A Night I Never Remembered…The Stripper Chronicles
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 the fuck up right now and let me finish you interrupting ass-hags! 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), in order to bang out a few pages for my newest novel – 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 freaking idea; but I figured my notebook might have a clue. I had 20 pages of some seriously fucked up and twisted shit written in there that I am proud to say I loved, and will be putting into my book. 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.
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 dear-readers, I don’t 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.