An evening at the ballpark .. gone bad
This is the story about how a drunken night can go from a good time to a bad time to “what the hell happened this time?”
Hoping to shrug off the weighty idea of having to look for a new job, I took a friend up on her offer to watch the last Giants home game. I arrived early, met another friend at the sushi place with a great happy hour. A bottle of sake later, my friend with the invite shows up with her co-worker.
Said friend walks into sushi place, orders up a round of sake bombs. Follows it with another, and another, and another. Oh, and the sushi was late so the waitress gave us a free bottle of sake. Several rounds of sake bombs later, the only logical next step was to go straight to the Irish bar across the street.
And on goes the drinking. Redheaded sluts, Irish car bombs and a couple of clouded thoughts involving the general theme of “why?”
Four innings in, my friend who initially met me at the restaurant taps out for fear of retribution from his waiting girlfriend at home. It probably the smartest decision he ever made. The three us us remaining decide to go to the ballpark because the co-worker had never visited the stadium. We stumble up to the ticket window, get standing only tickets and make our way around the ballpark. We navigate our way to the giant coke bottle and talk drunk co-worker into taking the children’s slide. She goes up the stairs, but never comes down the slide. So I have to go find her and slide down with her. I said a short prayed before pushing off that the drunk co-worker wouldn’t puke on the way down.
The night quickly slipped away after that.
We were asked to leave the park. Yes, you read that right, security nicely suggested we “get your drunk friend out of here.”
But first, a bathroom break.
That’s where the puking started. She puked up her guts. All over the bathroom stall, all over my shoes. I held this chick’s hair and rubbed her back and defended her as woman after woman asked if she was OK.
So as soon as she could stand, security walked us out of the bathroom. Then, because she could not stand, they called in stadium paramedics to get her out in a wheelchair.
They deliver her to the curb next to where the ambulance’s park. We have to get a taxi – at the cost of $80 – to take us home to San Mateo.
So I take the drunk friend and barely alive co-worker into my place. So, co-worker proceeds to puke all over my bathroom. It’s sort of like a scene from the Exorcist, except this time I’m not laughing.
Oh, you think this story is over? You, my friend, are sadly mistaken.
I shuffle off to bed. It is, after all, a Thursday night and some of us have a lame duck job to get to in the morning. And then, I hear the knock on my bedroom door. It’s my friend. She wants to know if I have a shovel. My first thought was that we were going to kill her and bury her in the backyard. I was surprisingly OK with that considering the next bit of information.
The girl crapped, a full-on bowel movement, on my bathroom floor. She pulls down her pants and craps on the floor! Who does that? Who?!
So, my horrified friend (who has never been out drinking with the co-worker) makes her clean up her own crap. Of course, that seems fair. So as the girl is cleaning in her black-out state, she falls into her own poop and smears it along my tub.
She then passes out on my living room floor. She puked a little there too.
She called a cab and was gone by 4 a.m. She lost her phone that night, got a new one the next day and changed her phone number, according to Facebook. She hasn’t talked to my friend since … and they work together.
And that’s how I got kicked out of a ballgame and had a stranger poop on my floor.