Today, we shall be tripping the BLIGHT fantastic with yet another too fucked up NOT-to-be- TRUE event in my life. Twas on my 20th birthday, circa 1987, when I was attending Marshall University.
I went to Hulio’s, my favorite dive/Mexican cantina. My bar stool mates included Laura, an obnoxiously beautiful girl, my cousin Shauna, and Prissy (both mentioned in – https://tenaciousbitch.com/2011/08/29/blog-30-%E2%80%93-an-ode-to-barboursville-and-the-days-of-yore/) .
Just as I finished my steak sandwich, Shauna sputtered, “Oh, my God, he’s here…”
“Who?” I asked, turning to see Larry Lucas, a thick-muscled, dark-haired frat boy, who’d been on my lusty BUCKET LIST for awhile.
I returned his bad-assed smile with a smirk.
“Avoid those badlands, chickadee, he’s toxic, and not in a good way,” Shauna warned.
“So, OUR first date with Larry didn’t go so well?” Laura asked.
“He stood her up,” Shauna hissed.
“His Grandmother was in the hospital,” I countered.
“Right, and the dog ate his homework, too, I’ll bet?” Shauna surmised.
“Sorry about the other night,” Larry said, appearing behind me – startling me. “Can I buy you a beer?” He asked with a smile that could charm the dead.
“I don’t know. My grandmother’s in the hospital,” I said smugly.
“Okay, you got me. I forgot about our date until like an hour after I was supposed to pick you up.”
“Sorry. Please let me make it up to you,” he graveled, ordering another round for me AND my friends, “Or I’ll walk into traffic. Your choice?” He said, grinning.
“Okay, can’t have blood on my hands.” Such an ironic comment, unbeknownst to me at the time.
Two beers later, Larry conned me into going to a new sports bar that was really different, he said.
Not long after, we headed outside and climbed into Larry’s Ford F-150. We chugged along in the snow for a few minutes or so, when I asked, “So, what’re you taking next semester?”
“Nothing. I dropped out, remember?”
“What? No, last time we talked, you said were studying accounting, that you had a 3.8 GPA,” I grumbled.
“Um, well, the accounting classes, that’s true.”
“Great, so is your name even Larry?
He laughed, but my wicked EYE darts quashed his grin. “So, what’re you doing now, lying professionally?”
He smiled. “Assistant Night Manager at K & B Grocery. School just ain’t for me.”
I nodded, thinking, it was only 9:30 PM on my birthday, and I’m now stuck with an ex-frat boy who was about as honest as your average politician.
Dale’s Place was in a rundown, converted warehouse with a hand-painted sign nailed to a tree. Holy fuckballs. Can you say DELIVERANCE?
“How ya doin’, Larry?” Asked the bouncer who was very tall and weighed somewhere north of 400 pounds. And his accent and cowboy hat were steeped in REDNECK.
“Good, Junior Lee, you?”
OMG, he even has a hilljack-ish name.
“Not bad. Who’s your friend?”
“She ain’t no sorority chick-”
A loud belt of laughter from Junior Lee while I wondered why the fuck THAT factoid was important.
Junior Lee nodded, as Larry handed him $20. WTF? A cover for a sports bar? Why?
Larry opened the door, and OMG! I heard the WAILING of Hank Williams, Jr., from the jukebox… I AM. IN FACT. IN HELL, just give me a pitchfork, and I’ll parry my way out. I HATE country music.
Larry ordered a Natty Light** (YUK), and a Bud Light for me from the bar, and we sat down at a tiny, rickety table with mismatched chairs that had seen better days…
Time to get the FUCK out of barn-town before the GETTING got worse…but there were no pay phones* anywhere.
As I struggled for an excuse to bolt for the loo, a.k.a. the exit, I remembered there was NADA but dark houses for a mile, at least, before arriving at this BODACIOUS pub in a rather ghetto-ish part of town.
Oh, but it gets better…
I noticed all the men scuffling out of their chairs and moving toward the opposite end of the room. At which point, I realized I was one of THREE women in the crowd. OMG, if they start chanting Satanic verses, I’m totally SCREWED.
Larry stood up. “C’mon. It’s show time.”
“What show?” I asked, following Larry through a doorway where men were shouting/fist-pumping as if watching a prize fight. No, not a Fight Club. The spirit of Tyler Dirden did not dwell here.
I wedged forward and saw the appalling sight of two ROOSTERS sparring in a pit with a dirt floor!! Yes, COCK FIGHTING! A white-feathered fellow was brawling with a brownish bird! Suddenly, the white bird began savagely pecking at the neck of the brown bird, who immediately flopped on his back. Sprays of blood spackled the dirt, the off-white walls/the floor/everywhere! The brown bird was down already, and I’m sure it was dead. If not now, it would be soon…
I’m sure my expression evoked my feverish horror as my insides TWINGED. I clutched my mouth and my stomach to keep from vomiting.
“I knew it,” Larry said, disdain tethering his tone. “I knew you wasn’t cool.”
“No, I’ll never be that cool.”
I shook my head, backing away thinking – what’s worse than a pathological liar who stands you up? A date with chicken Larry who doesn’t work for the “massa”. He’s at a supermarket near you…
That’s all for now. Move along. Nothing to see here until NEXT week whereupon I divulge the end of my sojourn at Tavern de Deliverance…
Over and OUT, Tenacious Bitch and her band of truth-spouting hippies…
*Keep in mind this happened in the 80s when NO ONE had cell phones.
** Translation: NATURAL LIGHT
© Tenacious Bitch 2013