So continues my September Stories project. If you missed any of them, go here for a running list at the bottom.
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.
Total Writing Time: 2 hr., 40 min.