Karl Klockars

Dear stereotypical early-20s popped-collar guys and ditz-blonde girls who showed up last night at Pub Trivia night:

Thank you.

Not only did you make for an entertaining evening entirely at your expense, you very kindly justified every stereotype we could have thought up to define you.  In every single way, you let absolutely nobody down with your looks, action, and attitude.  Please don’t come back next week.

It was awesome when you came in, a gaggle of a half dozen girls and a similar number of boys, Hollister-shirted and frilly-skirted.  You flip-flopped in at around 15 minutes before events began and expected some sort of seating arrangements to be made for you.  After looking around stupidly for a few ticks, somebody shifted around so that youalls, in your Patrician glory could cram around a 4 top.  We sat and sneered, making snide remarks the whole time. We’re assholes.

It must have been hard using your brains.  Was this this first “academic” event you’d been to since tiptoeing through your SATs?  After which Dad fronted a thick check to get you all into DePaul anyways?  It seemed like it.  We were sure that all of you were more than capable of failure on your own, but it wasn’t a surprise when all of you crowded around one single answer book, ignoring the rules of “4 to a team” and just going ahead and doing whatever you felt like.  It seems like something you’ve done before.

Oh, it was so cute when all the girls squealed when your Irish-accented bartender descended on your table, since he obviously knew you.  Especially since he brought you all your drinks post-haste while sluggishly refilling our Stellas.  As Irish McService hugged all of you, one by tank-topped one, the thoughts of the guys that were with you couldn’t have been more obvious if they were laser-etched on their foreheads.  “He’s just some gay bartender.  I’m not threatened.  I’m not threatened. I’m not threatened.“  Meanwhile, something must have been very fascinating about that table leg or the toe of your tennis shoes, because you stared down there for a good while.

And then as the night progressed, it was fun watching you all put your heads together and figure out exactly what country used to be called Asia Minor, and what character wasn’t a player in the board game Clue, and on what day did God create Man.  And you covered your mouths like you were verbally passing cheat sheets through sophomore Spanish classes, sure if you got caught you’d still be able to play Junior Varsity football and cheer on Matty as he blocked linemen.

What joy it was to watch you fill in the answers as they were given throughout the night rather than employing any sort of brainpower to try to figure it out question by question.  How clever of you to fact check against each other and then be the last team to bring up your answer booklets right before grading was finished.  Nobody would notice, right?

The night plodded on, cans of PBR were emptied and buffalo wings were devoured.  A good time was had by all.  We all laughed at the idea that the Pretty People from Lincoln Park had slummed it up to Uptown and happened to stop in and play along as a goof.  Secretly, I was of two minds.  I was telling myself, “If you’re really worried, relax.  You know quite well that they exist solely on label brand names, parental connections and their twice-weekly retail gig at A&E.  They won’t need independent thought ever, and you will reign victorious.”

The other mind said to me, “What if they’re the unicorn of undergraduates?  The phoenix rising up, the Loch Ness monster of the stupid-looking pretty?  What if they’re actually not as stupid as they look and act?  What if the giggling and hair-tossing is just a ploy, something to get the bitter and pathetic like myself offguard? And then they strike like cobra, reaffirming why they’re the Upper Crust and why I’ll die cold and alone in a studio apartment by the train tracks in Elmhurst?”

It was neck and neck like that in my head, all the way up to the end.  The room was packed with participants, people who had come from miles around to answer the questions that the dragged-up pseudo-Nun would query in his/her high wavery “Sister Mary Francis” Cheech and Chong inspired falsetto.  So many teams had shown up that the pool table was covered with plywood and two teams circled around, marking multiple choice circles and puzzling over what Bob Dylan song this could be.

I watched as the nun circled the room with her dunce prize.  The worst team is always given a grade-school quiz book so they can study for next week.  She swooped from front to back, looking for the right team with all the wrong answers.  And when she descended on the lot of you, deeming you the stupidest team of the night, it was sweet, sweet justification for Voice #1.

We took second place and our Victory Spoils, a round of grapefruit margaritas, were slightly sweeter thanks to the stunning confirmation of what we had all expected.  I mean, really – no one honestly believed you were the stupidest people in the room.  It would have been too obvious, too cut and dry.  It was almost dissappointing have those stereotypes firmly reassured – but just almost.

Instead, I felt that all was right with the world and for one small moment in one small bar in one neighborhood in one big city, the little guy had won.  We only took second, but for Kuala Luampur and a question about Archie Andrews comic books.  But it was good enough for me.  It wasn’t really a matter of who won – it was about who really lost.