Six Bucks in New York

I would love to tell y’all the details of my weekend in NYC, but well, Memory, that alcohol hating little bitch, does not preserve the whole weekend. Memory, that selective little gutterslut, will not allow me to tell you the whole tale. I guarantee you there are a number of people who I met in New York that woke up Sunday morning pissed off at me. To you people, I would apologize, but Memory sucks the stuck sand out of a beachgoer’s ass crack and I, as a result, don’t remember you. Hey, what can you do? The best you can is all you can do I guess (holy shit, I’m typing to myself now—this can’t be good).

Anyway, Friday night I got into New York and spent the night drinking heavily with three girls and one guy in a Checkslovakian bar in Chinatown (and yes, I know how stupid that sounds). The three girls were all very impressed that I was walking the streets alone in that part of New York at that time of night (late). They kept making allusions that some harm would come to me if I walked home alone. At one point, I was so bothered by these allusions that I said something to the effect of, “Do you really think any of these turtleneck wearing motherfuckers could protect me?” To which one girl, whose name is being withheld by Memory because he’s a damn purist when it comes to alcohol, replied, “No, I will.” So, around four in the morning, she walked me both blocks to my hotel and up the stairs to my room. I could have fucked her. I did not.

“Wow,” I thought. “I’m a pretty good boyfriend.”

Saturday morning, I woke up, found the cat who crapped in my mouth, killed him, ate him and headed to find an open bar. But dammit, there were none. It was only around Ten AM. So, as is the custom in NYC, I walked. And I walked. And I walked. Eventually, I found an open bar in, of all places, Tribeca. Let me tell you a little something about Tribeca: the people who live there are snobs and should all be shot.

I did however, really enjoy the people who worked in the Tribeca bar (which, by the way, was a soccer bar. I mean, what the fuck, right? Are we in America or aren’t we?). The bartender gave me a free Bloody Mary and a waitress pressed her phone number in my hand. Her name was Suzie, and above the number were the words, “I get off at four.” I could have fucked her, but I didn’t.

“Wow,” I thought. “I’m an awesome boyfriend.”

Later, I met up with Doug, my old college roommate, and Jerry, a friend of his who I had hung out with on a few other occasions in New Jersey, New York and Tampa. We drank religiously. We sucked down drinks in several bars which have all kind of blurred together because Memory seems to think sobriety is a right and not a privilege (the punk bitch). I remember that I tried to start fights with random people. I was unsuccessful. I insulted a guy’s shirt. He took it personally. A bartender nicknamed me, “Mouth” which was funny ‘cause that was one of my dad’s nicknames for me. I did not tell the bartender that tidbit of family history. I had a few names for the bartender. I don’t think he liked me. Everything was spinning. Worse yet, I had to get to a wedding reception.

The wedding reception kind of sobered me up. I drank three rum and cokes, ate as many puffed pastries, jumbo shrimps, bacon wrapped scallops and deviled eggs as a man could, hugged the bride, met the groom, and went back to go drinking with Jerry and Doug. We drank and drank and drank. We met up with their friend, Brett and drank some more.

The following morning, Doug and I found that Memory had quit entirely for him around Ten PM. My memory gave up completely around midnight. We didn’t get back to the hotel room until much later than that. We don’t know how we got home but we were happy to be alive. We awoke fully clothed on top of the covers in my hotel room, which was on the fourth floor. Doug and I were generally impressed that we had managed to make it up the stairs. I was amazed we found the hotel (Doug knows the city pretty well so he wasn’t impressed about finding his way back). We found another couple of mouth-shitting cats, killed them, ate them, and headed to his place in North Jersey.

Like I said, I wish I could tell you more. But not one cohesive story came out of this entire weekend. What can you do?

Anyway, Doug and I spent Sunday recuperating in his beautiful home with his beautiful daughter and his beautiful refrigerator which was filled with beautiful food that we ate beautifully. I mean, that shit was beautiful.

Before the flight back, I had about two hours to kill. I met a girl named Carmen in the airport bar in JFK. Carmen’s in Tampa on vacation as we speak. She told me, point blank, that she didn’t think she would get to enjoy her vacation because she had no one to fuck. I told her that I would love to help her out, but I couldn’t because I had a girlfriend. I gave her my number and told her that if she wanted a tour guide, she should give me a call. She said that she wanted much more than that. I smiled and kissed her on the cheek (a kiss goodbye). She called that peck, “the kiss of death.” I could have fucked Carmen. I did not.

“Damn,” I thought. “My girl is so lucky I’m such an awesome boyfriend.”

After arriving home, my girlfriend came over. After receiving my gift of a six dollar keychain, she informed me that she had cheated on me.

“Get the fuck out,” I said.

And she left.

Guys, there’re two lessons here. First, when on vacation, never pass up a chance to cheat on your girl. Unless there’s a ring on her finger, she don’t mean shit. And second, no girl is worth six bucks.

Oh yeah, and congratulate Bunni. She wins the breakup pool.