Quick (or not so quick) recap of the trip. Saturday I had to work at the old folks show lounge till 1:00am and I topped that off with three pitchers at the sports bar. Got home around 2:30, took a shower, finished packing and had to leave for the airport at 3:30. Way too fucking early for a 6:15 flight. I sat around watching a replay of a college football game for an hour and a half sucking down Starbucks coffee to keep me up since I hadn’t gone to bed yet. Once I got on the plane I was pleasantly surprised to find I was in seat 1 A (lots of leg room!) and I was right next to the flight attendant’s seat. I should have taken her picture; she was the first flight attendant I have ever seen that was hot. And I mean smoking hot. Most flight attendants I see are 40 yr old women who look like 40 yr old hookers that are worn out and weathered from giving blow jobs to get their fix on. Their faces are wrinkly and their asses are wide and they don’t give a shit if they wake you from a deep sleep by bumping your elbow with their right butt cheek (or was it a hip bone, I couldn’t tell, my eyes were closed, fucking hit and runs). But this girl was cute, thin, and quite friendly. Or at least I thought she was, I don’t know, every time I exhaled I could smell tequila from Saturday night’s “Sending B off to Cancun” party. Ok, nobody really likes me that much to throw me a party, but the bartender gave me two shots of tequila, I think that’s the biggest party anyone has ever thrown for me. Anyway, I decided to stop talking to her and try to keep the tequila smell to a minimum and took a nap. I never sleep on planes but I slept like a baby in the state I was in. I’ll have to remember that for the next flight.
I landed in Dallas or Houston, one of the two, doesn’t make a difference, I was in Texas somewhere looking for my next flight. I needed gate D17 and all I could see were signs pointing to D18-36. Uh, what happened to D17? Being slightly intoxicated and short on time I asked a woman where the gate was and a black guy next to her tells me to come with him. He puts me on one of those electric carts you always see old people being driven around on. Now I feel like a total retard as I’m only 29 and have legs capable of jogging two miles let alone walk 300 yards in an airport. But at least I know I’m going in the right direction. On the way some other people ask him for directions too. I noticed he was always looking at their travel documents with his left hand. As we continued on I saw that his right hand was a very well detailed but yet fake hand. Usually those things are all shiny and obvious but his matched his skin color and even had wrinkles painted on it to make it look real. When we finally got to gate D17 I thanked him very much for his help. You should have seen the smile on his face when I stuck out my left hand for a hand shake. You have to wonder how often people either notice it or are actually thankful enough to offer him a handshake. Anyway, I hope I made his day as his smile certainly made mine.
On the second flight I encountered one of the worst seating partners you can ever have on an airplane. Everyone knows the ultimate worst is the fat lady who smells like pee and needs the seatbelt extension to go around her size 600 waist and who’s arms and shoulders overflow into your designated area. But if you have to sit next to these people you will know what I’m talking about: young married couples. After 20 minutes of sitting in the plane I knew it was going to be a shitty flight. All the kissing and hand holding and giggling and laughing almost made me puke. “Honey, do you want do this? Honey, should we go see this? Oh honey look, you can see the ground!” I did my best to ignore it. Just give it 15 years kiddies, I’m sure you won’t even want to touch your spouse anymore. Or even worse, sending your ex-spouse that monthly payment and addressing the envelope with your old address, the house which she got in the settlement. (I can be a little negative at times, ya think?)
I got to Cancun and picked the slowest line going through immigration. Not a big deal as I know how long it takes for them to get your bag on to the luggage conveyer. I waited at the luggage carousel for what seemed like an hour, hoping and praying that my red suitcase with pink scarf tied around it (only thing the roommate had) would be the next bag out of the shoot. But no, the carousel stopped and my bag was not there. I walked over to a guy standing at a desk nearby and told him my bag didn’t come through. He asked me my name and checked a list he had printed out. Thank goodness, my name was on it. Apparently my bag didn’t have a one-handed black guy help it in Dallas or Houston as it changed planes. My bag was on the next flight and would be arriving in two hours. While the guy was talking I checked my watch wondering if I was going to have to sit around the airport for another two hours. But he asked me for the name of my hotel and said he would send it over when it came in. Whew, what a relief. He even gave me his name and phone number and said I should call if the bag didn’t arrive by 6:00. I’m guessing most travelers get upset or irritated when their luggage doesn’t come in (like the young couple that rudely interrupted our conversation) because this guy almost looked shocked when I thanked him and shook his hand. He gave me a big smile and told me to have a good trip. Thanks buddy, I’ll do my best.
6:00 came and went and the tshirt I had been wearing and sweating out alcohol in was starting to smell like mold. I almost couldn’t stand it myself. When I went down to the hotel lobby to inquire about my bag again I stood a couple feet back from the desk, hoping the lingering Pig Pen smell wouldn’t waft over to the cute girl helping me. 6:30 came and went and I started downing rum without abandon. Usually I’m cool and calm, nothing really bothers me too much, but for some reason I started to panic a little bit. I don’t know if it was the fact that I didn’t have my luggage or the fact that I was pretty much stuck wearing this horrible smelling tshirt for an indefinite amount of time. 7:00 the phone rings, 7:05 there’s a knock on the door and some short Mexican guy holding my bag. This huge weight was lifted off my shoulders and in my state of jubilation I gave him $5 for his services. I must have been panicking more than I realized as I would never give someone $5 just for bringing my bag to my room. Cheap ass.
After showering and eating I went over to the sports betting establishment. Almost like Vegas, they have big screen TVs and odds listed on the walls for pretty much every game or horse race you can think of. Since I missed all the Sunday football action I caught up on the scores (Packers won!) and looked at the line for the Monday night game (Giants vs. Cowboys). I didn’t know which way the game was going to go, but I thought it would be a high scoring game and the over/under was at 45. I mulled this over for a while, capping off my wild day of travel with six or so Coronas. I paid the bill and staggered up to the betting window. I have never had so much trouble pulling $66 out from my pocket. The guy at the desk must have thought I was a complete moron as it took me a good minute to get the money out and drunkenly count out $66. He took the money, printed out the ticket for $66 to win $60 on the over and wished me luck. As I was leaving I found out why it took me so long to get the money out of my pocket. I was fucking drunk. Not just fucking drunk, but fucked up drunk. I had trouble going up the steps to get to the front door. I tried to say goodnight to the doorman but mumbled something unintelligible instead. I almost ran in to another guy who was entering the building. I tried to avoid the pools of water that had collected during a downpour but somehow managed to step in every one. I had to concentrate when walking past people on the sidewalk so I wouldn’t run into them. Not exactly your ideal situation, drunk American obviously stumbling down the street with $800 on him. When I got to the hotel I again mumbled something to the door man and stumbled in the door. My shoes were soaked and made spungy noises as I went down the walkways bouncing off every wall that would support me. I made it to the room, said something to the people I went with and went to bed. So here it is, the first day of my vacation and my only real shoes (besides sandals) are soaked because some asshole got drunk and walked through pools of water that were six inches deep. Thanks asshole.
(Shit, that’s a lot of writing and that was just the first day. This might go on for a while.)
Monday through Thursday pretty much blended in together. During the day I’d sit on the beach, swim in the pool, and disregard that stupid rule that says you can’t drink till after noon. Monday night I went back to the sports betting place but I either couldn’t stay up or got too drunk to watch the end of the game. Tuesday morning I woke up with this quarter sized spot on my foot that didn’t have any skin on it. The sandals I was forced to wear since my shoes were still soaked rubbed the shit out of my foot and left me with an open wound. Great, so make that two shoes I can’t wear anymore on this trip. I was down to my Adidas sandals which thankfully didn’t rub the sore spot.
Tuesday night I went back yet again to collect on my winning ticket. I didn’t stay too long as they had the baseball game on but they were playing it in Spanish and the only words I could understand were the players names. Baseball can be boring at times but let me tell you, it’s really boring if you can’t understand what the hell the announcers are saying.
Wednesday I decided I needed to get out and visit some of the local hangouts I had been to in the past. I hopped on the bus and made the 15/20 minute trip downtown. Then disaster struck. I guess I got off the bus too early because some hot chic was getting off and I wanted to walk behind her for a bit (geez that sounds really bad). I followed her for a bit as she was walking in the direction I wanted to go. Looking around I recognized the stores and sights and thought I was going the right way. One vendor asked me where I was going (for beer) and he lured me in to his shop with a Corona. All he had in his shop was jewelry so I really wasn’t interested in anything but the fake Rolex watches. I turn down the watches and he asks me if I want some smoke. He opens up this cigar box and shows me a bag the size of my fist filled with weed. I jump back holding up my hands, “Woa, hey, no thanks man, put that away.” Then he asked if I want a woman. If you read the last entry I made on here you will know that I have paid for sex in Cancun before (I was lonely!). The idea of having sex with some hot little Mexican woman sparked my interest. “Yeah man, I can make a phone call and have her come down to the store. If you don’t like her you don’t have to pay, you can just walk away or I’ll make another phone call for another woman. You take her back with you and kick her out in the morning. If she’s good you can tip her. What do you think?” If you would have x-rayed my skull you would have seen the gerbil running in his wheel at a tremendous speed, almost the speed of light. They only wanted $150 and since I had just won $300 at the casino less than a week ago the price sounded awfully attractive. But there was one problem, actually a couple. I was staying with an ex-coworker, her 8 yr old daughter, and her 70 yr old mom. How the hell was I going to take some woman home and bang her on the couch without waking everyone up and being officially uninvited to Cancun ever again? That wasn’t going to fly. Second problem was I was already on the verge of getting loaded and while I can certainly get Mr. Winky to stand at full mast while loaded I can’t finish the deal if you know what I mean. So while the offer sounded good it just wasn’t going to work out (why didn’t I meet these guys when I was staying by myself!? I’ll have to stay in my own room and take more money with me next time). I told them I was going to walk around the block and think about it and get back to them. Instead I just got the fuck out of there as quickly as I could.
Why does the thought of paying for sex and not having to put up with having a girlfriend sound like such a good idea to me? Come on, no arguments, no stupid Valentine’s Day gifts, no having sex with the same dead fish every time? Just a little cash for having porn star sex with some slut you’ll kick out the door in about an hour. I think I’m getting hard.
Back to Wednesday. I stumbled around downtown Cancun for about an hour and I couldn’t find any of the bars I have stopped in before. I even asked directions for one of them and couldn’t find it. Everything looked familiar as I’ve walked the streets many times before, but I just couldn’t quite locate the area I was looking for. So I eventually gave up, plopped my tired ass in a chair on the patio of a small bar, had some Coronas, and watched people walk by for thirty minutes. After that I was getting a little loaded so I hopped in a cab and made sure I got home safely.
Thursday was interesting in that I talked to a woman for three hours and don’t remember more than two things that were said. Wednesday K told me I had to finish up the beer so I did my best and with two to go I was past out snoring on the beach. Thursday K told me I had to finish up the rum as we had just over a liter left. Again, I put in a good effort and by 10:30 in the morning I was seen stumbling around the hotel looking for trouble. 11:00 I found a woman sitting by the pool reading something. I took one step toward her, thought better and turned around, took a sip of rum, turned back around and walked up to her. “I hope what you’re reading isn’t business related.” She looks up and smiles at me. Later I find out it’s a crossword puzzle book, yeah, that’s business related, only you B. 11:00 and I’m loaded to the point where I can’t read, great. Heather was from Detroit. She was a full time student in the nursing field. That’s it. That’s all I can remember from talking with her for three hours. I did find it weird that when her mom and step dad came over she introduced me for 30 seconds telling them my name, where I was from, what I did for a living, and how long I was staying. Geez, could have just said, “Mom, Dad, this is B, we just met two hours ago.” I wasn’t exactly sure what that was all about but oh well. She did ask me if I wanted a drink and she got me a Corona on her step dad’s bill. And when her parents came by later he got me another one. I thanked him and said, “Sir, your daughter’s ass is a little fat but you don’t have to get me drunk for me to screw her. I’d screw her sober no problem.” I guess he didn’t find this funny as he took my beer and dumped it on me. Ok, I didn’t really say that but… Around 3:00 or so I told her I had to go do something, can’t remember what. Want to know why I can’t remember? Because I had almost finished a liter of rum. I stumbled on the beach, found a chair by the room, and passed out only to be woken an hour later by K because it was raining. Then I slept on the patio chair for another hour. I’m starting to wonder if I was ever actually sober on this trip.
Friday I woke up, thought about finishing the last four shots of rum that were left and almost threw up. I just moped about dreading leaving the warm weather and beach. 11:30 came and I was in a cab heading to the airport. At the ticket counter the woman asked me if I wanted to sit in the emergency exit row so there’d be more leg room. I had an aisle seat and she said this one was a window seat. I always like sitting on the aisle so I can hang over a bit and not get too close to the person next to me. In a window seat you can’t do that, you’re just stuck next to the window. So I turned down the leg room for shoulder room on the aisle. Later I found out that the row she was going to put me in only had two seats instead of three and I would have had a shit load of room. Never turn down an exit row seat. After I checked my bag I stepped outside for one last cigarette, threw away my lighter, and headed for the security checkpoint. While I hate leaving Cancun, the Cancun airport is one of the best places for spotting hot women. Most of the women wear short shorts or skirts, tight tops, and have a nice tan from playing in the sun. One girl I saw had her swimming suit bottoms on with a short see through wrap just barely covering her ass. I saw a lot of half shirts and exposed tan stomachs. Very nice. I was starting to get hungry so I decided to pick up a sub. $7 was a rip off for the hard piece of shit I got but what are you going to do. While I was eating it a man walked by and with a southern drawl said, “I had one of dem. Dem’s pretty rough.” Thanks man, I hadn’t noticed.
My first flight (again sitting next to a young married couple) was delayed by an hour, my second flight was delayed two hours, all because of some shitty weather somewhere in the central states. Ended up getting home at midnight on Friday and was instantly reacquainted with Wisconsin stepping off the plane feeling the 40 degree weather go up my shorts and shrink my testicles. Don’t worry, they are back to normal now and have gotten used to the cold temps, but still. 90 degree weather to 40 degree weather in a twelve hour span is not pleasant. Luckily I found a guy smoking outside to give me a light and I smoked three straight cigarettes waiting for the red bag with the pink scarf to make its way on to the conveyer. I spotted it through the window, carefully set my cigarette down, raced in, grabbed the bag, raced back out and continued puffing away in the 40 degree weather wearing my shorts and tshirt (the things that smokers will do…). The roommate pulled up five minutes later and I was sitting at the bar 15 minutes later with roughly two and a half hours to get fucked up in. And that I did. The last food I had eaten was well digested by then so I was going on an empty stomach. Three pitchers later and I was done. Perfect way to cap off a week long vacation.
Side note on Friday at the bar. The woman who packed up her shit while I was at work and moved in with some rich guy was at the bar. She was there with some scruffy looking elf man. I of course avoided eye contact with her but its hard when she’s 10 feet away from you and her head is right below the TV you’re watching. At one point in the night I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and there she is standing right next to me. She says something like hey, how’s it going, blah, blah, blah, I don’t remember. Then she holds up two one hundred dollar bills. She says, “I heard you’ve been talking about me at the bar.” Uh, no, I can’t stand you, why would I want to talk about you? I cringe every time I see you. “I owe you this money. Everyone, I need a witness, I’m paying B the two hundred dollars I owe him.” Actually its $224 you owe me but I’ll take the $200. Back when she was living with me (October 2005?) I paid her health insurance bill since she didn’t have a job and certainly didn’t have $224. That was a year ago. Me, being an accountant, knows a thing or two about allowances for bad debts and writing off bad debts. I had written this one off a long time ago. So it was quite a surprise (more of a shock) to have this woman hand me two hundred dollars out of the blue. Thank you very much, but I still don’t like you and never will. But it was nice getting the money since I had just returned from vacation two hours prior and my hotel food/alcohol bill was $195. Replenishing the cash flow is always a good thing, especially when you’re a playa like myself.
1 comment:
by the sounds of it ur not a playa
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