Thursday, July 17, 2008

Somebody orders pancakes, I only sip the sizzurp - Part I

Yesterday I received this text from my mom:

When can you come home for plastic surgery? Tell me asap so I can schedule. Love you Mom!

Actually she texted me that four times – texting is the new way to nag, apparently. For the past two years, she’s been bugging me about fixing a large, but completely non-visible scar under my chin that resulted from an accident three years ago.

I just need to preface this story with this: I am not a lush, as my friends can all attest. Yea, I go out (a bit) more than average, but I keep it under control and respect my health.

Back to my story. It all began when I was interning in Atlanta during the summer of 2005. I had landed the internship I really, really wanted (beat out 20+ guys during last round interviews...yeaaa), and the job came with perks like free housing at am amazing corporate apartment complex with two pools and four tennis courts. I also had my car with me (summer tally: 1 accident, 3 speeding tickets, and multiple would-be tickets I talked my way out of) and a pretty good fake ID that I had already tested out in Boston, where I went to college. My mom actually found it once and complimented me on the high quality of the forgery. She’s a funny one.

It was a pretty idyllic summer…my team at work was great, the interns and Atlanta were so much fun (real world Austin), and I was being paid starting salary. It was kind of like summer camp, minus the arts and crafts. My fake ID held up to doubtful bouncers, black lights, and even scanners…until the stupid bald little doorman at eleven50, a popular club at the time, went on a power trip and TORE UP MY ID right in front of me. One of the other interns, Brad, was in a similar fix. Although I think when his ID was taken up at some bar, a bouncer threatened to have him arrested.

Brad probably had a drinking problem, although I never knew for sure. After quitting the lacrosse team at school because he didn’t get along with a new coach, Brad found himself with a lot more free time. Sometimes, when he was bored, he liked to down a few Bombay Sapphire & tonics and go shopping…but only at Lacoste. After each of these sprees, he’d wake up in head-to-toe Lacoste tennis gear, including matching terry cloth head- and wristbands, a substantial credit card receipt, and no recollection of what had happened.

Needless to say, Brad was my and everyone else’s favorite intern. Drinking problem aside, Brad was charismatic, intelligent, handsome, and funny as hell. He’s in law school now, and a fine lawyer he will make one day.

Shortly after my ID confiscation, all the interns were going out one night. There was a half-hearted offer to do something that the little 20 year olds could join in on, but I half-heartedly insisted that everyone should go out and have a good ol’ 21+ time. So Brad and I, left to our own devices at home, decided that underage or not, we’d hit the town in style and celebrate 1) Brad’s decision to not take the job offer at the end of the summer and 2) my decision to study abroad in the fall.

We decided we’d go to a trendy restaurant/lounge that was open late and wouldn’t card if we were disgustingly well dressed. He put on his best seersucker suit – this kid took preppy to another level – shirt open one button too many, Tod’s loafers, and mirrored aviators. He was probably the only person who looked natural wearing aviators indoors, at night. Brad accessorized with a cigar that he carried, but never smoked. I was wearing a knee length peach-colored skirt – six tiered layers of the beautiful sheer silk, a sheer navy and white-striped camisole, and the most beautiful satin heels. Sigh. While waiting for a cab to come pick us up, we enjoyed a (few) gin & tonic(s).

The cab took forever to arrive because there was a thunderstorm that night, so by the time we got to the restaurant, and were seated, Brad was hammered and I was not far behind. Being both finance majors, we analyzed the menu and decided that ordering more cocktails was not economical. A bottle of Taittinger would be a much better choice! A short while later, our friend Seth joined us for a bit before we all left the restaurant together. Brad and I were as happy as could be at that point.

Seth was our designated driver on our way home, and I sat in the passenger-side seat. When we pulled up to my apartment, it was still raining and thundering, and I opened the door to make a run for it. Somehow, my right heel got tangled in the seat belt, I fell, and my hands slipped on all the water on the street when I tried to catch myself. Basically, my chin bore the entire impact of the fall, and broke in three places, and I blacked out. When I gained consciousness again, I was spitting out chipped teeth, blood, and rainwater. Seth and Brad were freaking out, running around me like chickens with their heads cut off, not knowing what to do. They called 911 and a few minutes later, 2 FIRE TRUCKS, 2 police cars, and an ambulance showed up. Yes, fire trucks, sirens blaring. It was all very dramatic.

To be continued…

4 comments:

-S said...

This story is much easier to read than to understand through broken jaw speak.

modelbehavior said...

"Being both finance majors, we analyzed the menu and decided that ordering more cocktails was not economical. A bottle of Taittinger would be a much better choice!"

You finance people are always good for something! LOL

Lily said...

oh the ID situation... so... many... ID stories... story of my life!

Anonymous said...

Where's the rest of the story? By the way, I discovered your blog through Ryan's.

More, more, more. And more than the 250 word count.