They say there is a first time for everything (whoever they are) and that is true. Occasionally there is a second time for everything as well. It's interesting to me how a thing I thought I would only ever do once in my life I have now done twice. (Yes, mom, I am talking about smoking crack and having abortions. Wait, make that three times.)
These things seem to only happy when I am unbelievably intoxicated. I remember the first time as though it were several years ago and I was living in Tacoma, Washington. I had my first real job out of university (working in a human toxicology lab which I renamed "Pee Lab 2021." None of my coworkers got the reference) and I hated it. I hated this job. I had studied environmental chemistry. I didn't go to school so I could stumble in half drunk to work and test people's blood alcohol content, you know? And yet, that is what I did. For one year.
One day, I had 24 hours off from work. I had covered the day shift running the GC/MS for my supervisor and was covering the swing shift the following day for another coworker. So, at 3p that first day, I decided I needed to maximize the Fun Potential of my 24 hour period of freedom.
My friend Drew came up from Olympia. He had been reading entirely too much Keruoac and was on a big port/whisky drinking kick. So, he showed up at my house with a bottle of port and a bottle of whisky and we proceeded to drink both bottles. Some other friends of mine called me and came over. There was loudness and drunkenness. And there was a party across town!
Drew was drunk and tired and went to my room where he proceeded to pass the f out. I went with Devin and the gang towards another party. There were 6 or 7 of us in the car and I was riding in the back on my friend Bill's lap. (Did I mention how drunk I was?) It seemed to me that it was taking forever to get to the party and somebody said something and I wanted out of the car. They would not stop so I could get out. So I said, "Fuck you guys! I'm getting out anyway!" Or something to that effect and I opened up my door and bailed into the middle of the road. Luckily, there was no oncoming traffic (I was riding behind the driver). They stopped the car and told me to get in. I wasn't having it. Allegedly, I called Devin a short while later, claiming to be lost and crawling through a bush. Was I crawling through a bush? Likely, yes. At least, that is what the twigs I pulled out of my hair the next morning seemed to imply. I had no idea where I was, so I proceeded to hitchhike on hilltop in Tacoma.
A very nice man with ridiculous hair picked me up and bought me a bottle of water. (Apparently, I looked as drunk as I was!) He then asked me where I lived. I asked why he wanted to know and accused him of being a stalker. I had him take me to the Tempest, a bar in Tacoma that was super close to my house. He asked what it was, I told him, and he said, "They are not going to serve you."
"Do I seriously look like I need to drink anymore?" I replied.
He dropped me off, said he would wait a few minutes so that, when they kicked me out, he could give me a ride home. What he didn't know is that I know the owners and Tacoma's finest bartender, Larry, who worked there at the time.
I walked into the bar and Larry said, "Girl! What are you doing getting out of a brand new BMW?" I didn't even know I had been in one.
Fast forward to present time, last night, to be exact.
I was supposed to have a nice, quiet, adult evening with home-made pizza and intellectual conversation among lovely and amazing friends out in the suburbs.
That is not what happened.
First, I got caught in a rainstorm, sexually harassed by a bunch of fellas at the Texaco and wandered around with Alex while he debuted his sexy new haircut about town. Then I got a phone call from a friend telling me he was coming to town. After that, I went to Juan's house to see him and Antonio. That, my dears, is where it all began.
We shared some beers, the boys were trying to sell me on the idea of going to a party with them on the road toward Montelimar. I was unsure and had just told Ridiculously Hot Lawyer that I don't want to see him anymore. They said things like, "The party will be full of unbelievably sexy heteros. You will love it."
First they made me change my clothes into something "more elegant" then they asked me if I had boots because were going to a farm. Why I needed to look elegant to go to a farm, I still don't know.
We got there, we drank, we socialized, etc. There were not a lot of people there. And all the hot men there were gay. Que lastima, no? We stayed for about three hours, filled up an empty water jug with beer, and decided to make the hour drive back to Managua.
In reality, I think it took about two hours do to all the stopping we had to do to pee on the side of the road. (Juan had the camera, so no photos of me peeing on the side of the road in the mud. Sorry gang!)
We also slowed down a lot so I could holla at random campesinos who were walking down the street. "Heather, Heather! Yell something!" they said.
"Like what?" I asked. "How do you say, 'Show me your dick'?"
And that is how my drunk ass wound up yelling, "Enseñame tu turca! Te quiero! Mi amor!" out the window at random strangers. Juan actually stopped at certain points so we could carry on these things for longer periods. At one point, there was a group of men. I said my lines like a well-trained and well mannered young lady should, and the fellas asked me which one should whip it out. I replied, "Quien tiene la mas grande!" None of them made a move, so I told Juan they didn't have any to demonstrate and we drove on. Good times.
Fast forward to El Caramanchel. My piercing twin was there. I love him. And this weird Spanish guy from Madrid who was completely ridiculous. He had curly hair and was out of control. I want him to be my minstrel.
I don't know how I got beers or how I paid for them, but got them I did and proceed to get eve drunker, well, I did that, too. My roommates were there. Juan and the boys left for Q. My roommates and my minstrel wanted to leave, so we decided to look for a cab. I wanted to go to Q, the cabs were telling us crazy prices, we argued about where to go and how, etc. And, ultimately, I said something like, "F this noise. I'm going to Q."
I got in the cab, we were driving, I asked him how much, he said 40 cordoba. I told him he was crazy and that I wouldn't pay more than 20. He touched my leg. I put my hand on the door handle and told him if he touched me again, I would get out of the car. He claimed I could not because the car was moving.
Silly cab driver. You had no idea of what I was capable of. And still am, probably.
So, he decided it would be a good idea to touch me again. I swore at him in Spanish, opened the door, and bailed onto the empty street in the middle of the night. (It was about 3:30am). There were a group of fellas across the street that saw it all happen. They decided to inform me as to how dangerous the neighborhood was. (I was in my old neighborhood.) I stood up, checked myself for injuries, dusted my self off, and proceeded to walk down the street to Q.
I went in, said hi to people, came back outside and just hung out. It was way to hot and I was way too drunk to be in public. Luckily, Juan was fixin' to leave, so I got to ride with him. But, I was super hungry. By this point, it was about 4a. I wanted fried chicken. Wait, no.
I needed fried chicken.
Thus, a mission was born.
We drove all over Managua looking for fried chicken. The first On the Run was out. How do you run out of fried chicken? I don't know. But they did. I was very sad. When we finally found it, I was waiting and Juan went off to do something and these two guys came up to me, called me by name, and asked how I was.
I still don't know who they were.
Spinoza once said, "I think, therefore I am." Well, I think I am famous, therefore I might be. At least, I know I am in my head. And when the paparazzi are out taking my photo while I pee on the muddy road in the dark and strangers know my name and (almost look like they might possibly want to) ask for my autograph (or at least a handjob), I know it's true.
I got home at about 5am, ate my fried chicken, and went to bed.
It was the the best fried chicken ever, because it was well earned.