Just another Friday night in Baltimore

It is a truth universally certain that when you have reached your fourth decade, the last place that you should be found on a Friday night is a bathroom stall in a Baltimore bar with your panties in the trash and your shorts in one of the sinks.

Completely. Passed. Out.

The problem of course, is that is exactly where we found the woman at Tysons Pub on Friday night. This, you may remember, is the place that my friend's boyfriend (ok, my friend too) was looking to buy. As they were coming down to meet us, they happened to notice that it was open, so we thought we'd check it out for a drink and possibly get the information that Aaron had been looking for.

Oh, it was open, all right. Turns out that the new owners were celebrating their opening night with a bit of a bang. Not in the good way, of course, the place was pretty dead. Just like we initially suspected the girl in the bathroom to be.

Becca went in first. She noticed the girl and her two drunk friends. She alerted the owners. They told her that they already knew. Nice. Then, I went in, determined that 911 needed to be called, actually called 911, played 20 questions (Heart conditions? Nope. Diabetes? Nope - though I suspected Type 2. Age? I was about to say 21 when her friend goes, "42" -- WTF! Oh, and she had three kids), and advised the women that their friend probably should have her pants on when the cops arrive so that she could avoid an indecency charge. I'm telling you, those wild days at Bar Baltimore trained me well.

All the while, the owner is trying to convince me that it's not a good idea to actually call 911. He can take her to his house. Yeah, that's a good idea. So now, instead of her passing out and dying in the bar, she can pass out and die at the home of someone who will undoubtedly return to the bar upon depositing her on the couch, bed or floor. Considering that she had soiled herself (seriously, can it GET any worse?), my guess was leaning towards the floor.

So, then the firefighters show up and, shortly thereafter, the rescue squad. They agree with my assessment that Patty needs to go to hospital. Not to jail; not to the house. Hospital. They load her up on the stretcher and attempt to wheel her out the front door. But no, the owner still doesn't think it's good for business that this completely irresponsible person is wheeled out the front door. He tries to get them to go through the back -- limited alley access, I believe. Ok, how about a side-door? Still not happening...the stretcher can't make the turn.

So out the front she goes. And her friends STICK AROUND THE BAR. No one's going with her to answer the questions, hold her hand, or protect her from the embarrassment that's sure to come when the doctors figured out that not only was she not wearing clean underwear (mama always said*), she wasn't wearing anything at all. Nope, they've bellied up and ordered another. Oh, and started complaining that it was a waste of the taxpayers money for both the fire department and the ambulance to show up. Definitely weird, but then we get those two final details:

1) she was an employee
2) they had a provisional liquor license. If the cops had figured out that the staff was getting snockered on the first night, they would have been reduced to serving O'Doules and Diet Sodas.

With friends like these....

Can I just say right here and now that I'm grateful for the friends I have? Some of whom also left me on Friday night. However, it was much later and in the company of a perfect gentleman. Who, because it's one of the perils of giving away your blog address too soon, is asking for his very own alias. Problem being that the one he suggested ("Mike") won't really work for various and sundry reasons. So, Shakespeare -- possibly -- Berger -- though, frankly, I'm not sure I can support using the name of a man who breaks up with a girl on a post-it -- is going to be surprised by whatever I finally come up with.

Anyway, as I said, nice guy who claimed to have been intimidated by Cassie. He needn't be, she's very nice and confidential to Christopher Marlowe, SHE WAS JOKING!!! Though, I'm pretty sure you'll never forget her name again.

I have noticed a bit of a disturbing trend already. Both times I've seen him (at Max's and then on Friday), he'll walk away for a moment (drink, lav, back to friends...) which seems to invite a new "friend" to appear at my side and not leave me alone to the point that I'm actually uncomfortable. The first time, it was a Baltimore City police officer who, despite the fact that he kept complimenting me on the fact that he was pleasantly surprised I could write in a bar, wouldn't actually let me do it. Friday, it was this guy who felt the need to share that the reason he was out drinking in a bar is because his wife slapped him. He (bitch-slap) then brought over his friends and they just took over the table like they belonged there. By the time He-Who-Has-Yet-To-Be-Named returned, there were like five rednecks and a Gretchen Wilson wannabe hanging over the table. They provided quite a bit of amusement, and conversation fodder. Not that we needed it. Now, I'm not saying this is a problem that I can't handle, but if it happens again, I may have no choice but to assume that he's actually sending these weirdos over in an attempt to make himself look even better. If he is, I do have to commend him on an interesting tactic. I'll keep you guys posted. ;)

* About the underwear thing. Not that this matters, but there's this guy I went to HS with who is actually a doctor at Hopkins' ER. Really, I'm thinking that the last person who needs to see me in laundry-panties is Dr. McBeachy; after all, he'll talk to Dr. McDoggie (he's a vet from our class) who'll talk to his mom, who'll talk to my mom (they're librarians together) who will talk to me about the sage advice of always having clean undies in case you have to go to hospital and the fact that I didn't follow it on the day that I happened to have been doing laundry and falling down the stairs in my home. Then, I'll be all upset because while the undies will most definitely have been clean, they wouldn't have been cute and my drug-addled brain (assuming painkillers here) won't have any clue where in the telephone-chain screwed up the order and that's not really something you can call up anyone and go "Did you say I wasn't wearing clean undies when McBeachy saved my life? Because I totally was." So yeah, I'm just saying that if I'm ever in a situation where one of you is having to take charge of me after an accident at home, could you make sure that I'm wearing cute undies before the ambulance comes to take me to the ER? It sounds weird, I know, but it would really help my recovery. Thanks.