There is a somewhat infamous little restaurant / bar in Southern California where the food is 5 star quality, and the drinks are reasonably priced. I think a former mayor may own it, but that isn't important right now.
One night my girl and I decided to patronize this place as we were told they served some of the best steaks in town. The place is small, very small and is split between the bar area and the formal dining room. It is absolutely a locals hangout, as I can't imagine how a tourist would be enamored by the exterior of this place.
So we park and go in. Now, I have been in 100s of bars and liquor joints during my tenure on this planet but this place was fucking small. It appeared to be full with 11 people in it, although we did find room at the very end of the bar which curved around and was so close to the wall the two people sitting on the inside had to have the two towards the outside get up if they had to use the bathroom - which I found out happens a lot there.
We happened to take the two seats at the bar next to the two on the inside. Sitting on the inside was a nice middle aged couple who were obviously regulars at this place - because everybody knew their names and came to greet them upon arrival. The man, who I will call Bill kept having to get up and pee. Perhaps he was diabetic or had some other medical condition?
So we are chatting with Bill and his wife and decide to eat at the bar instead of waiting for one of the 12 tables in the dining area. I ordered the shrimp cocktail and a salad while the wife got a steak. She never eats all of hers so I knew I could get some of her kibble anyway.
Time goes by and we are drinking and enjoying meaningless smalltalk, as much as anyone possibly can - but it was not uncomfortable. Bill kept going into the bathroom, but I didn't want to pry and make shit awkward.
After a few Vodka rocks and Cokes I too had to pee. I walked into the bathroom and right behind me was Bill. Now picture a restroom which rivals that of a truck stop in Mexico - one urinal and one shitter, with no door. The shitter had no door. To make things worse the urinal is right in front of the shitter. In other words some one who was dropping a grumpy had to stare at the ass of whomever showed up to pee.
The other thing I found odd about this place was that the urinal was filled with ice. I was told it kept the piss smell down, but why the fuck would a third world shit house like this be concerned with the smell of piss when there had to be toxic spores and fungi in every crevice in that place? I would soon find out.
Upon entering the bathroom, which by the way has no exterior door from the bar, I immediately went to the urinal and did my business. Pissing on ice is awesome, let me tell you. You could eat asparagus every day of your life while taking antibiotics and never know it by the smell of your urine. It was neato.
Then when I'm done, I'm doing up my pants and Bill slides up next to me and says, "hey man, want a bump"? I haven't heard that since my bar music days. A bump of what"
I had to ask because in this day and age it could have been anything.
Cocaine Bill says. I got some really good shit, and like a typical small time, part time, dealer he was willing to let me have a taste for free. Not having done any coke since the late nineties, I said sure, why not?
So Bill proceeds to lay a line the size of Tibet across the top of the urinal. He said he would stand guard at the door and handed me a dollar bill rolled up.
Now I'm all about letting folks do what they want so long as they are not hurting anyone, but snorting coke from the top of the urinal was fucking questionable at best. I told bill there had to be a better option and he replies with, "that's why I have them keep the ice in there, no splashing".
Whatever, so I snorted the line and it was mediocre at best.
Then I returned to the bar with Bill to join our wives. Apparently Bill's wife had a similar conversation with my wife about a "bump". My wife is not a prude but is not into hard drugs, ever. She was polite and declined.
So dinner was served and being so close to Bill and his wife I heard all of his cell phone traffic and conversations he had with the bartender - who was definitely in on the game. Upon our return to the bar the bartender dashed into the bathroom and came out 30 seconds later, smiling and yakking a mile a minute.
After dinner I had to go outside to take a phone call, as it was too noisy in the bar. Apparently my girl had to use the restroom while I was out and my drink was left unprotected. I'm guessing that is when it happened - I was roofied.
For those of you who don't know what a roofie is allow me to explain it to you. It is a small pill that wipes your consciousness yet leaves your subconscious working, and in my case with the cocaine I had ingested, on overtime.
My wife is very sensitive to the energy people have and when we were done with dinner couldn't wait to get out of there. Something on her female radar just wasn't right.
We exchanged phone numbers with our new found friends, and politely left. When we got home things were a blur, and then I remember nothing.
We went to bed around midnight and by two in the morning I was awoken, sitting upright chewing my toenails, by my wife wanting to know what the fuck I was doing. I became conscious with a toe in my mouth, so what was I supposed to say?
I told her I needed some water and got up semi conscious at this point. I remember walking into the kitchen and getting into the fridge for some liquid. After that I am blank until the next morning.
The following morning we both laughed about the toenail thing, and how I haven't done that since I was a kid. We got up and I made breakfast while the wife paid some bills online.
No sooner than I had breakfast on the table I hear my wife in that tone no man ever wants to hear from a woman - fucking ever. That tone that says "fucker you are dead".
She asked me "who the fuck were you calling at 3am this morning"? I told her nobody, and I meant it. There are times when we as men are straight up caught and have to take the wrath of the crucifiction (metaphorically) from our spouses, but I was telling the truth. I was in bed at 3am.
"Not according to AT&T you weren't. Who do these phone numbers belong to"? As she read the numbers they were friends from Utah, Nevada and Oregon. All were innocent except the one that I spent 40 minutes on the phone with - my ex from 10 years earlier. How the fuck did that happen?
I still protested and was getting pissed off how my wife could question my word - but she had technology on her side.
So I called my ex and put her on speaker phone, surely to be vindicated. NOPE!
The ex answered and very politely explained the conversation we had wherein we spoke of my happiness and relationship with my wife. From the questions I was asking my wife was convinced I had seriously not remembered any of this, and therefore only paid a small penalty.
So be wary of kind strangers in little shit bars where the urinal has ice in it and the shrimp cocktail kicks ass.
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