Dan Does Denver (part 2/2)

[member_only]Day 3 (Wednesday) November 21st – Bailey’s, Straight Up.

By noon, Bailey and I are up and ready to start the day. As expected, it’s not that I dislike the girl, but I’d rather not be around her. Of course it wasn’t the smartest decision to invite her out in the first place, but damn it I was down in the dumps and seeking female validation. Pathetic but true – two common characteristics of Baby Dick Tales.

At some point the previous night, I had hinted to her about how I changed the date of her return flight, but I don’t think she picked up on it.

I truly felt bad basically just trying to shoo this girl away after spending one night together. I mean, she flew in late Tuesday night and by late Wednesday afternoon, I’d have her in an Uber heading back to the airport.

I explain to her that I switched her flight so that she wouldn’t have to fly on Thanksgiving Day, deal with a crazy busy airport, and that way she could actually make plans for Thanksgiving since she’d be free the entire day. Whether it’s kicking Claire out on a cruise, or trying to ship Bailey out of Denver, I further back up my claim that I could talk a cat off of a fish wagon.

For the next few hours, we walk around Denver, stop and get some food, and I visit my first ever dispensary. Really not that exciting of times.

Even though her flight wasn’t until 9:00pm or so, I cleverly delivered another conniving speech explaining why I should get her an Uber around five o clock. I explain how the airport will probably be super busy (you know, unlike Thanksgiving Day), plus she’s most likely going to hit bad traffic during the ride, and so it’d be best if she got there a good few hours before her flight.

It’s mean to say, but I truly felt a sense of relief once Bailey left. It was almost as if I was walking out of work a free man into retirement ready to dip into my 401k to fund my drunken party.

I walk to the liquor store and grab a bottle of Patron. Get back to my hotel, mix some Tito’s and Powerade, shower, get dressed, pack up the liquor and tequila, and make the fifteen minute walk down to Sarah’s.

Arriving a tad bit early, I finish the rest of my Tito’s as they’re getting ready. Simultaneously as my buzz is hitting home, Sarah’s dressed and ready to start the shots of Patron.

Collectively, we drink well over half the bottle before the two of us, Steph, and her friend Elly order an Uber to make our way to our first bar.

I’m not even gonna ramble about this night because I can’t remember all that much. All I know is, I ordered a ride home nearing one in the morning in a state of confusion after our first couple bars.

Days 4 – 5 (Thursday – Friday) November 22nd – 23rd – Thankful For Receptive Receptionists.

I wake up with random email recruitments saved in my notes and a handful of texts from Sarah. They’re not good ones. She declined to give a personal statement, so I’ll cover the situation the best I can.

Shortly after I left, about a half an hour or so, she went down into the bathroom to talk on her phone. Occupying a stall for around twenty minutes, one of the waiting girls got angry. She began knocking on the door and when Sarah opened, the girl sucker punched her. As Sarah says – ‘..I was in shock so I let the little whore run away.’

A few minutes later, now upstairs and at the bar, they’d get into another altercation. Not long into it, they get broken up and a few workers at the bar escort Sarah and her friends outback into the alley. As they’re smoking their post-fight cigarettes, the girls circle around to the alley and attack them once again.

After a short squirmish, the clan retreats. They’d arrive back soon, this time however, they’re rolling a solid five or six deep.

Evidently, they had promptly called their dudes and within minutes the entourage showed up to start beating ass.

As Sarah stood firm to defend her ground, she began wildly windmilling her right arm like a collegiate softball pitcher winding up for an unhittable fast ball.

Shortly into the brawl, a female bartender witnessing the beat down, wields her wooden Saradomin Godsword and surges into battle causing the sieging forces to retreat. As they take off in their car, Steph wipes her nose clean of the blood, and smears her battle juice along the side of their getaway vehicle.

[If it wasn’t for the bartender coming out to break up the fight, there’s no telling how many one-two chin combos they would have taken. I’d imagine enough for a new killer Instinct high score. They all declined to release morning after pictures. Please send them your thoughts, prayers, and Neosporin.]

As for me, I wake up feeling like Randy Marsh on the day after the Obama election. I crawl out of bed, lean a hand on the wall to stabilize myself in the shower, and lower my head as I blast scolding hot water. It hasn’t been confirmed, but it’s possible that the fourth greatest thing in life is excessively long, self-loathing, hung over, life contemplating showers (after getting pussy, revenge, and Vegas Bombs with Jimmy P of course – this will be detailed in a future installment).

At this same time, I start my morning hydration process – it’s Thanksgiving and I’m sure everyone’s gonna want to finish a four day binge strongly. I quickly chug about sixty ounces of water, Powerade, and Body Armor.

Hydration Process 1 complete.

Nipping my eleven o clock check out time by a few minutes, I again head to Sarah’s. I’m greeted with a close up look of hers, Elly’s, and Steph’s lumped faces. There’s a decent amount of swelling and bruising, but it’s the not most alarming thing I’ve ever woke up to.

Huddled in the room with Steph as she lays sprawled out on her bed feeling like death, is their good friend Wes, who turns out to be a solid dude.

Striking that same morning, Steph’s period grabs her by the hand to help guide her through the valley of death.

“Well there’s one thing off the dinner plate for tonight.”

She quickly claps back by saying that any guy who is too afraid to fuck her because she’s on her period is essentially a vagina.

There’s a reason why blood’s a natural lubricant.

Getting off to a late start, the five of us pack into Steph’s car and Wes takes the wheel to drive us to her house. Once there, Steph stays behind and the rest of us head to the grocery store before stopping at a liquor store. I gladly purchase a four and a half liter bottle of Grey Goose.

Lugging it out to the car, I gingerly cradle it my arms like a sleeping infant. A true proud dad moment.

We swing back home to grab Steph, pack in, and head to meet a friend of Sarah’s friend. Along the way, I try and get more details about what exactly happened the night before.

Me – “Were they big girls or what?”

Sarah – “No, they were fucking Mexicans.”

Me – “Well shit, you see how hard they fight to get into the country – they fight even harder in bars.”

Steph, sitting in the front seat, is not amused with my joke and tells me that I shouldn’t say racist things. I quietly lean over to Elly sitting next to me in the backseat for her opinion. She gives me the validation I was seeking. I’m funny.

To break the tension, Sarah laughingly mentions how she ran into two or three different people last night that she’s slept with before. Slightly different situation, but I couldn’t help but feel like her going out for a drink must be similar to Rocco heading to buy a pack of smokes.

At the apartment, I meet the host – Chris (artist name – Low Frequency Output). Along with himself, is his mother, and mutual friend Dana who Sarah had played college volleyball with.

Everybody remained quite tamed during the first few hours or so as Dana, Chris, and his mom worked on cooking dinner.

I take this time to initiate Hydration Process 2. Feeling slightly better, the devil on my shoulder gives me a light tap and lets me know it’s time for vodka Red Bull.

I give in without a fight.

I’m not sure exactly what it is about Sugar Daddies, but similar to earlier when I said that Ramona could write some Tales of her own, the same goes for Elly.

Elly had dated an older dude (in his young seventies) for a handful of years or so. Sprinkled into their relationship was exotic trips, luxurious living, overly expensive dinners, and (because I’m strange and ask weird questions) great sex. She then goes on to tell me about how she married a foreigner so that he could live in America (they had been friends for years). She’s obviously the type of Ride or Die chick that Luda’s been looking for.

All in all, if I dare suggest it, Ramona and Elly should recruit other past or current Sugar Babies and do a collaboration of their own.

As the day goes on, shots become more prominent and the girls plot to intensify the night by taking some gummies. Just as hundreds of other times in my life, I decline the offer and stick to excessive drinking instead.

Pampering the group, I continue to prepare rounds of shots. After a few rounds, Elly was hesitant on doing more. I kindly give her the tiniest poured shot.

“Hey look, you gave me a baby sized shot!!!”

“You like baby sized things? Does that pertain to all aspects of life?”

She might think I’m funny, but I have yet to receive confirmation.

The night continues smoothly with everyone drinking, except for a tiny hiccup when Dana clogs the toilet. God bless her.

As for me, I frantically drink everything in sight. Once the bottle of Grey Goose was empty, I went into the bottle of Southern Comfort. Not being an ass eater myself, I mix it with the only chaser available- ice water. After forcing down what little bit was left, I scrounge around the kitchen looking for more alcohol like a starving boofer diving into the dumpster out back of a restaurant.

At random times over the past few hours (it’s around midnight) we’d all talk about going out for the night. I was leaving for Pittsburgh the next day and I didn’t want to spend my final drunk hours huddled up in an apartment getting a tramp stamp drawn on me (see attached photos), regardless if they were awesome company or not.

I launch another recruitment campaign. This time with more intensity than a Marine Corps officer who just spotted a clan of seven high school seniors walking aimlessly through the mall. Disappointingly, each of them have already committed to colleges and are content to stay put with Chris and his other friends who showed up a couple hours ago.

Just as it often happens, I Uber myself to a nearby Bar Louie, order a double Crown Apple on the rocks, and drink alone until last call.

Around 2:30 in the morning, I reciprocate a “have a nice night”, and zig zag my way out of my Uber and onto Sarah’s stoop.

If it wasn’t for what’s about to ensue for my final twelve hours, I probably would have never bothered writing any of this. But as is the reoccurring theme in Baby Dick Tales, I’d soon find myself unpredictably caught in the middle of more fuckery.

I knock on Sarah’s door. Nobody’s home. I text and call her with no response, and I didn’t have any of her friend’s numbers either.

For the second time all trip, I was left without a place to stay.

Assuming that she’d come home at some point in the night, I curl up on her porch furniture in near freezing temperatures. I’m poorly dressed in thin jogger pants and a light hoodie. I guess in a way, I was lucky to be as drunk as I was or else I probably wouldn’t have fallen asleep at all.

Shriveling cold, I wake up around 4am. I’m still drunk and sense a hangover creeping in just over the horizon. I try and fall back asleep, but frozen back doubled up with not having a pillow and laying stiffly across crunchy cold furniture padding, I’d have better luck in a female prison WITHOUT a fistful of pardons.

With no plan in mind (see, this is what happens when you don’t have a backup plan), I begin walking down the street. I come across an apartment complex where I walk inside the initial set of doors. To get any further, you either have to be buzzed in or swipe your resident card. I sit down in the corner like a grounded six year old.

On two different occurrences, residents returned home to head inside. Even though it was warmer where I was at, there was still a constant cold draft making its way in. Craving the warmth of a heated room, I fought the temptation of asking each person to let me in.

What was I gonna say anyways?

“Hey, so I’m from Pittsburgh (presenting ID) and I flew to Denver to have my butthole licked. But you see, the problem is, her mouth is probably too busy licking a different butthole and so I haven’t heard from her since landing Monday afternoon. I was hanging out with some friends that I know from college, but now I don’t know where they are, and so I’m temporarily homeless and just trying to stay alive until I can get back to Pittsburgh to hug my dog and write about how kind of person you are for saving my life…”

Instead, I save myself the embarrassing, awkward exchange where someone is too polite to just tell me to fuck off and so they make up an absurd excuse that would send any jury bursting into laughter.

I pout in the corner long enough for my teeth to stop chattering, and then re track my footsteps back to Sarah’s.

As should be expected, I again find myself curled up like a freezing puppy. I figure if I can make it another hour or two, the sun will start to rise and I’d feel like I’m back home setting personal records inside of the sauna.

The sun begins to surface, but to quote Eomer – “Look for your friends, but do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands.”

I desperately devise a backup plan.

It’s nearing eight in the morning and this time I figure that if I can head back to the hotel I had stayed at, I may be able to get a deal on a room for just a few hours so that I can shower, warm up, and get a power nap in. By the time I’d check out, Sarah and her friends should all be up.

I walk into the lobby to see the pretty receptionist from the other night – ‘Jill’.

She’s standing next to the manager who’s having a heated conversation on the phone. I gaze at each of them with a drained, half-drunk stare anticipating a warm greeting. Jill motions me a friendly wave, but is intently engaged with her manager as he impatiently fights losing his composure. From what I’m able to pick up on, Jill was threatened by a customer during her overnight shift.

Phone tension increasing, I walk over to the breakfast area to get some orange juice. It’s close to the front desk and Jill slides my way to have a quick exchange. She was supposed to be out of work by now but is being held up by the incident. Sensing the stress in her voice, I figure now would be a good time to try and execute a full court press. Causing a quick turnover, she gives me her number, tells me to text her, and she’ll hit me on the give and go once the lane opens up.

Time for fuckery.

Walking out of the Days Inn together, she frantically fills me in about what had happened. For one reason or another, she was indeed threatened. Unfortunately, when this occurred, her pistol was laying in the office, and not on her.

She takes this opportunity to reach near her back and unholster her self-defense. Not sure if she wanted to set an early tone that I better behave myself, but I ignore the possible implication and continue pressing well before the mid court line.

She unlocks the door and I take shotgun in her messy, cluttered, minivan. Tucked under the sun visor is the obituary to her father who passed a few months prior. She tells me about his death and on numerous occasions plugs in that not only was he in the police/armed forces, that two of her three brothers were as well.

Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how loud a Rattlesnake rattles its tail.

She pulls into Frank’s Liquor. I get a can of Ginger Ale to help ease my stomach, and a Fireball shooter for each of us.

I force it down my throat as if I was being bribed for fifty thousand dollars competing on Fear Factor. I felt awful. I barely got any sleep over night, and I was in the dreadful stage transitioning from being drunk to hungover. I could have been dragged and strapped into an electric chair and the only reason I would have had any fight in me is because I was initiating Get Drunk Take 2 and wanted breakfast and head from Jill.

I begin Google searching for nearby bars that are open at nine in the morning. Not only can I successfully find private Facebook accounts for people who live out of state when all I’m given is their first name (it was for a buddy who met a pretty girl at a business meeting – some call it creepy, I call it talent, others call it creepily talented), but I can also briskly track down morning watering holes.

Ten minutes later, we’re parked and walking into The Old Cheerio Lounge. I guess the only reason they’re open this early is because there’s a factory close by and each morning as the Mexicans finish their graveyard shift, they begin to make their way in for after work beers.

Sure enough, as soon as ten o clock hits, they start packing in like its Happy Hour at Mad Mex’s.

Double Crown Apples on the rocks for myself, and Jamison for Jill, I open a tab and she gets quarters for pool.

Once you get done running a marathon, if you take a short breather and burst back into a mile, it feels like you’re lugging a weighted sled behind you (I’ve never ran a marathon, but I’m just assuming). Nobody day drinks to take a ‘power nap’ at ten o clock to catch a second wind. It’s called submission. By this point in the week, my arm was too numb to tap out, but had just enough feeling to keep throwing back more shots.

I surge on.

Shots lead to flirtatious advancements, advancements go undenied, and lack of denial has Jill laying down on her back on top of the pool table as I skip my shot to instead take one at her.

It’s Tebow Time.

I come through in the clutch, close the game, and our tab. This time, Jill insists I take the wheel since she doesn’t feel sober enough to drive. Obviously, I shouldn’t have been driving either, but someone once asked me:

“You know why Helen Keller couldn’t drive?”

“Uhhh because she was deaf and blind?”

“No, because she was a woman.”

I was really bad by this point. I had absolute no reason to be behind a vehicle. This story should have rightfully ended with me getting a DUI at eleven in the morning as Jill tries to direct me to a discreet parking lot.

I carefully hug the right lane fighting my exhaustion. I got a 1999 Dodge Ram Van of my own, plus I’m self-declared Road Trip King, and so I’ll be damned if I go down in cuffs to cap off an unexpected week.

I cautiously hang a left hand turn over two lanes of traffic and park in the back corner of a lightly populated parking lot. There was maybe two other cars around.

I right-click follow Jill to the backseat, avoiding all clutter as if I was receiving my Level 99 Agility Cape.

She reaches down in between the seats and starts covering the windows with cut out pieces of cardboard. No joke. These were some custom made, preciously cut, sunlight blocking, privacy visors. She had larger pieces for the back windows, and smaller ones for the sides. I assumed she had them for when she wants to sleep in her van during break at work, but unless she has another job, she works midnight shifts at the hotel. Perhaps she likes it super dark, perhaps she often gets random dick from customers. Nonetheless, being placed in a do-it-yourself makeshift backseat bedroom obviously isn’t a deal breaker for me.

After we’re done, my sperm count is at zero and my phone battery is at two. Neither of us have an iPhone charger, nor do I know where the hell I am.

I use my last few percent to text Sarah and get the address of her friend’s house but my phone immediately dies before I’m able to memorize it or order an Uber.

As soon as Jill comes in from peeing outside, I tell her I’ll be right back.

Right next to our parking lot, being separated by a large wall, is a small shopping plaza with a Chinese Food restaurant.

I walk to the counter and cut straight to business.

“Hello. So here’s my problem. I’m from out of state, I don’t know where I am, and my iPhone is dead. If you have an iPhone charger, and let me charge my phone, I’ll buy food from you.”

“Ahhhh yes yes. Charge iPhone.”

I hand over my phone and place my first order. I tell them I’m gonna bring this food to my friend, and I’ll be right back. Please let my phone keep charging.

We’ve all encountered situations where we’re either trying to find a way to politely ask the other person to leave, or we’re trying to order a well-timed ride home for ourselves. If you haven’t, then I must be the only one who makes poor decisions.

Turns out, when you’re trying to get the hell home and out of the backseat of your receptionist’s minivan, Chinese food and a large can of Arizona Tea is about as golden as an engagement ring on New Year’s Eve. As The Game once said – “Bitches don’t say no to me, I’m like a wedding ring.”

I hand over the General Tso chicken, lo mein, cold beverage, tell her it’s the best I can do right now, hug her goodbye, and walk back over to the restaurant. I’m actually pretty sure that she was so tired after transitioning directly from a midnight shift to pounding shots that she just stayed and slept in her van afterwards. Who knows, maybe she lives in there. Luckily, I only had standards for about four months in my life and it was awful.

This wasn’t one of those months.

I take a glance at my phone, now up to a handful of percent or so, and look up the address that Sarah had given me. It’s basically a straight shot only a mile or two away. I guess I didn’t want to order an Uber and have my phone die again as I was waiting for it, so I deliver another drunk, desperate, self-loathing, favor asking speech to the only other customer.

He plugs the address into his phone to confirm that it’s just a few minutes away. I continuously offer to buy him his meal or gas, but he politely declines each offer.

As he’s finishing his food, I place three more orders and grab a few more drinks.

He was a younger, obese dude and hardly uttered a single word during my quick shuttle. I filled the silence with a super fast bulleted recap of why I’m now in his truck. His face was splattered with a perfect blend of astonishment, disbelief, and confusion as if he was a nine year old boy seeing the first tit of his life during Super Bowl XXXVIII.

I give another thanks, a fist pound, grab my loaded bag of Chinese food, and do the walk of shame Baby Dick style.

They each stare at me as if I was their lost child returning home alive after missing for months.

I greet them with a spread of chicken, noodles, and iced teas. For my final minutes in Denver (before heading to the airport), the group of us reminisce about the entire week.

I had gone from being flaked on, to reuniting with an old friend, meeting her own circle of fuckery, black out nights with swollen black eyes, backup plans to backup plans, receptionists driving mini vans, and an unexpected installment of Baby Dick Tales.

Sarah gives me a key to her house, I Uber over, collect my things, order another Uber to the airport, rest my head upon the back window, stare into space, and contemplate what the hell is wrong with me.

Updates/Aftermath:

In a surprising turn of events, I actually had to rewrite this section of the Tale. I had originally wrote a much more bitter ending describing the cryptic, petty, and name slandering shots that Ramona and I each exchanged. I’ll explain.

I released Dan Does Denver (part 1), as well as the official Baby Dick Tales website, on Thursday January 17th, 2019. That same morning, I also got contacted by Ramona for (basically) the first time since my visit.

I say basically because on December 5th I had emailed her What What In The Butt part 2 (she had subscribed earlier on around the same time that we began talking on the phone and so I figured I might as well have the star actress proof read the script).

I receive a text – “why the fuck are you emailing me”.

That specific text went unanswered, but when she again texted me during the morning of my website launch, I was a little freaked out.

I wasn’t sure if she somehow saw the site, even though I had only sent it out to people personally and didn’t post it anywhere on social media.

After a few very short messages, she attempted to call. I let my phone ring until voicemail. She told me that she wanted to apologize.

We end up talking on the phone for thirty minutes and discuss the entire predicament. Even though she was mad about me writing What What part 2, she admitted to not being able to finish it without laughing. As for validity of the story – her only correction was that she didn’t move to Denver over the summer. It was early fall. I sincerely apologize for my lack of authenticity.

Now, on the day that I landed in Denver, even though a large part of me was angry at Ramona, I was never a dick to her. Yes, I hit her with an assault of texts in the first day or two, but they weren’t anything hateful or threatening. I simply told her that I’d appreciate it if she was just honest with me about why she did what she did. No matter what her reasoning was.

Only took about two months, but she was finally honest. I’m not going to go into details, but admittedly, there were faults on each side. I still don’t think it was enough reason for her to ghost me once I’m out there. She should have just told me her intention before I flew out. However, contrary to popular belief, I’m truly not an asshole. Even if I don’t agree with someone else’s side of an argument, as long as I can understand it, I’m much more lenient with my judging.

As for Bailey, I had posted the Denver group picture on Instagram and hinted at how I was flaked on by a girl but still had an amazingly fun week. Once she realized that she had been my backup plan, she understandingly and as expected, got very upset and told me to never talk to her again.

Perhaps my previous statement about not being an asshole wasn’t all that accurate.

Now whether or not Ramona and I repair what was a rather strong friendship, is to be determined.

I appreciated that she was willing to reach out to me. I had wondered for weeks what her motive may have been.

A subscriber suggested that maybe she did what she did because I “left a bad taste in her mouth.” Perhaps.

Enough about Ramona, though. Log in next week to learn about Jenova and my most embarrassing moment!!!!!

Coming up in Will Fuck For Stories:

“…Before long, the defense gives up, and I decide to instead throw all of my dignity and self-respect aside for the sole purpose of having sex with a girl just so that, years later, I could tell a funny story to my friends. Shockingly, and contrary to most all other Tales, this was during the time in my life in which I very seldom drank. I broke the single game record without any PED’s…” [/member_only]

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