Tales From The DJ Booth: Ride Home

We were leaving Longview, Washington, after a stand-up comedy show that resembled an episode of Jerry Springer, filmed in a patriotic- themed nightclub, which only played country songs that featured a verse by Ludacris. It was now-headliner (then-feature) Amanda Arnold and myself (the opener). We had just performed as guests on a show headlined by this dude named Junior High, who happens to be the only person I know who has a full-on pot leaf suit (and matching jacket), dates girls half his age and is proud to live in Longview. To this day, the dude is one of my heroes. But, he’s about ten times the energy of the average person, so instead of being burnt out and ready to crash, we left the show feeling like we’d just seen Slayer.

Since Amanda and I were (and still are) usually a few notches down on the turnt-up scale, at least outside of the clubs, the Longview gig left us feeling like we were wired on energy drinks. So, with heart rate still high, we decided to bop into a strip club in Southeast, where I had worked at the time. There is something that is equally amazing and terrifying, regarding the life of a strip club DJ: no matter what time of day, regardless of whether or not you appear to be headed elsewhere, off-duty club staff (this includes DJs) are served roughly six times the amount of alcohol (per drink), than that of even the most faithful regular. So, after taking one sip of my "vodka, vodka, vodka and splash of soda water," I opted to give said drink to the closest patron. This is never a good idea, but it was even worse of an idea on this particular evening.

Flash forward a few songs and Amanda asks me if we’re gonna head out. On the way to leave the club, we bump into (literally) the girl who I’d given my Twelve Loko (or whatever the fuck I was served). She was tanked and took up a large area—kind of like a miniature Iraq—leaning against a brick wall, while twirling back and forth in the same manner that a joint would while being rolled.

"Hey hon’. Are you okay?" Amanda asked.

Drunk girl began to cry.

"Hon’, do you need a ride home?" Amanda asked. I was driving. This was slowly going from kind, to inconvenient.

Drunk girl responded, "You guys are the best." We were the best.

"Where are you staying?" Amanda asked, testing my patience.

"By the downtown Marriott. I’m in the Marriott. In downtown. At the Marriott. At downtown. By Portland. Not the airport. By Marriott."

"In the Marriott?" Amanda clarified.

"How did you know!?" drunk girl responded.

"Okay," I announced, "let’s do this, if we’re gonna do this."

Drunk girl loaded into the car. Neither Amanda nor myself are athletes, but we were each twigs, in comparison to the size of this girl— and, I’m not trying to body-shame here, either. She looked great and was attractive by pretty much anyone’s standards—she was just Anna Nicole, Season 5, in terms of her proportions. I drove a Hyundai Elantra, with a backseat full of trash and magazines, so drunk girl decided to sit on Amanda. This prevented me from changing gear (or, putting the car in park) once we were driving, but hey, what’s a quick drive over the bridge?

Well, here’s what a quick drive over the bridge is, in terms of information that was volunteered to Amanda and I, by the complete stranger we were sent by God to save (that, or were punished with for reasons unknown)...

Some guy doesn’t love her. He said he did, but he doesn’t.

She was left at the strip club by a Blazer. In a Blazer? No, BY a Blazer. She knows all the Blazers. The hot ones, at least.

We are the best.

No, really, we are the best.

Do we like the Blazers? Because, drunk girl is fucking two of them.

And, one of them is an asshole, who doesn’t love her.

They met last night. She bought the hotel. She thinks.

Oh, that was the turn. Wait, no, we’re still on this side of the river.

Do we know how amazing we are?

Nope, that WAS the hotel. Or, was it? Okay, it’s coming up.

Rinse, repeat, remix and upload the above, for about a half an hour or so, until we finally just decided to ignore drunk girl’s pleas of "No! No! It’s the next entrance!" and found the proper parking lot for Marriott.

Car in park. Door unlocked. Amanda pushes upwards on drunk girl, drunk girl falls out of vehicle. I laugh. Amanda gives me a look. Drunk girl is on sidewalk. Amanda looks at me again, as if to request, "Agree with whatever I’m about to say, okay?"

"Hey hon’, do you need help getting into your room?" Amanda asked drunk pavement trainwreck Blazer side-chick girl.

"Yes, please, here’s my keys."

Keys. This girl had a stack of hotel cards that was thicker than my wallet. And, yes, we tried all of them, once we found out which floor she was on. Sure, it took a few floors, but this lady’s room was obvious—there was a literal pile of breadcrumbs leading up to it—a giant suite overlooking the city. Who was this chick? We didn’t know. But, she was apparently loaded.

"Thank you guys soooooo much," drunk girl announced, as she flopped face-first on a bed that had not been serviced by the maid in some time.

"You’re welcome," Amanda said.

"Yeah, I think it’s time to go," I attempted to add, but with this, Amanda yanked on my arm, pointing at the floor. I shit you not, there were stacks of hundred-dollar bills, just falling out of the drunk girl—out of her purse, her pockets, whatever else she had that could serve as a makeshift billfold— cash was everywhere.

"Dude," I said. "Are you sure you’re okay like this? Do you have someone you can call?"

And, with what I thought was a genuine step toward us leaving this girl in a somewhat safer-than-not state of being, drunk girl replied, "FUCK HIM! HE’S A PIECE OF SHIT!" Then, she began to cry and asked if one of us would cuddle her.

Amanda and I both gave each other a look— the same look that we’d give each other if we were doing our best to entertain a room full of people who were doing their best to make sure we were on our toes—except this time, it wasn’t hecklers or a dead bar...it was a pile of flesh and cash, asking us to cuddle.

"No," I said.

"Ray! Don’t be mean," Amanda replied.

I whispered loudly, "I am. Not. Cuddling. With moneybuckets."

"No, asshat, be nicer."

"Okay, please, I don’t want to cuddle with you, thanks? You’re drunk and this is technically rape in at least six states."

"I don’t mind," she replied.

I did.

Drunk girl had her boobs out by this point. Then, her phone rang. It was clearly "HIM" and we didn’t want to leave, just yet. And, alas, it was worth it (at least for the laughs).

After about two minutes of drunk girl arguing with what we only assumed was her boyfriend, a sugar daddy, a client or a Blazer, she handed the phone to us. "Here," drunk girl said. "You guys talk to him."

I took the phone. Then, Amanda immediately took it from me. I don’t know if it was some sort of rational, female instinct, but she handled it like a pro.

"Hello? Hello. Hi. We’re the random strangers that your girlfriend rode home with, after she was over-served at a rowdy strip club full of tourists and hipsters. She’s currently half-naked, laying on a pile of cash and my friend here, a DJ who goes by ‘Statutory Ray,’ is the one whose car we drove over in. Do you perhaps love this girl or maybe want to see her again sometime? Then, ya know, how about getting down here to the Marriott?"

His response? Well, not only was it clear, firm and loud enough for me to hear while standing next to Amanda, but it was cut and dry...

"I don’t know her," the man on the phone said. "She’s not my girlfriend. We met last night, under similar circumstances, and she’s been calling me all day. I’m calling her back because she keeps texting me nonsense. As in, literal nonsense. It’s 2am."

Although Amanda and I could hear this dude, drunk girl couldn’t. She had already began to pass out on a pile of dead presidents and boob. So, Amanda responded like a boss.

"Okay, so you’ll be here in an hour?"

"No, fuck no! I’m not coming down," guy-on-phone said.

"Great, she’ll see you then."

"NOOO! I. Said. No."

And, with that, Amanda hung up. "He’s on his way hon’, sleep tight." She slid the phone into drunk girl’s armpit-boob-cash-purse region and we walked away slowly, with Amanda giving me the "Shhh...baby’s sleeping" gesture. We put a pile of hotel keys on the dresser and left Anna Nicole Smirnoff to her own devices (literally and figuratively).

The ride out of the parking lot was silent, but Amanda broke it.

"We’re good people."

"Yeah," I responded. "I guess. I’m just not into hooking up with chicks who are passed out drunk."

"No, not that." Amanda replied. "We should have robbed her. And—we didn’t. I know you’re above date rape, but come on dude, you know damn well you counted that cash."

And, I did. There was at least (not kidding) ten grand or so, floating around on the floor. This woman will wake up, half-naked with her money, with little-to-no recollection of how she got there. I only hope that if you’re out there, drunk girl from Marriott, and you’re reading this, please visit the closest strip club and toss them a few hundred bucks. It’s called karma. That, or maybe consider putting down the booze for a bit.