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Biscuit! Drinks! Stat!

When I receive this instruction from Thomas, no matter what I’m doing, no matter what time, day or night, no matter what grown-up responsibilities I have, I oblige…stat. Our shared sporadic encounters are inevitably filled with absurd moments that solidify in my memory long after the laughter pains have left my cheeks and gut.

 

 

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When I receive this instruction from Thomas, no matter what I’m doing, no matter what time, day or night, no matter what grown-up responsibilities I have, I oblige…stat. Our shared sporadic encounters are inevitably filled with absurd moments that solidify in my memory long after the laughter pains have left my cheeks and gut.

 

On this particular occasion, we decided to take a dive bar tour of Tampa, beginning with the lesbian-chic Rainbow Room, where we pounded beers in plastic lawn chairs amid the makeshift beach volleyball court. It was there that Thomas dubbed my presumably sly tug of my shirt from the belly crease that forms when I sit the “fat-girl-shirt-tug.”

 

After absorbing all that the Rainbow Room had to offer, we continued our tour to Chelsea, a small establishment with a parking lot littered with homeless people from the adjacent Salvation Army. Sensing my reservations, Thomas proposed a plan:

 

Thomas: “Don’t’ sweat it, Biscuit. We can bomb out if it’s sketch. Remember, the safety word is Daria Morgandorfer.” We scarcely made it in the door before I was ready to pull my parachute.

Doorman: “Three dollars.”

 

Thomas: “Are you insane!?!”

 

Me: “I stepped over a homeless man to get here and you’re gonna charge me?”

 

Doorman: “It’s free drinks.”

 

We promptly paid our three dollars and ordered three drinks each when a pachyderm-sized teenaged goth-girl accosted us, rambling ad nauseum about things that only matter when you are eighteen. After several minutes of mind-numbing chatter, I began fantasizing about her in a black pleather mumu, eating her feelings and cutting herself, warm sausage gravy oozing from her open veins.

 

Me: “Thomas, did you see that episode of DARIA we were talking about?”

 

With full drinks waiting, Thomas was unsure whether I wanted to escape the rhino or leave altogether.

 

Thomas: “You mean Daria here…or Daria HERE?”

 

Having neglected to outline the intricacies of the safety word, I exclaimed, “I don’t know! Daria! Daria Goddamn Morgandorfer!” Luckily the rhino was skittish and lumbered away. We pounded down the remaining free wells and moved on.

 

The hideously unhygienic forty-year-old-looking doorman at Reservoir announced it was his twenty-first birthday. It is apparently tradition at Reservoir for the seasoned barmaid, Mama, to pants off any birthday boys, bend them over the pool table and spank them. This tradition was evidenced by many pictures.

 

Me: “Dear God, I hope she doesn’t pants that nasty-ass doorman.”

 

Thomas: “Biscuit, that’s Mama’s son.”

 

We made a hasty exit, stumbling into seventy-five cent screwdriver night at L’Olivier. I could feel the downward spiral when Thomas heard Sophie B. Hawkins queue up for the next drag performance. Obliterated and overcome with inspiration, Thomas politely asked the drag queen to step aside as he performed “Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover” with all the grace and poise of a ballerina overdosing on Ritalin. We were asked to leave shortly after and on the way home, I said a half-hearted prayer that it would be a while before I would again hear “Biscuit! Drinks! Stat!”

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