I used to take myself out for dates. I mean I did pretty well for myself after the 3rd year. I always had some money. However, I was horrible at keeping it.
I would go out on these “dates” and spend hundreds of dollars. But, I didn’t care, and I still don’t. You have money and you don’t have money, that is just how I have always seen it.
I’m in the “don’t have” stage right now. So feel free to donate (Paypal @ firstname.lastname@example.org)
So back to my date. I used to take myself out on the town. I would start off at a good restaurant, usually sushi or tacos late mid-day, around 3 or 4. That would entail margaritas or saki followed by a lot of whiskeys, it was my thing.
Needless to say, by 7, I was usually toasted, but in my mind, I functioned pretty well.
One night, in particular, I didn’t go home before going out. I had on my dirty ass iron working clothes and work boots and smelled like metal. I wasn’t looking for a date, I was already on one, with myself.
I followed up dinner with Coyote Ugly. Yep, the one in the movies, except it isn’t like the movies AT ALL. It looked like an old trucker and biker bar and smelt like fishy B/O and vomit.
Cocaine and Vomit
I actually knew one of the girls that were working there. She was going to school to be a lawyer and was dating a friend of mine. She was one of those Asian babies that had been adopted into a rich Jewish family from LI. There are a lot of those in NY.
I think it was her coke habit that aided in her being a Coyote Girl. She was going places…
Every 3rd or 4th song the girls would get up on the bar and throw shots down your throat and gogo dance. I usually joined in both.
I was also scrounging for a bag of coke, I was on the borderline of no return. When I felt I was getting to a point of no return within my inebriation, I would get a little bag just to keep me square. Not all the time, only in emergency situations.
Nobody likes a drunk white girl falling down all over herself. I very seldom got white-girl drunk, and if I did, I went home before I made a mockery of myself, or I got a bag.
The night progressed and more people started coming in and a couple bachelorette parties and birthdays followed.
I think it was a Thursday, which is surprisingly a busy night for NYC. Not quite the weekend, but close enough to not give a fuck — Yay hangover Fridays! Most people worked half days on Fridays anyway, I assumed.
I think it was around 11:30pm when it happened. A group of middle-aged wannabe college bros came in accompanied by a midget in a fedora. He was dressed to the nine — blue silk shirt, black pleated pants, shiny shoes — maybe he was a doorman, they dressed like that too. He had a cheap fossil watch on that was just as big as his hand.
He stood up on the bar stool and started slamming the bar, which was fine there. The girls poured a couple shots down his throat as they wiggled there hips and straddled his little neck.
And then it happened!
His whole demeanor changed. His body had been taken over by the spirits. He flipped around, staring hungrily at the girls. He started cat-cowing standing up on the stool. He put his fist into the bar and had the look of a wild boar, but in a Timon and Pumba kinda way. He leaned forward and the next thing you know, he Linda Blair’ed everything directly within 3.75 feet in front of him.
Vomit was flying everywhere. Girls were screaming, the guys were laughing, it was a clip out of a shitty American-Pie movie. Luckily, I had sat that dance out, I didn’t want to get too close to the crowd of guys.
When you have that much drunken testosterone condensed into one area of a tiny bar, it can only lead to danger. Plus, I have anxiety in large groups of balls.
Furthermore, my instincts saved me from the imminent doom of the silky layer of vomit that was basted all over the girls.
I got a good idea of where the vomit smell came from. I guess this was a thing.
The guys drug him out of there and sat him on the curb while the ladies cleaned up.
I had gone outside to smoke a cigarette and some guy had his hand out holding back the fedora with arms by its forehead. He swung his fists, calling the tallie a mother-fucker with random burst of little man cries.
It was the damndest thing ever.. And to my avail, there was another little dude sitting there with a pile of vomit in front of him. He had a small pint of Jim Beam in one hand and the other on his forehead. He was mumbling nothings to the ground and would burst into laughter from time to time.
I was amused. I couldn’t make this shit up
After I finished my cigarette I went in and paid my tab, $400.. Ya, I bought a couple shirts and shit so the girl didnt get fired, coke habits are expensive, so is Law School.
I hailed a cab and took my drunk ass home. I ended up sending the shirts to my dad a year later. I’m sure he was confused.