The Jungle Juice Book

This is the rather pointless but perhaps amusing story of a guy who is trying way too hard. There's no real point to it other than to record my observations of some rando. That's it.

So I'm at a bar (Grendel's Den) in Harvard Square on Friday night, around 10:30 or so, and it's pretty crowded. Nowhere to sit at the tables, nowhere to sit at the bar.

Because it's crowded like a Jonas Brothers concert, and almost as rowdy, I chug half my beer so I don't spill any on myself, while eying the surroundings looking to see if maybe somebody will be nice enough to leave.

And there, sitting alone at a four-top, is a guy in full-on Harvard nerd/douchebag uniform: the argyle sweater, the "trendy" glasses, the skinny distressed jeans that cost more than a new iPod.

And what's this guy doing at a bar at 10:30 on a Friday night?

He's reading a book.

And not just any book. This is some huge could-be-a-blunt-instrument kind of book. This is a book three inches thick. This is a Look-at-me-and-how-smart-I-am-book. This is a book that's not just a book, no. This book is a statement.

I'd love to know the guy's -- let's call him Sheldon, because that's probably his name -- thought process:

Hmm. What to do tonight? Let's see. Which outfit goes with these glasses? Probably this one. Nice, I look like a castmember from Rent.

So which book should I choose? Infinite Jest? Nah, too trendy right now. The Brothers Karamazov? Too foreign. The Annotated Canterbury Tales? Bingo.

Now I'm going to go to a crowded bar and find a table. I'll nurse my wheat beer, and I'll pretend to be really serious about reading this book. But I have to make sure it looks like I'm reading for pleasure. Because, although I've been a graduate student for twelve years and am getting yet another doctorate in a language that is not dying but already dead, I don't do homework. In public.

And I'll sit at a table, crossing my leg at the knee, and I'll push out the chair in front of me just a little bit, just so, in fact, so that maybe some lonely girl will notice me reading here, an oasis of calm and intellect amidst the rolling seas of obnoxious frat boys and vapid girls with low self esteem.

And she'll ask me to save her. Not in those words but in the look in her eyes.

Although I hope nobody notices that I'm really hating this beer. Why can't more places serve Chardonnay?

And I'm looking at Sheldon, the smug bastard, who keeps darting his eyes at the crowd, no doubt waiting for the girl who will finally understand him to materialize.

And of course such a creature does not exist. And then, an hour and maybe three pages later, when he finally senses enough glares, Sheldon quietly finishes the only beer he ordered, makes a face, closes the book without bothering to mark his place, and walks from the table so quickly, you kind of want to stop him to tell him that the T still runs for another hour so no rush.

But you don't, because, if you stop him, you might punch him. In the mouth.

Don't look at me like that. Who brings a book to a bar, of all places, on a Friday night? It's not quite trying to write a paper while attending a rave, but it's close.

OK. I'll stop making fun of the nerd now.

And you know what? Give the guy a little credit.

At least it wasn't a casebook.