This is by far one of my favorite stories of all time. This is the final installment of the Tennessee stories. I’ve waited so long to post it because I’ve been working on it for a while…I want to really capture the moment for you because it was that fucking funny to live through. Chances are you have probably already heard me tell the story, considering I tell it to EVERYBODY.
It was our last night down there in the good old south and we had actually been behaving all day. We went into town in the early evening to do some last minute souvenir shopping, you know, all the essentials, T-shirts, shot glasses, cowboy hats and even dill pickle potato chips. We were also going to finally go on the sky lift, because every time we were anywhere near it K went on and on like a little kid about riding it. All these good intentions went right out the window with just a few words…”Let’s stop and have a drink.” I don’t know who said it, but we went to Puckers. Whoops. After the first drink, we decided we could have one more before the sky lift. And after the second, we decided we could have another one. And then we started doing Jell-O shots. Fuck the sky lift…that shit is not for drunk people. So we settled in…doing Jell-O shot after Jell-O shot and Soco and lime after Soco and lime.
After a few shots and getting told by a man from Texas that I’m too pretty to be a lesbian (I had been afraid of getting lynched for being gay, so you know I was drunk if I actually admitted to it…) I decided a little karaoke was in order. So I coerce X into dueting with me…not a good idea. First of all, we sing terribly together. And second of all, we had no business singing a Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers song (Islands in the Stream) in Dolly’s hometown. I figure if we had sung it any worse, it could have also been grounds for a lynching. But we sang it…or at least attempted. X had never heard the song and couldn’t follow along. We finished it much to the relief of everyone else in the bar, and as X is returning the mic’s to the karaoke guy, he seems to find himself in an altercation with a local. You know this isn’t going to end well…
I’m back at our table and turn and see this guy in X’s face so I run over. Apparently X had bumped into him and didn’t say excuse me. Now I know all you Jersey people are wondering what’s so bad about that…we do that here all the time. Well, down there, they don’t. Ever. And this drunken old cowboy wasn’t having it. So he’s explaining to X how to be polite. And rather than be defensive, X was actually standing there taking it. When it was all said and done, X went to give him a hug. Bad fucking move. Drunk cowboy shoves X off of him and X is trying to apologize for being rude. DC says, “Shit, I just want you to be polite, I don’t want no damn hug from you.” And then he turns and walks away. Well, now X is pissed and takes off after him, but I thankfully had grabbed him by his shirt and held him back.
So now we decide we want to order some food, so we got some wings and nachos to munch on. The perfect compliment to Jack and Diet’s and Soco shots. And as we’re waiting for our food, X takes out a book of matches that he got from the strip club. The matches are for a bail bonds company. Now this is some foreshadowing if I’ve ever seen it. We were all laughing and joking and we were now chatting up some nice couple at the table next to us. They were from Indiana and I’m pretty sure they thought we were all out of our minds, but they were entertained nonetheless. And it was a good thing they liked us, because the dude was big. And this came in handy when the drunken cowboy was getting thrown out of the bar. And in a drunken rage, made an attempt to attack X. Big Indiana dude jumped up and held him back while the bouncers threw him out. It was great, watching some sixty something year old hick go crazy, I highly recommend it.
Things had settled down for a little bit, we ate and of course kept on drinking. The Indiana people were great…we had a lot of fun with them. And then one of us (I’m thinking it was me, but it’s starting to get a little blurry) suggests that we will sing a song for them. Aren’t we sweet? Bon Jovi no less, in honor of their new favorite people from Jersey. So up we go and belt out what was probably the worst rendition of Livin' on a Prayer that’s ever been sung. Mrs. Indiana must have been almost as drunk as the rest of us, because the next thing I know, she’s up on stage with us dancing and singing along. Note to self: we are a terrible influence on good, innocent people from the Midwest. Allegedly, we sang another song. One of the fun ones from Grease that they usually play at weddings and proms. I refuse to accept this though, because I have absolutely no recollection of it. I don’t care how many times K threatens to show me the video of it, I still insist I did not sing any other karaoke but Dolly and Bon Jovi.
When we had arrived at Puckers, the sun was still up. It was now 1 am and we were WASTED. As we go up to get the tab and say good bye to Indiana, X decides he’s had enough and wanted some fresh air. We’re smokers, but we aren’t used to being able to smoke in a bar anymore and it was getting a little thick in there. So out he goes and me, A and K settle up the tab…which was ridiculously high, even for Tennessee prices. And it wasn’t even counting all the Jell-O shots we bought for cash. Disgusting. I remember at one point in paying, that I looked out the door and saw X sitting on a bench by the door waiting for us. But a few minutes later, when we got outside, he was gone. Poof. Just fucking disappeared. Uh oh.
Now we don’t know what to do. I figured that he was so wasted he wouldn’t wander off…he’s not like that. So we walked around the block to where we parked to see if he was there. Nope. Finally I see a bike cop so I figure I should go ask him. So I march my wasted ass across the street and tell him my friend is missing. He asks me to describe him and he starts laughing. “He’s in jail,” he says, about as twangy as you can get. Now I’m freaking…what? Why? Where? Is he ok? “Yeah, he’s fine. Public intoxication.” The same fucking public intoxication that I’m pulling right now, because the whole time I’m talking to the cop, I’m stumbling all over the place and had to hold onto his bike to keep steady. So Roscoe P. Coltrane himself gives me the number for the Gatlinburg Police Department. And I’m now yelling across the street to A and K… “He got locked up!” Because I think it’s fucking hysterical! Then I remember that he had my cigarettes on him, and now I’m pissed because my innocent cigarettes are now in jail. It’s funny what your priorities are when you’re drunk.
So we go back to the car and I’m about to call the police to see when I can go pick his ass up when I decide that first and foremost, I have to get cigarettes. So we go to a gas station convenience store and I took about twenty minutes, most of which was in the potato chip aisle and I was debating whether or not a certain somebody deserved more pickle chips. Then I got distracted by two local guys who were very loud. I figured they looked like they might know a thing or two about the local jail, so I inquired about the rules. Well, go figure…they were more than helpful. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. I got arrested one time and I never even paid the fine. Then, the next time I got arrested, they forgot all about it.” Wasn’t he sweet? I felt better already. Upon exiting the gas station, these two serial killer looking weirdo’s ask me for a ride to the motel they live at. Sure I tell them, and make them sit in the back with K. And promptly make her give me my purse as I loudly announce I don’t want it in the back with them. How the three of us are not a dead hitchhiker pick up statistic is beyond me. I’ve heard God looks after drunk people…I’m beginning to think that’s true.
We drop the serial killers off and I finally call the jail. After a phonics lesson for the cops because they couldn’t pronounce X’s last name…they finally confirm that he is indeed in jail. And I’m not allowed to pick him up until morning. And even though I’m just as drunk as he is, he still can’t come home and sober up with me. These poor cops. Fine, I give up, but one more thing… “If I can’t come pick him up, can I at least come take pictures of him in jail,” I ask, so innocently. Laughing, the cop responds, “Nah, you can’t come take no pictures of him.” No fun. Hysterically though, when the cop gets off the phone with me, they tell X his mom called for him. Because moms are always as drunk as their kids and want to come take pictures of them in jail. What? Tennessee really is a whole ‘nother world.
So morning comes…and I’m definitely still a little wasted, but X is blowing up my phone because he’s sprung. So I go get him and find him waiting outside the police station. You know I made him pose in front of the sign…unfortunately, he won’t let me post that picture. No fun. Anyway, I see him waving to some local guy across the street. To which I promptly explain that I don’t care how friendly he got with this guy in the clink, I AM NOT driving him home. Thankfully I had survived the night before, and I wasn’t taking my chances. Before I even get a chance to explain the story, X informs me (knowing that I’m a smidge OCD) that he’ll hang his “bloody arm” out the window. Bloody? They told me you weren’t hurt, that you didn’t get in a fight. “What did they do to you?” I was secretly wondering if he dropped the soap or something, but I didn’t want to ask. He had had a bad enough night.
“I got arrested for being drunk. I didn’t do anything. I got hurt in jail,” he says, rather defensively. And he begins the story…in which he was sitting nice and quiet in the holding cell when an illegal immigrant approached him, yelling in Spanish. X nicely explained that he didn’t speak Spanish. Immigrant wasn’t having it. So he sucker punches X and starts trying to beat him up. The cops hear the ruckus and intervene. So now X is sitting there, and the guy next to him (the same guy he was waving to the next morning when I was there to pick him up) tells him that he “hates Mexicans” and if he comes back over, that he was going to help X kick the crap out of him. When in Rome…so X agrees. Well, here comes immigrant guy and he’s got one of his friends with him. So X and his new pal get up and a mini-brawl ensues. The cops come back after hearing all the noise and decide that they’re not getting in the middle of it…so they taser all of them. Bahahahaha….I’m still laughing about it and it was in August! X doesn’t find it very amusing.
I couldn’t even catch my breath because I was laughing so hard. That’s what friends are for…right? Hearing him tell me how one minute he’s standing over this guy, kicking him in the gut, and the next thing he knows, he’s lying on the floor and feeling a little numb, only makes the laughter worse. So I laugh all the way back to our cabin and go busting in the house to tell A and K about the taser. Now they’re hysterical. We of course texted everybody we knew the night before that he was in jail. Now we had to text everybody and tell them about the taser. X wants to kill us. Oh well. As soon as we got home, we told everybody. I mean everybody…strangers even. Everybody thinks it’s the funniest story ever. I told Crazy Nanny and she damn near peed her pants.
Who wants to come with us on our next vacation!? We’re thinking ski lodge in Utah…so we can combine large quantities of alcohol with big mountains and downhill skiing!
