecting here?” I ask. “On a scale from one to vomiting, what are we looking at here?”
“Well,” she says, “I’ve only been to one of these before, but most guys seem to take pretty good care of themselves hygiene-wise. You will get the occasional stink bag, but they’re not as common as you’d think. But hey, some chicks go for that.”
“Some women go for guys that smell bad?” I ask.
“It’s an evolutionary thing,” she says. “I don’t know. You’re supposed to be able to tell whether a prospective mate is healthy by the way they smell.”
“Well, thanks for bringing me to the Discovery Channel,” I titter.
“Just be cool, will you?”
We get to the table and Annabeth tosses me a bag with a blue number card on it.
“What am I supposed to do here?” I ask.
“It’s not brain surgery,” she says. “Open the bag and take a whiff. If you like what you smell, go up there and get your picture taken with it. If not, move on to something else.”
“This is too weird,” I tell her.
“It’s really not that bad,” she says. “Did you know that in Japan, they have vending machines that dispense used women’s underwear?”
“Actually, most places don’t do that anymore,” I tell her.
It’s a mistake.
“How would you know that?” she asks as she opens a new bag and gives it a deep inhale. “Ooh, this one’s nice.”
She hands it over to me, and before I even think about what I’m doing, I give it a sniff.
It’s heavy on the Drakkar Noir, but it’s mellowing out the lingering taste of the tequila, so I keep it there for a couple extra seconds.
“Not bad, right?” she asks.