As good fate continued, my old high school friends, Marion and Mike, happened to be vacationing in Naples. When they read my Facebook post noting my final destination, they cruised over to Fort Myers. We caught up over a couple celebratory drinks at the resort and then dinner on Captiva Island.
After my friends headed back to Naples that evening, I hung out at the hotel’s beachside tiki bar. Disappointed in the crowd, which was not particularly warm and fuzzy, I wandered back toward my room to sit on the balcony.
Long after the bar closed, I overheard a rowdy group of people on the pool deck. They were having serious fun. The introverted, unmotivated, and exhausted voices in my head advised me to sit tight on my balcony.
But through the past months, I’d learned that pushing myself and taking a chance generally paid off. I could either remain a social creeper that night or make the move to reach out. So, I headed downstairs and invited myself to join their group.
Of all the strangers I met that weekend, these six guys and their sole female companion ended up being the most warm and welcoming. All were twenty-something. All were Muslim. And although they were gathered together for a short vacation in Florida, their homes were scattered around the globe. These details each proved interesting in our conversation yet irrelevant to our connection. We talked until the wee hours of the morning.
Much like the Stranger Party I hosted a couple months back, the evening proved that new alliances don’t always require having a whole lot in common.
Other than these two social experiences, I spent much of the weekend alone, strolling the beach and eating seafood. Was there any better plan of action for a short Florida vacation? Especially when the objective was not planning a thing?
I originally anticipated spending two nights away on this impromptu trip and then flying home on Sunday. Yet as soon as I learned I’d been blessed with such a sunny setting, I had called my office from the Detroit airport and told them I’d be staying an extra day. Duh. I rescheduled my return flight for Monday.
It never crossed my mind that Monday was St. Patrick’s Day until that very morning. As I rolled my suitcase across the parking lot, I heard music. Pushing through a huge crowd gathered along the curb, I spied a parade marching down the street, directly in front of my hotel.
Call me un-American or—in this case—un-Irish, but I had never been a fan of parades. And this one, although apparently entertaining for the rest of the folks on hand, literally stood in my way of heading home.
The driver of the taxi I’d ordered called to say he was waiting for me on a side street about a mile up the blocked-off road. Terrific. I didn’t have time for these shenanigans. I had a flight to catch and a Bloody Mary to down. I sighed, pulled my wheeled-suitcase behind me, and hurried alongside the parade.
But a funny thing happened on the way to my taxi. As I watched the floats, Irish dancers, and costumed leprechauns, I found myself humming the Hello Dolly song, “Before the Parade Passes By.”
By now, I recognized fate when it stared me in the face. I didn’t care if my waiting taxi meter was already clicking into the double digits. Unlike all the other parades in my life that I had disregarded or avoided, I decided this one would not pass me by. I knew I had to get in step while there was still time left.
I jumped in line and marched along with the floats. I stopped to take some photos with the crowd and mingle with the crazies. For a few short moments, I was Ferris Bueller, waving to my would-be fans while I pondered how to sing “Danke Schoen” in Gaelic.
My trip could only have ended more perfectly if I’d been able to delay my flight that morning to join the crowd on the curb for a green beer or two. No worries. I’d settle for that Bloody Mary on the plane home.
When I made my list of potential 52/52 experiences, this impromptu adventure appeared to be my most half-assed idea ever. For the new me, who was slowly learning to let so much roll off my shoulders, that spontaneity made it the best—by a sky mile.
On the flight back home, I contemplated Life Lesson #42: Sometimes the best plan is no plan at all.
Chapter 43:
AN ITALIAN/IRISH/GERMAN/FRENCH WOMAN WALKS INTO A BAR…
I held a variety of jobs in my lifetime, including stints as a newspaper reporter, park service ditch-digger, and shopping mall Easter Bunny. Side note: The Easter Bunny gig paid the best, yet after getting peed on, I figured I deserved every penny of that five dollars an hour.
Throughout a dozen jobs though, I never once worked as a waitress or bartender.
Waitressing had been ruled out because, let’s be honest, I’d have dropped three or four trays of food before my very first—and likely last—paycheck. And the idea of bartending made me wary for another reason: I’d spent enough time in bars during my wayward youth to make it a point to avoid serving drinks to people like the college-aged me.
In the midst of my unbucket list, while watching an old episode of Cheers, I noticed that Sam seldom had to deal with obnoxious and droning drunks (other than Cliff Clavin). And if Carla never dropped a tray of food, perhaps I—a similarly short and part-Italian-blooded smart ass—could manage as well. I decided decisions, naturally, are best based upon old sitcoms. So, I set my sights on a place where at least one or two people might know my name.
The good people at Caper’s, the venue for my pizza-eating contest, agreed to test my virgin bartending skills. Perhaps on a hunch, they subtly ignored my inquiry about waitressing, too. Good play, Caper’s.
I knew a great deal about beer drinking; after all, I received a bachelor’s degree in it. Other than operating a wine corkscrew or adding vodka to Bloody Mary mix, I knew little else about being stationed behind a bar. I envisioned myself as a quick study though, and reckoned I had other talents to bring to the table—or, more specifically—to the bar.
I pictured myself leaning in and nodding thoughtfully as patrons poured out their troubles to me. My people skills, my above-par memory, and my patience were sure to carry me through my premiere bartending gig.
Patience might prove to be the most important asset, I soon determined, because Caper’s informed me they’d be putting me to work on the granddaddy of drunken holidays: St. Patrick’s Day.
Next to New Year’s Eve, it was a tavern’s most lucrative and looney-filled day of business. The thought of bartending on St. Paddy’s Day was one part intriguing and two parts intimidating.
Given that morning’s spur-of-the-moment parade and curbside crowd, I’d already observed my share of St. Patrick’s Day celebrating. I had originally anticipated a day of rest after my trip to places unknown. But since I extended my stay at Fort Myers Beach, I found myself in a rush on my way to Caper’s from the Detroit airport. I only had time for a quick stop at my mother’s house to borrow a green shirt to wear under my bartending apron—and to be privy to my mom’s always good advice: “Have fun, and don’t let anyone throw up on you.”
The bar and restaurant were busy but not as jam-packed as I expected. Caper’s manager, Emily, gave me the lowdown on St. Patrick’s Day drinking. She said the majority of bar patrons on this pseudo-Irish holiday started early and ended early. Most came before dinner, and a number showed up well before lunch. By the time my shift started, many had their fill and had tottered home.
Guessing I was not only inexperienced but also ill-equipped for the job, Emily positioned me, not at the main bar, but at an auxiliary drink station. My charge was pouring glasses of Guinness, shots of whiskey, and Irish Car Bombs.
I was a bit disappointed that I wouldn’t possess full bar authority. However, let it be said that Guinness, whiskey, and Irish Car Bombs are apparently the lifeblood of St. Patrick’s Day drinkers.
Back in my youth, my personal drink of choice that day had been a standard green beer. I’d never even tasted an Irish Car Bomb, let alone prepared one.
Fortunately, my best customers, Josh and Emily C., lived under the philosophy of “Drink early, drink often, and drink right.” As Irish Car Bomb af
icionados, they schooled me on how to properly position the glass, pour the liquors, and ensure the perfect proportion of Guinness, Baileys Irish Cream, and Jameson Irish Whiskey.
I dispensed approximately five hundred gallons of Guinness and concocted enough Irish Car Bombs to rock south Toledo. As I poured drinks and made change (thank God this required only subtraction skills and not algebra), I was able to make small talk with dozens of customers.
The most colorful character was a guy who told me he’d hit five bars that day and dyed the water green in every toilet. He was sort of my new hero. I also spent ten minutes consoling a young woman who’d just gone through a bad breakup. He’d broken up with her over the phone, two weeks before their planned trip to Mexico. I refrained from calling him names (cheating bastard), but I bought her a drink and told her she was gorgeous. An hour later, I spotted her dancing with another guy. She grinned and waved at me from across the room. I made a mental note to add “therapist” to that long list of jobs on my résumé.
What I mostly observed all evening was happy conversation, laughter, and an occasional song. Few of the patrons appeared fully inebriated. I was pleased to report to my mom that I didn’t see a single person vomit.
However, my performance as a newbie bartender didn’t go off without a hitch. My biggest snafu was forgetting the whiskey in an order of Car Bombs. Tipsy as they were, Josh and Emily C. set me straight on that.
And, coming as no surprise after my recent bar-staining fiasco, I knocked over a couple glasses of Guinness. I shouted to a waitress to bring more bar rags: too late, since most of the errant beer flowed into an already inch-deep pool on the floor around my serving station. Next time I bartended, I’d wear rubber boots.
Either way, I called the evening a victory. I also garnered nearly thirty dollars in tips. I planned to donate this to a local charity until I recalled that the weekend’s Fort Myers trip had overloaded my credit card. I was currently my own charity.
Before I left, I drank my first Irish Car Bomb—damn tasty—and toasted to the patron saint of Ireland. All hail to St. Patrick, the guy who drove the snakes out of the bars of Ireland, so I wouldn’t have to deal with them.
Sure and begorra, St. Patrick’s Day is one of camaraderie and community, even if you’re only one part Irish and three parts sober.
Chapter 44:
GOING IN CIRCLES
How to prepare for a stock car driving experience:
First, be sure to never watch a single car race in your life, not even a televised clip. This way, the outrageous speeds and life-endangering risks will prove a pleasant surprise.
Do not read the fine print on the discounted racing voucher you purchased online, months ago. It’s more fun to find out at the last minute that you will not be driving—an experience that would have allowed you control of your speed as well as the ability to opt out at any moment along the track. Wait until you arrive to discover you will, instead, be riding along in the passenger seat next to a driver insane enough to do this for a living—whose fear level is negligible and who will likely show you no mercy.
In your effort to be acknowledged as a seasoned pro, work into a track-side discussion with the crowd—all of them major racing fans—how you visited the Toledo Speed-way for a concert when you were nineteen. Elevate your status by mentioning how you fainted that afternoon from a combination of heat exhaustion and beer drinking.
While you wait, watch the cars tear around the track. Convince yourself it looks less hazardous than a Detroit freeway.
As your stomach rolls, recall that you never ate breakfast or lunch and that it’s now two o’clock. Reassure yourself that if you happen to vomit mid-ride, at least you will only dry-heave.
Order a hot dog and popcorn from the concession stand anyway. Potential puking aside, you deserve a last meal.
When you are finally admitted to the pit, strike up a conversation with the only other female there, a grandmother waiting to drive tandem with her fourteen-year-old grandson. The seventy-four-year-old woman’s fearlessness will shame you. The teenager’s anxiety, as he watches the cars whiz by, will perk you back up.
“All I know,” he mumbles, “is I’m glad I went to the bathroom before we came out here.”
Chuckle at this, but find this light moment turning dark again when one of the ride-side employees admits he indeed has witnessed a few riders wet themselves. Grow increasingly uneasy about this risk, considering that these days you can pee with a simple sneeze.
Distract yourself from your inevitable incontinence by asking the track assistant about any other strange things he has witnessed. When he grins sheepishly, prod him to continue.
Listen intently as he whispers, confidentially, that the drivers occasionally have female riders who seem to really enjoy their experience. “We’ve had a few women,” he tells you, “who, um, ‘rub’ themselves while they’re in the passenger’s seat.”
Jump back at this news and shout, “No!?!”
“Oh, yeah,” he replies. “The drivers have to stop and ask them to get out of the car.”
Contemplate this bizarre possibility, but conclude that no number of good vibrations in a hurtling race car are likely to move you in that way.
As you await your turn, observe two cars being taken out of commission due to mechanical difficulties. Force yourself to believe this puts the odds in your favor that your car will not lose its fuel pump mid-race.
Be sure to request a racing jumpsuit based on the size you last wore in the eighties—when jumpsuits were the height of fashion—and not the size you require now. As the woman issuing uniforms holds it out, she wordlessly eyes you up and down. Reconsider your choice. Ask for the next largest size instead, which is only one size smaller than you probably wear.
Once you manage to get it zipped, the skintight black uniform is sure to make you look svelte and ultra-cool. Say a silent prayer that the layer of sweat already emerging around your waist won’t prove all it takes to burst the seams. Add another prayer that you won’t have to pee while you wait, since it may take hours to peel the suit off.
Your undersized uniform also makes the next step more entertaining for everyone on site.
Be certain dozens of people are watching as you attempt to climb inside the car, which apparently can only be accomplished by crawling through the passenger side window. Do not bother to hide your dismay about this dilemma. Cry, “Seriously? You’ve got to be kidding me,” loud enough that two track-side employees rush over to see if someone’s been injured.
If you happen to be height-deprived, wait for someone to bring a spare tire for you to use as a stepstool. If he thinks you appear old enough to be his grandmother, even though you are certain you have children younger than him, he will speak to you in a condescending manner. The fact that he has accurately assessed your incompetence and uncoordination will further piss you off.
The tire stepstool allows you to reach the window but does not aid your ability to climb through it. Due to the constraints of your snug jumpsuit, you are unable to bend your legs. The track assistants, who are already behind schedule and likely way underpaid, are sure to get a kick out of how long it takes them to contort and maneuver your rigid body through the car window and squeeze you into the passenger seat.
Although you are certain nothing can pry you from the tight seat into which you have been wedged, the pit crew will double-strap you into the car anyway. Do not complain. Four or five straps might be just enough to keep you safe.
Once you’re inside, eye your driver, who introduces himself as Andy. You figure Andy seems a nice, normal name for someone with your life in his hands. Better than, say, Lucifer.
Make nervous small talk for a moment with Andy, who assures you he’s been driving for seven years and has never had a fatal accident. Squint and frown at him. Suggest to Andy that in the future, he might be a bit less specific.
Andy doesn’t appear the reckless or irresponsible sort. Conclude that, given your coordination,
it may be best that he—and not you—will be racing this high-powered vehicle around a track.
Then, take a glance around and observe all those folks who did succeed in signing up for the driving—and not the ride-along—package. Let it sink in that a half-dozen inexperienced people, who have never once been behind the wheel of a race car, will now be whizzing a few feet next to you at speeds over a hundred miles per hour.
Realize there is no easy way out of this now obligatory situation. Prepare to rip the bandage off quickly. Turn to Andy and say, “OK, let’s do this.”
As your car jumps to a start, close your eyes and question whether you will die by fainting, throwing up, or crashing. Fainting is your best option, given your last Toledo Speedway experience.
Crashing doesn’t seem the best choice. I suggest you vote against that.
Open your eyes momentarily as you feel the car skidding around the first corner. Try to measure how close you came to slamming into the wall. Were you two feet or two inches from sure death? Feel grateful that geometry was never your strong subject.
When Andy announces you’ve made it around the first lap, with just two more to go, gather your courage. Promise yourself you will keep your eyes open the remainder of the ride.
As Andy suddenly swerves, nearly sideswiping the car next to you, close your eyes again.
“Sorry—some kind of object was lying in the middle of the track,” he explains.
Probably just the battered corpse of a passenger ejected from another car. Be sure to commend Andy on avoiding it.
Try to count each lap, with closed eyes, but lose track after the next few dizzying turns. When your car suddenly lurches to an abrupt stop, open your eyes and glimpse around, certain you’ve managed to escape another crash.
Instead, catch your breath as Andy turns to you and says, “Well, that’s it. Hope you enjoyed it.”
Finding My Badass Self Page 20