The Night I Don’t Remember

 

As we know, I do my best to share the stories of my readers. This one really has no direct category to be placed in, but I will add it to the collection of great stripper and strip bar stories. The reader who submitted this story asked to remain unidentified for professional reasons. No, I don’t know what is meant by that, but I always abide by requests and people see it when they read stuff here. I have seen this happen in real life more than once, like every day. One would be amazed what people leave at a strip bar. One would be surprised the efforts people go through to get their stuff back. And, yes, unfortunately it is kinda like talking with a giggly five year old when you call a strip bar, its always been that way because she is never hired for her people skills on the phone, she is hired to be the first thing you see when you walk thru the doors so you go DAMN! let me in. When one enters a strip bar it is like walking through the portal to an alternate universe, often one needs to pinch themselves because the world is cruel outside the doors. So, allot of weird shit happens in a strip bar, but then again a strippers job is to separate a visitor from as much of his/her money in the shortest amount of time, every time. With that being said, read the email.

Begin email———————

I went to the strip club the other night…allegedly.  I’m not sure it counts though because I don’t remember being there, much less remember driving home.  “Oh the humanity Grayson, the humanity,” I hear the voices saying.  “How dare you drive home black-out drunk; you could have killed someone!”  Shut thefuck up right now and let me finish you interrupting ass-hag!  I didn’t quite drive home drunk and I do specifically remember one incident from the night…being woken at 3:30am by a security guard(?) while passed out in my truck in some establishment’s parking lot.  Whose parking lot it was…I was totally and completely unsure of.  After that, I am wholly unaware of the events except for the fact that I slept for the next 26 hours straight, missing work and occasionally waking up from some pretty twisted dreams of disembodied heads, parallel universes and ex-girlfriends wanting to “give it another shot”…again; then dumping me and shitting – both figuratively and literally – on me and my life.  I mean, this heartless cheating cunt had the audacity to…wait, what the fuck was I talking about?  Oh yeah, right…blacking out at a strip club and not remembering; I’m the good guy.  Anyway, it was like the movie The Hangover, minus the ‘wolf-pack’ and a whole lot more depressing.  Like our lovable characters from the film, I was (possibly) drugged with GHB and had to follow vague clues I’d unknowingly left myself in order to find, not a lost friend and groom for an imminent wedding the following morning, but my debit card and driver’s license.  So yeah, a completely sad version of the now classic comedy.

The entire night started with an innocent trip to a bar, not to drink, but to sit way back in a corner booth with my notebook (actual paper-type book you write in with pens; not a computer…I ain’t fuckin’ rich folks).  Yes, I said that shit with my nose in the air like some pretentious hipster at Star Bucks; feel free to punch me if you ever see me.  Anyway, how I got from said bar to, what I later found out to be Cabaret East, I have no fucking idea; but I figured my notebook might have a clue, since I’m always leaving myself notes.  I had 20 pages of some seriously fucked up and twisted shit written in there that I am proud to say I loved, and don’t actually know when I wrote it that night.  When I got done high-fiving myself and making mental notes to write shit-faced drunk (or drugged) more often, I noticed 2 phone numbers on the last page of writing.  One had the name of a tattoo parlor and the other was for a person named Corrin.  Intrigued, I picked up my cell phone ready to dial her(?) number until I came to the sudden realization that I had to have used my GPS since I surely had no idea how to get where I went or how to get home.  Sure enough, my GPS was the last app I used that night.  I searched the ‘recent addresses’, plugged that shit into Google Search and voila, Cabaret East.  I got the phone number, called that bitch up and what follows is the conversation, verbatim, I had with the receptionist…as much as I can recall days later anyway:

Girl – Cabaret East

Me – Yeah, hi.  I believe I visited your fine establishment Sunday night, and whether I left by my own accord or was forcibly removed, I’m not sure, but I believe ya’ll might be in possession of my ID and debit card.

Girl – Um…what?

Me – I think I walked my tab.  Do you have my debit card?

Girl – Uh…I dunno.

(Silence for ten seconds)

Me – (irritated at this point) Can you…I dunno…look?!

Girl – Oh yeah (giggles), sure, one sec.

Me – Wait wait wait!

Girl – What?

Me – Don’t you need my name?!

Girl – (giggles again) Oh yeah…of course!

After talking to this brick wall of human intelligence for what felt like an eternity, I was finally able to extract from her that, yes, they did indeed have possession of my shit.  I hung up the phone, triumphant that I CSI’d the shit out of my situation,  while also ashamed-beyond-words at the same time because I still don’t know how my shit got there in the first place. I will be fucked until my literal day of recollection.

Later Tuesday evening, I went up to the titty club to retrieve my shit and was met by a big, burly, black mother fucker who looked like he’d choke me with my own intestines; who also happened to remember both, helping me to my truck as I vomited along the way AND waking me up at 3:30 in the AM to send my hobo-ass packing.  I thanked him for telling me about such obviously proud moments in my life, then  I swore to him that I’d been drugged; in return he handed me a bill with a smile…for just under $350.  I fought back maniacal fits of laughter, tears and the intense urge to vomit.

I wasn’t sure if I was playing out my fantasy of a poor man’s Hank Moody from Californication or if I was literally just fucked up enough to get myself into such shenanigans; because I don’t generally share much about my actual personal life other than the intense anger that I feel in general towards society, but I’m pretty sure some people at this point would consider a negative bank account due to a – for all intents-and-purposes – fake night of debauchery, as rock bottom; for me…it’s just another Sunday night.

As for Corrin…she is a stripper, who had as much recollection of me as I had for her; we will not be in touch.

End email————————–

I like this man’s references to movies and life in general. I have the answer he seeks. It wasn’t drugs, it’s deeper than that, its more mental than that, it was out his normal element if you ask me. Plus, writers are fucking out there in their own world anyway, no offense to y’all writers, but it’s true. People often overthink shit too, which is death to our brains, then add in strippers, titties, alcohol, a strip bar, blacking out, and one can see where the imagination just goes ape shit. Not to mention the movie reference, because those were some pretty fucked up movies. Neither here nor there, he solved his dilemma. Too bad he doesn’t remember what went down. Or does he? Maybe its his mind blocking shit that isn’t in his norm or his mind knows that if he recalls anything that he will be in mental disarray. Who knows.