One night after drinking at one of the lobbyist freebees, Putty and I decided to head to another bar. I realized too late that I was too drunk to be there. But here we were, in my mind, a pseudo-date and I didn’t want to blow it.
I excused myself and stumbled down the stairs to the bathroom. I then did what drunk girls do. I slumped on the sink and introduced myself to the women washing their hands.
I asked them what I should do. For whatever reason, all participants appeared to take this as seriously as I did.
So, with the bathroom think-tank’s clearly thought-out and foolproof plan agreed upon, I ran back to him breathless…we have to go! Right now! No time to talk! I dragged him out and down into the Capital Metro stop.
I explained as we got on the train, “I ran into um…this staffer from our office…and she said that she was going to tell, um…our intern coordinator on me for underage drinking.”
It doesn’t matter if Putty believed me because whatever carefully laid plans the potty-posse and I made was negated in seconds. Without warning, I puked, in a perfect stream, red wine all over him.
“I didn’t do it!”
What the f*ck did I just say?
“OMG – who did that?” I kept it going. I had no other choice than to embrace the farce or face looking like a bigger lunatic.
“What do you mean, who did that?” I don’t remember if he was angry or confused, or both.
“I swear I didn’t do it!”
“Tracey, there was no one else on the train. I saw you do it.”
“No, I didn’t!” Now I was working on a cellular level, my brain trying to convince itself I didn’t just stain my crush with partially digested red wine and shouldn’t go home and hang myself.
As if I couldn’t make the situation worse, I threw down my messenger bag and told him I was falsely accused like Harrison Ford in The Fugitive.
“Where is the one-armed man?” I ranted and pouted. He ignored me. I followed him into his suite telling everyone that someone had puked red wine on us. I wasn’t going to let this go.
While Putty changed, his suitemates decided to head to Georgetown. I went with them, and to prove my point, I went without changing. Would someone who puked on herself dare to go out like that!? Of course not!
The one-armed man was never exonerated but tried many ways toward repairing relations with the victim. The first – taking his clothes to the dry cleaner.
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