Surprise

It was already a good enough night.

We were at Barleycorn in Wrigleyville, and the occasion was Frank's 25th birthday -- where by 10 PM he had already had enough beers, shared enough laughs, and taken enough pictures.

The only one thing missing, however, was Frank's best friend and roommate: Rachel.

"I'm so tired of always playing second banana," Frank complained to me a month ago, deeply disappointed when he found out Rachel had other plans and wouldn't be able to celebrate his birthday with him. He added, "Think about it, have you ever seen anyone buy me a drink? Ever? It doesn't happen, Pete. I'm always the one shoving beer bottles into everyone's hands whenever we go out. Which is perfectly fine. But for once, just once, I'd like for someone to bend over backwards for me."

"Because guys are too busy bending over forwards to catch your pitches... Get it? Heh, those ambiguously gay jokes won't escape you, will they Frankie?" I replied.

"Come on, you know what I mean."

I definitely did. People tend to take Frank for granted because of his easy-going, giving nature. He's always the one agreeing with you. Buying your drinks. Paying for more than his share of the cab fare.

The thing is, no one ever returns the favor. No one ever has a problem with walking all over the Nice Guy.

So our goal on Saturday night was to give Frank the Tank the time of his life. I spent every two minutes looking at the text messages on my cell phone -- inviting everyone to come out and party with my buddy -- while Larry fed Frank a steady diet of beer and hard liquor. The turn out was fair. Besides Larry, there was Dave, Jess, and Julie. Later, Lynn and Pratik would meet up with us, as well as Roy.

It was shaping up to be a good night. Good enough, at least.

Larry motioned for the waitress to bring us another round of drinks, then asked Frank, "So did all the important people make it out tonight?"

Frank answered by chugging half of the contents of his Bud Lite.

I thought back to the time a month ago when an acid spillage on the railroad tracks stranded me and thousands of other Metra commuters in Chicago after work. After somehow hitching a ride to Downer's Grove, I called up Frank, hoping that he would be able to drive me home to Aurora. Frank of course came to my rescue -- without any hint of hesitation -- and drove me the rest of the way home, a 30 minute drive. When he dropped me off, I pulled a ten-dollar bill from out of my wallet and said, "Here's this for gas money, dude."

To which Frank replied, "Keep your money."

"Dude, you went out way of your way to drive me like, 30 minutes to my house. I owe you."

"Pete, you owe me nothing. If you actually owed me real money, I'd maybe accept it. But when it comes to my friends, my time is free of charge."

...

I opened up my cell phone again to check for messages. There were none.

And then, from across the bar, just as planned, she walked towards our table in slow motion with a beer in her hand, staring Frank in the eye. Rachel smiled in excitement and said, "Where's my Jack and Coke, bitch?"

And Frank was stunned.

Frank's eyes were watery because just minutes before, he tried to show off by deep-throating most of his beer bottle in another display of ambiguous gaydom -- but I would like to also think that maybe Rachel's surprise had a little something to do with it, too.

A few minutes after he collected himself and processed the fact that RACHEL ACTUALLY SHOWED UP, I grabbed Frank by the neck and playfully rocked him around on his seat. No easy task, considering how much he weighs. "Surprised? Just how happy are you right now, dude?"

"I still can't believe it. There couldn't have been a better surprise than this. How happy am I right now? Really, really happy. More than words, Pete."