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Wednesday, March 14, 2007

My Horrifying Night Out Sober (Miami)

My departure from Miami was imminent; it was only a matter of weeks before I'd be gone for good. Contrary to this fact, Striker and I had signed a lease on a new house. Having fully obliterated our current surroundings and being rather averse to changing our ways, we thought a change of scenery would do wonders for us. In the halcyon days before I lost the Ritz-Carlton job, I had planned on staying in Miami, at least until Striker finished law school. We loved living on Ponce De Leon, but the dungeon-like quality of the bottom floor had been getting to us. The top floor of the place 2 houses down from us was vacant, and with nary a thought to my future, I foolishly signed the lease.

But alot had happened since that point. My ex-girlfriend Violet had hooked me up with a temping company, and they staffed me at a small private conflict resolution firm. I had to wear a shirt and a tie, but the work was very easy. It was run by 2 women, both of whom were mothers, and their families were their main priority. The conflict resolution business was merely a supplemental income for them. As such, they only came in about twice a week. My only real responsibility was answering the phone, and so, predictably, I was usually pretty bored.
As I'm sure you know, a man can only sit alone in front of a computer for so long before he begins to masturbate. And masturbate I did, nearly every day that my bosses didn't show up. After about a month, I was laid off from this job. They claimed that the temping company had finally found them a proper legal secretary which they had been looking for all along. Whether this was the truth, or whether I was canned for jerking off in their place of business, I will probably never know.
After the Ritz-Carlton debacle, I tried once more for gainful employment in Miami, this time through the mortgage company that my father works for. This too ended badly. I went on an interview, and the droopy, formless cunt of a woman who interviewed me never even called me back, despite my efforts to follow-up. I was embarrassed and my father was furious. I think it's important to note that pretty much anybody can get hired as a loan officer. The job is 100% commission, so the company has almost no risk when hiring new employees. Despite this, the woman who interviewed me had correctly identified me as a shiftless dirtbag, and I didn't get that job. And that was pretty much the death knell. Miami didn't want me, I was out of money, I had no prospects, and no work experience of any value. New Jersey was my one and only option.

Our house was still in shambles, hot sauce on the ceiling and remnants of the late night panty raid still adorning the walls. One evening, in a depressed and blacked out frenzy, I scrawled a crpytic message on the outside of my bedroom door. Written in thick, black sharpie, the message read "Go Fuck Yourself. SUCK MY OIL". The second portion of the message was of course adapted from "Technical Difficulties", one of my favorite Dr. Octagon* songs.
We had given our landlord notice that we'd be moving out, and four (extremely hot) girls came by one day to check the place out. We actually knew them- they were in my sister's sorority and good friends of the girls that lived upstairs. They had been used to the clean, bright, carpeted heaven of the upstairs apartment and were resolutely shocked when they saw the decrepit hell hole that we inhabited. Brianna, one of the more stuck up girls in the crew, was to be taking over my room. The look on her face at seeing my door was priceless; the black letters violently gashing the white of the door, nonsensical curses sending chills up her spoiled, puerile spine. At any rate, the girls decided to take the place, making our egress from the original Ponce house imperative. It also turned our former house into a bastion of hotness, home to 8 girls total, of which one was a legitimate knockout, 4 were very hot, and the worst of the bunch would easily be classified as 'pretty'.

Even though I was moving back to Jersey, I still intended to keep our new place as a sort of 2nd home. My expenses would be zero since I'd be living with my parents, and the rent at the new place was only $600 per month. I figured that as long as I made a decent living in NJ, I'd have enough money to easily pay the rent and fly down for one long weekend a month. But Striker and I had another problem with the new place- we needed a 3rd roommate. We weren't on great terms with our other 2 roommates from the original house, and all the dudes we knew from law school had already seen how we lived and would never agree to lodge with us. Eventually we found our 3rd housemate in the form of Jocelyn, a girl we barely knew. Jocelyn was 5'6 with nice full tits and an attractive face. She was about 8 pounds overweight and wore clothes that were a little too tight for her. Jocelyn was the best friend of a slim, cute blonde named Diana whom Striker had speared on a one night stand.
The strange thing about Jocelyn is that I interacted with her for a period of weeks, but my sober self had absolutely no idea who she was. In fact, if not for the horrifying night out sober to which the title of this post refers, I'd have no ability to describe her at all.

I don't remember exactly what caused me to be out in the Grove without getting properly boozed, but I certainly remember how I felt. Striker and I started out in Sandbar, and the second we walked in I felt a sharp rush of anxiety. The overripe humidity of the Springtime Miami heat was choking me and I felt a gloss of sweat begin to coat my body, pooling in my armpits and beading on my forehead. I felt like all eyes were on me, and in all likelihood, they were. Less than 24 hours ago, I had been charging around the bar singing, screaming, and dancing like a steroid-laden gorilla on acid. Have you ever seen Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure? You know the scene where Genghis Khan is let loose in the San Dimas Sporting Goods store? That's more or less the way I behaved every time I went out in those days.
None of the eyes staring back at me looked familiar and I got the distinct feeling of being talked about. This initial stage of bewilderment did not last long though, as Striker and I were approached by several 'friends' even before acquiring our first cocktails.
One of the first people to approach me was Jocelyn, and I had no idea who she was. Ever the consummate wingman, Striker realized this and was able to clue me in while Jocelyn was making her way toward us. I suspect that most of you have not had the experience of conversing with a woman who knows you, when you don't even recognize her and have no idea what your relationship consists of, but let me tell you, it's not a good time. All I knew about this girl was that she had been on the receiving end of my back-handed compliments, boorish behavior, and aggressive groping for weeks. I didn't know what, if anything, we usually spoke about and I didn't know how I normally behaved around her. I felt extremely uneasy and excused myself from the conversation as quickly as I could, the sweat enveloping me, my palms clammy.
I had scarcely caught my breath after that awkward moment when I was accosted by another stranger, this time a tall, lanky black guy with glasses. He came right up to me with his hands positioned as if he was playing an imaginary piano and repeatedly shrieked "Benny" in a piercing falsetto. I did not recognize this man, but I did recognize his wild behavior. He was doing an impression of my impression of Elton John singing his classic "Benny and the Jets", a go-to move of mine from my formidable repertoire of drunken merriment. Though I felt a bit uncomfortable, I joined this man for a quick chorus of the song before excusing myself to fetch a much-needed libation. Striker later informed me that I had been hanging out with that man for weeks, and we sung "Benny and the Jets" nearly every night.
I felt like I was in a parallel universe, almost like I was seeing the Grove for the first time. I was aware that I had a bit of a blacking out problem, but I did not realize the extent until this particular evening. It was then and there that I realized I needed to turn my life around. I had learned an important lesson that night: going out sober stinks. I vowed never to do it again.

Striker and I left the manic warzone of Sandbar behind for the more private, subdued ambiance of Moe's, and I got myself nice and smashed. The evening continued on in the normal fashion, and those strangers whom I encountered earlier were already drunk enough to forget our initial awkward encounters.

As for Jocelyn, things between us began to escalate at a much quicker pace now that I actually knew who she was and what she looked like. On subsequent encounters we engaged in flirting and heavy petting, but she wouldn't let me do a 1st base on her. Then one afternoon, I got a strange call from her. She was coming from some party in Hialeah or some other shit-town suburb, and she wanted to stop by. She made a point of mentioning that she was dressed only in a bikini. At the time of the call I was sitting around my room getting high with MoMo and Little Jerk, so I told them to promptly get the hell out. They retreated to Striker's room, and I fixed myself a stiff cocktail. When Jocelyn arrived, I had a very faint buzz, largely due to the empty stomach I was drinking on. I was also very stoned.
The two of us were sitting on my bed, but to my surprise, she had other things on her mind besides sex. She started talking to me about her family and showing me pictures on her cell-phone. What the fuck was this? I was very confused. When a woman calls me in the middle of the day to tell me that she's drunk, wearing a bikini, and coming to my house, I assume I'm getting laid. I interrupted her idle jabber-jawing with a nice bold french, and she accepted. It was a ferocious make-out, as we had been building up to it for quite a while. I pulled her top to the side exposing her plush tits. Before long, I had her bottoms pulled to the side and had two fingers exploring the inner Jocelyn. She was very wet, and I was fingering her from behind while she was bent over me. Then I did something kind of stupid. I craned my neck and shifted around so I could get a look at her pussy, and she caught me. All the lights were on and the sun was shining outside, and apparently seeing me pull this uncouth move on her was enough to hurtle her back to reality. She said we were moving too fast, and we should get to know each other better first. We stopped hooking up, and she wanted to talk some more, but I was obviously not interested. She left soon after.
In the short time between this ill-fated meeting and my departure from Miami, Jocelyn and I decided that her moving in with Striker and I would be a good idea. She was looking for a new place to live and we needed a 3rd roommate, so that was that.
I left Miami in May, before our lease at the new place started. Jocelyn actually moved a bunch of shit in and paid rent for a few months, but never spent any time there. By the time I came back to visit in Autumn, she was already gone. Striker had scarcely even seen her, but one day two enormous Hispanic men showed up to collect her belongings. To this day, I don't know what became of her or why she never really lived at our place. Months later, she was replaced by a mute Asian man named Esteban, whom Terry likened to the Asian Guy who throws lit fireworks in Jack Horner's house at the end of Boogie Nights.


*Dr. Octagon is one of my favorite rappers, and his seminal album, Dr. Octagonecologyst, remains one of my favorite albums of all time. Dr. Octagon is actually an alter ego of Kool Keith, (a founding member of the golden age group Ultramagnetic MCs), and Dr. Octagonecologyst is a concept album revolving around the idea that "Dr. Octagon is an incompetent, time-traveling, possibly extraterrestrial surgeon who pretends to be a female gynecologist and molests his patients and nurses.". The whole thing takes place in the future, namedrops Chewbacca several times, and makes little to no rational sense at all. It's a truly absurd record, and aside from being hilarious, it's also sounds very dark and frightening. During these final Miami days, Dr. Octagonecologyst was my soundtrack of choice. I highly recommend it.

5 comments:

Charlie Shame said...

good story chanchi

Jones said...

hey,

my favorite rappers are:

mace, mc pee pants and Young Buck

Yo i'm gonna send u that font so u can start making the logo, and i'm gonna send u a guitar for u to design a cool picture on(here is your canvass, i remember you told me u would have those picture up in brown town but i haven't seen them.) You better redeem urself u liar.

Anonymous said...

The Asian boy who throws noisemakers was called Cosmo. He is credited as "Cosmo, Rahad's boy" - Rahad being "Rahad Jackson," played by Alfred Molina. The scene took place at Rahad's house.

Anonymous said...

a lot is two words not one

King said...

that was hilarious. benny and the jets is one of the best songs of all time. so is midnight rider by the allman brothers.