It’s 2:30am and I’m lying in a pile of leaves in front of a random house in St. Paul.

The club is around the corner. It was $1 drink night. Jack had a few too many $1 drinks, and was therefore a hot mess.

We left the club because of my supposed twin: on the dance floor this mixed guy comes up to me and says, “Oh my god we are BROTHERS!”

I look at him and say, “Power the people brothers?” No. He didn’t mean “My black brother” brothers…but actual brothers.

“Look at us,” he said, “we have the same face, the same beard. We are brothers. That’s crazy.”

“Okay,” I said.

I think ‘hey we are siblings’ is the creepiest come-on line ever, incest jokes aside…

I looked away and kept dancing. Sandra B. thought it was creepy. Keegan and Jack were amused.

Now, Brother Creepy and I do have some similarities: we are both light-skinned (probably mixed) black guys about 6’2 tall. We both have short hair and some facial hair.

But no – these two “brothers” aren’t going to be confused in a lineup anytime soon: Brother Creepy is about 150lbs and I’m about 200lbs. He has fashionable stubble, and my beard is one week away country-awesome (Re: Steven Bush.)

Anyway, within an hour Brother Creepy is insisting we are “twins.” The $1 drinks obviously brought out Brother Creepy’s Crazy. We left before I was accosted by my “twin.” (Keegan and Sandra have already left at this point?)

We get out of the clubhouse and Jack says, “If we take a walk around the block I’ll be fine.”

I’m in full “wtf-mate?” mode because I realize he’s stumbling. Now, I only partook in two $1 drinks, (Budweiser, keeping it classy…) so I was sober…but Jack was jacked.

And the problem: we drove in Jack’s car. Jack’s car is manual. Jansen doesn’t drive stick.

Crap.

So we walked around the block.

Jack and I are almost done with our little walk when we pass Fifty. Fifty is a guy from the clubhouse who is, well, about 50-years old.

As we pass Fifty, Jack says “Hey beau!” -I cringe. We keep it moving towards the car.

…and since it’s my life, you know that wasn’t the end of it: Jack STOPS, turns around, and says, “HEY!”

Fifty stops.

“Hey!” Jack says, “Come here beau!”

We are standing in front of a house. The houses on the street are raised –the yards are little hills unto themselves – so I simply lie down in the leaves and watch the mess unfold in my reclined state.

Jack puts his arm around Fifty. They flirt. Now the hilarity in this – besides the fact that they are both crunk for jesus – is that throughout their exchange BOTH of them are getting booty-texts from other people. “Is that my phone or yours?”

Mess-tastic.

So, after I watched enough of the mess unfold, I motion Jack to the car. He’s still stumbling…

…and let me tell you – the drive home was … special.

Me: “JACK. STOP TEXTING. RED. THE LIGHT IS RED. STOP. RED. JACK! STAY IN YOUR OWN LANE. RED. RED! THE LIGHT IS RED! STOP TEXTING! OH LORD HAVE-MERCY-KELLY-CLARKSON-EDDIE-MURPHY…”

*******

This morning in the kitchen:

Housemate: “How was last night?”
Me: “It was $1 drink night at the clubhouse so I was stalked by a guy who claimed to be my twin and had to peel my friend off a 50-year-old.”