For months, a “friend”, R, from work had been bugging me to go out and hit the GLBT clubs with him. Finally, I agreed to go out for a bit of fun. At the first club we went to, I wasn’t allowed in because it’s 21 and up on weeknights. That was fine with me until R decided that he was going to go in without me and that I could just wait in my car while he picked someone up. Now, it would seem like any normal person would say “Hell no!” but I’m nice and he said he wouldn’t be in there for more than 10 minutes. I sit and wait and wait in a dark, scary parking lot with the doors locked, mace and cell phone in hand. 30 minutes go by, and he returns. He wants to borrow 10 dollars.
Why? To buy some cocaine!!! Strike one.
I don’t touch the stuff, never have, but I had intended to let him borrow a bit of money anyway, so I just went ahead and gave the money to him. He returns with some fellow he has just met. They both clamber into my back seat (like I’m some sort of hook-up chauffeur for drunks) and tell me where we’re going next. All I know is that it’s an adult bookstore, which is fine with me.
I leave the parking lot of the club and get on the interstate, going toward the pornographic emporium. As I drive, I smell a strange smell. I glance in my rearview mirror, and these fucks are
smoking CRACK COCAINE in MY car. Strike 2.
Needless to say, I flip the fuck out: “What do you think you are doing???!!! Are you crazy?”, etc. R’s new buddy replies, “Hey, can you roll that window up? It’s hard to get a hit!” Like I want to breathe his nasty crack fumes. I said, “I don’t smoke in my car. You can’t either.” No response. Since I was on the interstate, I didn’t want to pull over and risk having a cop enter the picture. It was occuring in MY car, after all, and a cop might not understand my lack of involvement.
I rolled my window down as far as it would go, and tried to ignore that awful stench. I never, in my entire life, thought I would ever know what crack smells like. Color me mistaken.
We got to the bookstore, and I told them there would be no more smoking in my car of any sort. They agreed, and I just tried to put it behind me and have a good time. Well, it turns out this is a gay male adult bookstore. Fine for them, but how useful is that for me? Of course, at this point, I should have left them both there, but I didn’t even know where I was well enough to do that.
We leave for the next club, and I can actually get in to this one. Oops! Turns out it’s drag queen night. No real women to be found anywhere. Yet again, fine for these guys, but not for me. R and his buddy run off to dance and leave me all alone. I met some very nice drag queens during the next three hours, but at that point, I just wanted to go home. Finally, I find R again. He wants my keys so he can go “talk” to someone in my car. I tell him there are plenty of places to talk. We argue, and he agrees to meet me at my car in 30 minutes and we’ll leave. He shows up an hour later (yet again, I should have just left him, but didn’t have the heart; we were an hour away from home).
Here’s the real kicker, the one that drove me over the edge:
We are driving away from the club (I am driving, he is too drunk to lift his head) in my (note this) two door car. We are in a rotten part of town, famous for drugs, shootings, and prostitution, and lost. I pull up to a stop sign, and wait to be able to pull out. Suddenly, the passenger side door opens and the unthinkable occurs: a dirty street whore GETS IN THE BACKSEAT!
R was so drunk that he had lifted the seat up so she could get in! My niceness ends. I push the hooker out of my car, and screamed “Get your nasty ass the fuck out of my car, you dirty whore!” She looks confused for a second, and then clambers out.
“I’m not from around here, I’m not from around here!” she says.
Excuse me? You’re not from around here? That’s an excuse to get in my car? This is just what prostitutes do in your neck of the woods?
Lucky for me, I was then able to pull out, my tires squealing and the door still open. I looked in the mirror and saw her pimp running after me, screaming his head off about how I “best not disrespect my bitch!” R didn’t even seem to notice anything wrong afterward.
His next words to me were not, “Oh, sorry about that whole ‘letting a street whore in your car’ thing”, but “Let’s go back to [first club, which is 21 & up]!” Strike three, you’re out!
Sure thing, buddy! Let’s go! He gets out of the car, and goes in the club. And what did I do? I got the hell out of there! I finally had enough sense to leave his ass behind. I found out later that he had to get his mother to come get him, and he never did score. Speaking of things that never happened, I never got any money back from him, either.
The moral? Three strikes are often two too many.
Why didn’t you beat his ass?