A group of very drunk women in the midst of a pub crawl, eight in all, with one hollering something about knowing me from somewhere, staggered past me as I pulled cash from an ATM.
These things happen. Particularly when there's drunk women involved.
I look like a lot of people. Sometimes famous, sometimes high school boyfriends, and once - from the mouth of an ex - I was told that I resembled a favorite coach at a Catholic school at the worst possible time a woman could bring such a thing up.
Rarely does anybody ever tell me that I look like, well, me.
I laughed as the women passed. One woman - the one who claimed to her friends that she knew me - reached out and grabbed my shoulder.
"YOU! I knew it!" the strange creepy gal yelled. "Oh Gosh... did you used to date _____?"
Her English was accented, northern European. An appropriate voice, too, given the fact the woman slurring into my face looked like Thor and Barbie's lovechild - luscious blond hair, full red lips, fair and spotless complexion, and enough surgically enhanced boobage to keep custom bra manufacturers in business for years to come.
Funny thing. Though a few years older, she looked familiar to me, too. I must've stared for a good twenty seconds, without blinking and head cocked to the side, like some Cocker Spaniel watching its master shit for the first time.
And, well, I did once date somebody with the name she'd given me...
* * * *
Wait! I think I know this drunk chick! my neurons screamed. Hmmm... ____'s friend? Name?
Okay... breathe... I'm thinking Vegas... 2005... The Venetian's pool ... Don Julio shots... jumping jacks...
Yeah, now that was a fun morning swim.
* * * *
I shoved my forty bucks in my pocket and smiled back. I had a name, dammit. Even if, well, I couldn't figure out why a SoCal-based actress just happened to be in Paso Fucking Robles, California, two days into the New Year.
"Well, look at this shit! _____ ______, in the motherfucking flesh! How are the fuck are ya, honey?"
The tall blonde not-so-stranger
Few things outside of organized religion are as plastic and ritualistic as the Los Angeles Hug-Kiss-Kiss.
* * * *
"Wow! I almost didn't recognize you! Cheri, hey, this guy used to date ______. And he lives in Cleveland..."
"Um, well, Cleveland's on the far side of the Ohi-"
"Oh gosh, you just look AMAZING! How ARE YOU? I heard you were, like, dead or something."
"Gee, thanks, chica. Looking pretty hot yourself. So you're still in the adult busin-"
"Oh my God! You remember? Wow! Gosh, like, you probably don't know this but..."
She went on for twenty minutes without pausing for a breath, oblivious to the fact that we only hung out one night, years ago, in Las Vegas. I now know more about her career, sex life, her dogs and cats, and her ex-boyfriend's little premature ejaculation/fid
In the one place in the world I generally expect to NOT run into THAT ex's friends...
Wow, I thought as she pecked my other cheek, The Central Coast really is looking a lot more like the San Fernando Valley every fucking year.
* * * *I'd been on my way out for the night; the group of women were done for the night, headed back to their hotel. And they were all pretty much too drunk, by their own admission, to head back out to the few bars Paso Robles has to offer.
Thank God. No offense, ladies.
Last time I hung out with Ms. Double-D, I woke up in bed next to four women, complete with a Nordic-pale leg wrapped around my neck, somebody's ass beneath my head, and the then-girlfriend
Long night. And equally long story. These things happen. Especially when there's drunk women involved.
But, well, there's a reason I have no desire to ever return to Las Vegas.
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