“I’m Not Forty”
When I say I enjoy to drink with friends I generally mean I enjoy to drink with Texter. She is one of the few friends I have who will actually take me out and have a fun time with me and our friend “The Drink”. Now, before we move on, I must say that we do not get drunk. We get buzzed and then people watch. It’s a lot more fun. The night that this story is centered around though caused me to get a bit more buzzed than I would have liked. However, it wasn’t my fucking fault.
Generally when I’m low on cash and want to get a buzz I will contact Texter, or her me, and we will take a drive to the next town over and head to a very well known restaurant that we will call BananaFly’s for the sake of anonymity and to protect my ass from getting sued….since it’s obvious I’ll get in to some trouble already based on just the subject matter of this story (Hi mom!).
Texter and I head to BananaFly’s since they’re famous for their 24/7 $2 drinks. This is basically a giant light bulb and we’re the sud-seeking moths to the flame. Once we get to the establishment (at about 9:00 p.m.) I excuse myself to use the restroom before we sit down (keep in mind that I have had NO ALCOHOL yet. This is key.) I go to the bathroom and then exit the stall to wash my hands. Once I begin the process of scrubbing my digits the following event takes place:
*IMPORTANT* I’m using the sink on the right. There’s a soap dispenser to my left, another sink, and then another soap dispenser. There’s also a paper towel dispenser to the wall on my right. The door to exit/escape is to my far left. Remember this map, it may help you. *IMPORTANT*
After I wet my hands I try and get some soap from the dispenser. As I push the tab I notice that there’s no soap. I’m a science major who helps out in the morgue back home. This doesn’t bother me. The man who just stumbled OUT OF THE URINAL to the sink to wash his hands though, sees this as a problem.
Slurry: Theres noh soaPH. (I’m not drunk while typing this. I’m just trying to type as close to phonetically as possible to make this situation seem as real to you as it was to me.)
Me: Uh….yeah. Just use a lot of water. You’ll be fine.
I then turn to get a paper towel. This obviously was a mistake.
Slurry: Hey……do you work out?
Me: No, I haven’t worked out a day in my life.
Slurry: I work out.
Me: That’s nice.
Slurry: Hey….let me see you muscles. Make a fist.
Slurry: LET ME SEE!
This kind, drunk, belligerent man then grabs my arm and puts it into a flexing position while lifting my sleeve. I’m slightly worried at this point but still retaining some control over myself.
Slurry: Nice……real nice. Check me out…
Slurry then proceeds to pose his own arm so his bicep pops out. Once I see his arm muscles I’ve decided that he can break me.
Slurry: Feel this.
Me: No, that’s all right. I can see you’re a lot stron-
Slurry: FEEL IT!
He then grabs my hand and places it on his muscle and tells me to squeeze. I am now slightly more mortified as to where this conversation is going.
Me: That’s…….that’s really impressive.
I try and move me hand off his arm. He won’t have any of that.
Slurry: How old are you?
Slurry: You drunk?
Me: Nope, but I now plan to be.
Slurry: I’m drunk. Guess how old I am.
Me: 27? 30?
Slurry: I’m 40.
Slurry: I AM 40! I look good! I AM 40!
Me: That’s awesome…..
I somehow manage to get my hand off his now pulsing arm and try to scurry over to the door without getting any closer to the drunk body-builder.
This was a wrong move.
In one fluid motion, Slurry wheels around grabs me from behind, and puts me in a headlock.
Let me repeat myself:
I am now alone in a bathroom with a drunken, forty-year old, body-builder. I am now alone in a bathroom with a drunken, forty-year old, body builder, in a headlock. I’m going to get raped.
Slurry: HOW OLD AM I?
Slurry: SAY IT! SAY HOW OLD I AM!
Me (basically sobbing): YOU’RE FORTY!
He yelled the last bit almost exactly how Lionidus in 300 yelled, “THIS-IS-SPARTA!” I’m very glad I used the bathroom before this interaction since by now, if I hadn’t, I would be standing in a puddle of a variety of bodily fluids.
Me: YOU’RE FORTY!
Slurry: SAY IT AGAIN!
Me: YOU’RE FORTY!
Slurry: Don’t forget it!
I am then released. The next few seconds are a blur, however, I remember leaving the bathroom before Slurry and galloping over to my table where Texter is sitting. When I sit down we have the following conversation:
Texter: What took you so long?
Me: I was almost raped in the bathroom. In fact, I might be pregnant.
Texter: What? What did you do?
Apparently everything is my fault and I can never be the victim.
Me: I didn’t do anything! I peed and then got manhandled by that guy in the Astros cap at the bar!
I then regale Texter with my adventure in the men’s room with my new friend/lover/pimp Slurry. Texter as first snickers and then looks over to Slurry, who is now back at the bar and making a scene. Her face goes from somewhat sympathetic enjoyment to my fear to almost pure terror.
Me: What? Finally feel bad for me?
Texter: No…I know that guy.
Texter: He’s the guy who always buys me drinks at O’Slappys (a bar she goes to with other friends). HE always tries to get me to go out with him!
Me: …..You lie.
Texter: I swear!
Me: …..I need a drink.
To this day (the event above happened about five or six months ago) I have yet to return to BananaFly’s with Texter. However, it may be time for another trip for three reasons:
- $2 Drinks are always a reason to go out
- I have a few more muscles and want to see if Slurry notices
- You just can't make up stories like this