A Bud for The Ladies

The way some men talk about women "makes my jaw drop," Faust agrees. But don't assume that if the man scores, the girl has lost, she says. And girls can give as good as they get. They take wing partners with them to bars too, even if they don't call them that.

In college, Faust relied on her roommate. On any given evening, either of them could force the other to go out with her and play the sidekick. One evening she and her wing partner were out and spotted a couple of guys. After spending some time with the guys, Faust signaled to her roomie that she wanted to make out with the better-looking of the two. Faust's friend took the other guy, who, as Faust tells the story, "couldn't form sentences, he was so dumb."

"The guy I went with turned out to be a meathead," she continued, "so my friend took a bullet for me for nothing."

* * *

One week post-Republic Gardens, the GW crowd has moved to Adams Mill Bar & Grill in Adams Morgan. Taxi upon taxi arrives, spilling forth scads of scantily clad young women who push their way into an already packed club. Upstairs, a bleary-eyed guy with a beer is hitting on a toothpick-thin blonde who is accompanied by an equally thin brunette. He's making no progress, and the baseball cap low on his forehead can't hide a scowl that grows ever larger.

His wingman comes over and bums a cigarette from one of the girls. He and his buddy chat up the duo, who slouch and blow smoke rings, their eyes scanning the room. Sometimes girls will at least feign interest. Not these two.

With only minutes to go to last call, Jentz trolls the place with a near-empty beer pitcher in his hand, shirttail out, single and increasingly melancholy. Waclawiczek, shirt tucked in, gelled hair in place, has stationed himself near the door. Moniello, designated wingman, continues to scout the crowd on behalf of his buddies and himself, drawing lots of hugs and kisses but little else.

Even the ablest of wingmen can't guarantee a win.