So continues my September Stories project! If you missed any of them, you can find the full list here.
The Bawdy Evening of Trip W. By Danielle Davis
There once was a guy named Trip Wetter Whose life couldn't get any better. Until he woke up with extra cash and a sore butt and fuzzy details 'bout last night's bender.
He checked his phone for photos, latest texts, calls, or mementos. He found pictures instead of him dancing at the head of a conga line in a dress covered with bows.
He checked his wallet for receipts and found it quite replete with several large clues that said he bought lots of booze, which he guessed made him act indiscreet.
His sister called a bit later, and asked "So, how did it fit her?" When Trip asked who she meant, she said "The girl that you met! Didn't she wear the dress you borrowed to give her?"
I didn't remember a date with a girl, so I called up my best buddy, Earl. "Do you remember last night, kinda late, me going out on a date?" And Earl said "No, you were with me at The Blue Pearl."
Earl said he'd left the bar earlier than planned, but that I'd stayed to hear the live band. But the bartender there claimed I'd left "with some flair!" with a handsome man sporting a tan.
The booze tabs had come from a place known around town as "Chez Blaze." It was a drag bar downtown with a cast quite renowned when they did a rendition of Cabaret.
At Chez Blaze, the bouncer said "You're back! You know, you put on quite an act! The folks in there raved At how you behaved." Then he winked and gave my shoulder a whack.
I asked when I'd left there last night, and he grinned and said "I figured you might. You were so hammered you spluttered and stammered, when you left here around midnight."
"Was I alone?" I asked fearfully, Afraid of what he might tell me. But he shook his head slowly and said "Au contrary, You were dressed to kill with a that hunk from New Delhi."
I opened my mouth to retort, to tell him that guys weren't my sport, when I got a call on my phone from a number unknown-- what I heard made my legs lose their support.
The man's voice on the other end told me his name was Ben. He said last night was a blur, and then, to my utter horror, admitted he woke up feeling quite spent.
With outrage I demanded he say what happened before we went separate ways. "Don't you remember the tire?" he asked with some ire, then told me the rest without delay.
"We were on our way back to your place when a tire blew and had to be replaced. We both stumbled out, (completely hammered, no doubt) but struggled to get the spare on the base.
You declared that you'd hold it steady then bent over and told me to get ready. But my aim wasn't so great in matching the tire iron with its mate And the tool went up your backside quite cleanly!
I tried to convince you to go to the ER, but you resisted in a way most bizarre. You asked for a napkin instead to pack the wound while it bled and kept saying you hoped it won't scar.
I finally got you back to your house, while you worried about being a louse. It was the least I could do, to leave some cash there for you To catch a taxi to the ER when you were less soused."
At that, I breathed a sigh of relief, bid him thanks, and hung up in disbelief. There's worse than a tire iron to dread-- it could've been an air pump instead! I think a good drink will treat my grief.