Thursday's Dirty Details II

Scene 2: The SUV from hell

Just a warning for those who are just starting. If you haven't read Part I of this story, better do it now. Chances are this will stand on its own, but you'll probably want to know how I got into this situation.

Anyway, here I am, crawling into this big ol' tank of a vehicle with a str8 chick. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine that I would get picked up in a gay bar by a str8 chick. Now, I know the Union Station plays hosts to all types, but it is primarily a gay bar.

But I digress. I crawl in, put on my seatbelt, and begin sipping my now wildly illegal Long Island. She crawls in, puts on a seatbelt, and lights up a fag. Sorry, the British version of the fag, not the American fag sitting next to her. She starts the vehicle and immediately starts badmouthing all the traffic around us. And we haven't even started moving yet. This shoulda been a red light in my mind, but that it wasn't.

So, after a lot of bad mouthing and manuevering, we make it to high street. Since I have no clue where we are going, I just make chit chat and don't comment on where we are going. We turn south, heading toward downtown, whipping thru traffic at something like 90 mph (well, it certainly felt that way!), when all of a sudden she says, "We're going the wrong way!"

HUH? She whips into the Convention Center drop off area and the next thing I know we're winging up High Street faster than before (so, something like 120 mph). Then this car pulls out in front of us and, instead of slowing down, she hits the horn, crosses the lovely double yellow line into oncoming traffic, passes, pulls back to the lane we belong in, and then proceeds to run a red light because she is now going something like 200 mph. AAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!

Eventually we returned to the sedate speed of 120. In the meantime I'm checking my pants because I was sure I had pissed myself. But, alas, the pants were dry.

Finally, we make it to the house where we're supposed to meet up with the birthday boy and the others. After a half hour or so, and several fags later, I find myself back in the SUV, with the str8 Irish chick, driving through downtown. Fortunately, we are going at a respectable speed of 35 since we are behind the car that holds the b-day boy.

After 15 minutes (mainly because we stopped at a bank for money), we make it to, not a dance club, but a country-western gay bar.

OK, time to stop again. Stay tuned for Scene 3: All About Garrett's.