And then shit got real.
This story, though lengthy, is one of the greatest I have to tell. It involves a broken pair of glasses, a make out session with a random woman in an alley, a photo with a rock star, a near fight with one police officer, and being saved by another. If you enjoy it half as much as I revel in its retelling, it will be well worth the read.
...
We’re all current or former Childcare Workers at a home for boys with emotional and behavioral disorders. The job comes with its perks: a bitchin' schedule of two back-to-back 15-hour days followed by four days off and constant psychological battles with boys aged 7-15, which has made us all budding alcoholics. But I currently find myself in recovery, having just been laid off, something I'm too broken up about.
This meeting – except for the beers, being at a bar in Lower Downtown Denver ("LoDo"), and the exhaustive bitching about the job – could be considered a work meeting. And work meetings happen on Sunday nights, right?
Ben shows up late, a symptom of living in the mountains, but he promptly absolves his sin by buying us shots and cheese curds. There’s an energy he brings into the bar that tells me tonight'll be story worthy. Everyone bails after a few hours and several beers and Ben flashes me a “Where to next, muthafucka!?!”
We decide on El Chapultepec, a fantastic, cash-only jazz joint with live music 7 days a week. It’s a tiny dive, one that forces you to get close on the weekend, but you’ve practically been there if you’ve read Kerouac’s “On The Road,” because it was one of Jack’s favorite hangouts, and he wrote about it in the classic. We roll in, snag some cash, get a drink, and scope the scene. A few females are chatting it up down the bar near the small stage. Ben is always talking about how he has no game with the ladies, so I’m shocked when I hear him say, “Let’s hit on some women.”
Fuck.
I order a water because I’m losing a considerable amount through my armpits and palms. Let’s just say there’s a reason I do online dating, because anxiety vomiting on a woman is apparently a terrible ice breaker.
Wait! I have the glasses!
I found them, or what was left of them, while walking with the crew to a Rockies game the day before. They are giant frames with missing lenses and arms, the kind that hold coke bottles for the Ms. Doubtfires of the world, and they were an immediate hit. I have to jam them onto the bridge of my nose to get them to stay and they forbid such silly movements like looking up, down, or side to side.
When I did an image search for this 1993 classic,
I was actually surprised at how similar the glasses were.
We swagger to the stage and I turn my back to the cute one. I press on the glasses, turn, and say hello. She immediately starts laughing. Boom. Ice broken. Her and I move past the glasses, into conversation about what I do. Who me? Nothing right now, actually. Just got laid off. What do I want to do? Well, I’m a writer and a photographer so something with that would be grand.
“Well don’t I just want to take you into the alley and have my way with you?”
What a fantastic idea!
We go inside and she points to her friends.
“Look at them. They don’t even know I was gone.”
“You’re absolutely right,” I say. I grab her hand and again lead her into the alley. The drill’s pretty much the same but with a few additions: I pin, we kiss, my right knee slides between her legs, my hands grab her ass, and I jerk her hips into mine.
“Oh, you could be fun this week,” she says with a giggle.
A smile crosses my face and I pull her into me even harder. Wet kisses claim her neck and I send one hand north on a recon mission. It reports back that her breasts are quite lovely and she enjoys it when they are touched. Nice work, hand. I'm nominating you for the medal of dishonor. A quick experiment yields remarkable results: the pleasure increases drastically when the touching is accompanied by a tongue behind the ear. She cuts the party at 5 and we suddenly remember we’re in public. I snag her number before finding Ben up front.
“Dude, you gotta slam your drink,” I say quickly. “I just got that chick’s number so we gotta bounce.”
“Nice, man. But why do we have to leave?”
I inform him that when Brad gets a woman’s phone number it’s a lot like when a little kid steals something from a convenience store. He casually walks out, gives his friends the signal, and they book it while giggling to a safe house, which typically isn't a house but a fort. Then, and only then, can one start breathing.
“Come on!”
He obeys, we skedaddle, and I fill him in on where I disappeared to.
“Are you fucking kidding me?!”
“No, man!” I’m beaming and continue to talk on.
“A second time?”
“Yeah, man!”
He pulls out his phone and shows a photo he took of me talking with her just before I walked his way.
“Holy shit, dude! You’re kissing her in the photo.”
“Really?!” I grab the phone from his hand and enlarge the shot.
"Holy shit! I am."
Our legs lead us down the street and our tongues point us to liquor. Literally. We were literally walking with our tongues out trying to find a bar. Lie. We would've tried anything to find an open bar, but it's Sunday, and not much is open. We see the remnants of a concert trickling out of the Summit Music Hall. RX Bandits, a band I actually like, finished up a little bit ago. I’m feeling a bit mischievous, so I challenge myself to somehow get into the building. Challenge accepted.
If I were to have taken a breathalyzer at that moment, I probably would've blown a 0.12, but when I walk to the front of the building where the
bouncer is, I start acting a 0.31.
I stumble right past him and get about 10 feet before he catches up to
me. He gives me a “What the fuck are you doing?” and I give him a, “eihb Gnzrr
tube.” He gives me an “Alright, let’s go.” and I give him the submissive drunk.
When we walk out, Ben gives us his laughter.
This is impossible, I think to myself through an exhausted brain. They're just, too, damn, good! The bees have seen this trick before and are extra careful to close the door behind them.
A random guy asking for the autograph of another random guy catches our ears. Someone famous, our collective noodles cook up. We swoop in to gather more intel. The second random guy is apparently part of the band, but I don't recognize him because I don't actually know what the band looks like. The true fan, who I shall cleverly call "Fan," is asking Rocker to sign his poster. He does, and I pull up my shirt and ask if I can get an autograph too. Rocker says, "Well, alright," and:
Ben is beside himself, giggling his prostate off. Fan asks for a photo and I snap one of him and Rocker. Ben takes the lead and asks the same. Rocker obliges and Ben hands Fan his phone. And Fan is funny!
“Here’s to the guys who weren’t even at the concert.” I throw on my glasses and this happens:
Fan meanders off, probably to go masturbate on his newly-signed poster; Rocker, who I later finger as the band’s bassist, Joseph Troy, (or "Joe Tory," according to the band's website but nowhere else), climbs into the bus; and we try to sniff out more booze, laughing as we wander up the street.
“1-up” is a LoDo bar lined with arcade games. It's open but the bouncer tells our drunk asses it’s last call and he's not letting anybody in. This does not please us, we protest, and are apparently too close for his comfort.
“You guys gotta stand back.”
We argue some more.
“I’m gonna have to ask you to step off the property.”
Because we’re on the sidewalk, dumb Brad decides to get smart.
“Where’s the property line? Is it here?” I step back and point to the ground. “How about here?”
“Man,” he says. “I’m just trying to do my job and I feel like you guys are giving me a hard time.”
Ben chimes in, but his target is one of Denver’s finest sitting on a stool to the bouncer’s left. I see his motives, the cop has been so wrapped up in his phone that he hasn’t given us any attention.
“What? You having a pretty busy night, huh? Texting?”
The cop looks up. He is young but his eyes are tired, telling of a man who just wants to go home. And text.
“Don’t you guys have anything better to do?”
The question catches us off guard. It’s clearly not the fight we were looking for (and expecting).
We look at each other, shake our heads, and in near unison we say, “No."
"Guys,” he says. “Just leave.”
A second passes before, “Burritos?” The asker is a Latino woman snuck in behind us. She is an angel, not because she’s beautiful or wearing white. She’s not. It's not because of her delicious ground beef, potatoes, and cheese wrapped in a warm flour tortilla. Almost. It’s because her interruption probably saved us from a beat down.
Months from now I will get a contract position at a civil rights law firm sifting through thousands of pages of Internal Affairs investigations into Denver Police brutality complaints. It will open my eyes to how stupid, how really fucking stupid, and lucky, we really were in that moment. I will read case after case after case of lippy drunk folk in LoDo getting the crap beat out of them by those who took an oath to serve and protect. And in nearly every instance, even those with over 5, 10, 15 witnesses, the cops got away with it (and still do).
A photo taken just after a 2009 traffic stop in Denver. Three officers used flashlights, fists, and a radio to subdue Alex Landau because, they said, he reached for one of their guns. He says the beating was in retaliation for him asking if they had a warrant to search his trunk. Alex says he lost consciousness, and when he came to, he heard one of the officers say, "Where's that warrant now, you fucking nigger?" No officers were fired, but for the broken nose, a concussion, 43 stitches in his face, and cognitive problems, Alex was awarded a $795,000 settlement. So says one of my bosses: "Oftentimes the only way to get people to pay attention and change their ways is through a big settlement." In 2011, the city of Denver gave out over $1,000,000 in police brutality settlements. (clears throat) And now back to our regularly scheduled comedic programming.
My burrito is delicious. Ben says the same of his. But most importantly, the tension, our rage, is gone.
It's bed time. Boy Scout Ben has a mid-sized pickup with a topper, and when he comes to party, he's prepared. It's no surprise when he pulls out the two cots, because it was a main factor in my decision to destroy my liver tonight. Ben sets up shop in a flurry, and before I know it, he's on his cot, wearing nothing but his boxers. The temperature tonight is in the 90s and the humidity clings to our everything. I had a friend pick up some Sleefer, or reefer meant to shut your mind off so you can sleep, and I offer some to Ben. He passes on grass and passes out. I strip to my skibbies, take some tokes, and try to settle in for some shut eye.
But. I. Can't. Sleep! Let's listen in on the thoughts weaving in and out of my head:
Holy shit it sot! Why sit so fucking hot? Why's Ben so hairy? And why's he so nekid? Fuck izzy hairy! And fuck izzy nekid! Wait, fuck? Whatif this was Ben's plan all 'long? To git m' drunk an in th' back of his truk to FUCK me? How did I notsee this?! So. Fucking. Hot. I mus be in hell right now. That's what this is. Thisis hell. It's hotter den balls and he's totally gonna rape me. I'm in hell.
I decide that sleeping next to Ben is a chance I'm not willing to take. I climb out the car as quietly as possible, because hairy rapists rape even harder when you wake them.
Now, some people may believe, as I do, that rape isn't a funny thing to joke about. It's got to be one of the most horrible and traumatic things any woman or man can go through and I hope I don't offend anyone who's endured it, or had a loved one go through it. I literally and sincerely thought my friend of approximately 7 months, Ben, who I had rarely hung out with outside of work, was going to rape me. It was a paranoid delusion brought about by a bad-for-my-mind strain of medical marijuana. I am not making light of rape; I am making fun of myself for thinking this was Ben's plan all along. Because, really, Brad? Really?!
It's barely cooler outside and I begin preparing to sleep in Rainbow Satan. Preparations include breathing heavily; opening the windows a bit; catching some deep breaths; hiding my keys outside of the vehicle so as to prevent a potential DUI; taking a breather; rolling my clothes into a pillow; and laying down while telling myself I'm safe from the hairy bear rapist next (car) door.
About 20 minutes pass and it just keeps getting hotter. Holy shit is it getting hotter! Sidenote: a week from now I realize it's the weed that made me hotter, because for some strange reason that strain increases my body temperature. Anyway, the heat is unbearable, and I decide it's a good idea to open one of my doors for a minute. I do, and dangle a leg outside, letting the city's currents cool my body.
"Are you alright," someone asks, while nudging my leg.
I open my eyes as if they were glued shut. It's dressed in black, no, dark blue, wait, it's a he, he's dressed in dark blue, and his badge gives him away.
"Are you alright? Do you have all your possessions?" My obvious confusion prompts his clarification. "Has anything been stolen from you?"
I piece it together while unrolling my shirt and pants pillow. The sky is a rich blue, not black, so I figure I passed out five hours ago, more than half naked, with my foot just where I left it: dangling out my open car door. I grumble that I think I have all my stuff and that I'm alright. He asks for my license and registration. I find them both and hand them over.
"It's perfectly alright to sleep it off in your car," he says, handing back my credentials. "But you need to be smart. This is a dangerous area and I saw some people circling like they were about to come in and jump you."
"Really?" The words settle into my aching noggin. "Well, thank you."
He hands me my credentials.
"No problem. Close and lock your doors next time."
He leaves and I crawl in, follow his directions, and pass out. A few hours pass before it's just too hot and too bright to continue this nonsense. I throw on a shirt, throw Rainbow into gear, and barrel her back to a nice cool bed.
It's while reading a few particular police reports 6 months later that I realize, once again, just how lucky I was to have an angel swoop in and save me. They tell of the crack, meth, and heroin addicts who patrol downtown, panhandling for money, desperately raising funds for their next fix. I imagine one or two of them robbing me, and even beating me unconscious, or worse.
Now, it's incredibly difficult for me to trust and like the Denver police after knowing what I know, reading what I have read, and watching what I have watched. Plus, on a near-daily basis you hear about them beating or killing someone and very loose grounds. But I am forever thankful for that cop saving me from imminent harm.
We live in a culture that glorifies drunken stupidity. And I admit, that's what this story is: a glorification of a night of alcohol-and-weed-infused stupidity. But there are two reasons why I posted this: 1) I'm hoping some lessons might be learned from my complete and utter idiocy (because, like, FUCKING WHOA!), and 2) hopefully, just hopefully, it lightened your day with a little laughter.
