Coming Out of the Stables
Many college campuses and sororities around the country mimic the pageantry and fanfare of the Kentucky Derby by hosting events on the day of the big race. Typically at these events, guys will dress up as douchebags in pastels and the ladies will dress up like high-priced escorts. Escorts with exorbitant hats and a pension for day drinking. There are only three requirements in the midst of the fanfare that everyone must conform to.
- Everyone must be plastered before noon.
- At least once you have to royally embarrass yourself.
- Don’t watch the race.
Seriously, no one watches the fucking race. I think I nailed that description. Go me. I’m sure it’s loads of good fun. I don’t particularly participate in such events because I’m an egotistical prick who thinks he’s too good for things like that. Again, I think I nailed the description. I think it could be something that I could get into, though. There was so much young, fit, college cleavage around that I could have steered with my erection.
I had received a ride fairly early in the day from a trendy dive that was having a special on Mimosas and Fireball. It was like they were trying to steal some of the basic white girl market away from Starbucks. I was just so very lucky to pick up the exact scenario I described earlier; he said with overtly expressed sarcasm. The clients that approached my vehicle were a couple of college students dressed in their Sunday best. Initially, I assumed they were headed to Sears.
It’s an obscure Brady Bunch Movie reference. Google it.
They were an absolute spectacle climbing into my back seat. The guy was wearing pastel pink cargo shorts, loafers without socks and he tied it all together with an ill-advised button-down. I’m talking light green, white and pink plaid. I’m pretty sure he bought his outfit at Party City on clearance the week after Easter. I could’ve sat him down and stuffed his lap with plastic grass, Peeps and Jelly Beans then sold him to K-Mart as an egg basket. I think I could’ve gotten a respectable $12.99. On the other side of the coin, his female counterpart was initially obscured by a massive, Fire-Engine red hat that barely fit in my car. She had to hold the hat on her head as she got in because she kept knocking it off. Her ensemble was paired with a quarter-sleeve, knee-length, red plunging neckline dress. Don’t ask why I know so much about dress design. The neckline was plunging so far that it went almost to her navel. It fit her very well and she looked drop-dead gorgeous in it. But the thin red satin looked like she was a hard sneeze away from her tits flopping out and me throwing my tip money at her feet.
I gave them my customary greetings and we got on the road, heading to a house address. The lady in red was so ludicrously blitzed that I was jealous. Her male companion mentioned something about being hungry and suggested that she would sober up quickly if she got some food in her as well.
Me: “Changing plans to a lunch date then?”
Guy: “Yeah, I need to eat something.”
Girl: “It’s not a date. I’m not exactly his type.”
Me: “Sorry to hear that.”
Guy: “No, she speaks the truth. I’m gay and she doesn’t do anal.”
It was going to be one of those kind of rides. I’m hoping that it would stop there and that the female would just laugh it off. Much to my dismay, she decided to retort. And she managed to do so without opening her eyes.
Girl: “Shut up, yes I do.”
Guy: “Girl, please. We all know you’re vanilla. Hell, even the driver can probably tell that you’re a straight-missionary, no foreplay kinda girl. Plus you’re single, you’re not doing anything lately.”
Now we’re just perpetuating stereotypes. It would have been a good idea for both of them to go grab a bite and sober up. Naturally, she stubbornly refused and just wanted to go home. The sensible one in the group was like “Girl, whatever” and the girl whatevered. The guy started to give me directions to a local diner where some friends of his worked. It was only a few blocks away so it was a quick trip. I let him out at the curb with barely a word exchanged and got back on the road. I put the car back in gear and let the hand brake down while asking the female how her day was going. She responded by laying down across the back seat and ignoring me. If I had a dollar for every time an attractive female ignored me I wouldn’t have needed the second job.
Did I mention the dress? I hope you were paying attention.
I checked my mirrors before pulling back onto the road. My side mirrors were clear, showing nothing but the sunny skies behind me. My rear view mirror presented a problem, though. Something caught my eye and I did a double take to confirm. I’m glad her eyes were closed because my gaze at this point wasn’t exactly what one would call “clandestine.” The position my passenger was laying had caused one of her breasts to begin to slip out. Like I’m getting half an areola peeking out at me. But as it is in most significant life events: it doesn’t count unless you see a nipple.
Me: “Excuse me, Ma’am??”
Shit. Oh, well. The show must go on. I checked my mirrors again to catch more nip slippage and so I could merge onto the road. Three factors are significant in this scenario, and two of them are not her tits. Firstly, I drive a manual. Numero dos: we were in a hilly area full of tightly packed streets. And, finally, we had to turn around to get back on the route to her place. Keep that in the back of your mind, it might be important later. After leaving the restaurant I had to take a quick left onto a short block, followed by another quick left. Throughout this, I hopped from first gear to second gear to stop to first gear to second to stop to first. Do you see where I’m headed with this? I wish I had at the time. After being back on the road for only a few short minutes, she shot up in her seat like something had just bit her in the ass. That, or she caught me trying to sneak a peek at that nip again. Naturally, my eyes tracked to movement and I looked in my mirror to see what was going on. And we can all be glad that I did.
The entirety of her left breast was completely exposed. There was a horse out of the stable. The target was in the open. The magician has dropped the curtain and the whole crowd is mystified. I didn’t want to be rude or get caught staring so I looked down quickly. I heard her pounding on her door and her window started to come down slowly. I figured maybe it was a little stuffy in the car and she wanted some fresh air. Although I’m not sure how fresh the air is in a major metropolitan area. I reached down to turn up the air conditioner, hoping to make it more comfortable. At the time I wasn’t thinking about what happens to nipples when they get cold, but I have since then. And you are right now.
But it was so much worse than that. We were approaching a red light so I had started to slow down and we were rolling towards a crowded bar on the corner. As her window came down and she rolled to face it I could hear guys at the bar shouting at us. Because apparently that’s what you do when you’re a douche cunt with no personality and have never seen a breast in real life. The noise was short lived and I wish my car had faster windows. She gagged and I heard a splatter coming from the back. I looked away from my A/C and over my left shoulder in time to see a splash ricocheting off the window and landing like raindrops against my door. She let out another cough and I felt a wet, hot money shot strike my shoulder. She didn’t get the window down in time and vomit is plastering the interior and exterior of my car simultaneously. The cheers from outside quickly turned to disgust before transitioning to laughter. The light had turned green and there were several cars behind me. I couldn’t stop in the middle of traffic and I could not for the life of me find a place to pull over. She managed to get the window the rest of the way down before spewing more bile down the side of my car. If you factor in the velocity of the vehicle with wind speed, direction, and relative humidity, carry the seven, and one could conclude that my paint job is covered in someone’s bodily fluids.
She sat back down and I asked if she was okay, to which she did not respond save glaring at me through my mirror. I then apologized for not being able to stop and again she did not respond. Fuck me for being concerned, right? She looked down at herself and realized that she was what the French call “a hot mess.” At least I assume that’s what she thought. I could see that she teared up a little and she was splattered with tan and brown streaks over her dress and breast like a fucking Jackson Pollack painting.
She adjusted her dress to cover her goo-covered breast back up while shooting me a look that just screams “Go to Hell.” I still find it more than slightly disgusting that she didn’t even bother to clean off her mud-covered mound before shoving it back in. But I also couldn’t chime up and say “Eww. The spew is on the inside now. You’re gonna walk around like that?” I was definitely thinking it in my head, though. I cracked the windows to clear the smell out a bit and give her some of the freshest air I could. After about a block she flopped back down on the seat with her butt pressed against the and fell back asleep. For those who can’t follow context clues, she laid her ass in vomit and passed the fuck out. And she stayed that way for the remainder of the trip.
She woke up as I was slowing to a stop in front of her house. She had a confused look on her face as she sat up and looked around. I distinctly heard a sliding mush sound like someone slipping in dog shit as her hand tried to grip the door half-crusted door handle. As she closed the door behind her the scope of her handiwork glared her in the face. She stumbled backward and let out a rather sarcastic “Sorry.” She didn’t care. I’m just the piece of shit lowlife driver. Plus she was fucking plastered. She looked at me and then back at her artistry. I explained to her through my window that it was fine, not to worry and that I would take care of it. She mumbled something unintelligible and I think I heard the word “pay.” I’m assuming she was trying to say something about paying for the damages. At least, she should have been. I again told her not to worry and that everything was fine. I even suggested that she should go get some rest and told her that I hoped she felt better. I was trying to be as polite as I could. She turned to walk away and her voice miraculously recovered to give me clear and articulate a parting salutation.
Girl: “You got to see my tit, so we’re square.”
Meh. Fair enough.
Obviously, I couldn’t continue to pick up clients with my whip looking the way it did so I turned off the app and began to look for a car wash. There was a gas station a couple of blocks away and I decided to try my luck there. It wasn’t until I got out of the car that I realized the full extent of things. No, ma’am, we were not square. Yes, it was a nice tit. But not sufficient enough to cover the fly-attracting mess made of my ride. It was more vomit than a woman her size should have been able to physically carry in her body. Maybe if we were talking both tits, some bush and a quick handy to completion that might have been more even. There was puke in my carpet, on my floor mats, covering my seat and the back of the driver’s seat. It was on my shirt, my door and her door and window. She even got it passed the little seal into that unholy crevasse between the window and the door. How was I supposed to clean that without taking the door apart?
I’ve only covered the interior. The exterior looked like a sepia-toned murder scene. My passenger door was covered. The wind streaked vomit all the way to the tip of my back bumper which then leaked onto my tailpipe. I used a pen to open my fuel door just to find that it had spread into that compartment and got on my gas cap as well. I was not happy. It was barely afternoon so my day was edging close to being a wash. I couldn’t take another ride until all this was taken care of and every moment wasted doing it was me bleeding money. A quick peek at one nipple makes us square my hairy ass.
I was pissed and needed to vent. I lit up a cigarette and called my wife to bitch about the situation to which she laughed and hung up on me. I opened up my hatchback where I keep leather, glass, and cleaning wipes and got to work on the interior. I scrubbed until it hurt. I was too lazy to actually take the door face off to clean inside it. Instead, I tucked a glass wipe in the window seal and raised and lowered the window a few times. It wasn’t very effective but it made me giggle. I went full “wax on, wax off” on the seats and tried my best on the carpets. I did a half-ass job cleaning out the car before I got on the road that did and luckily had a spare shirt in the back. The gas station didn’t have a car wash with it and I really didn’t want to waste the money on one anyway. I just happened to notice that the side of a gas station had a water hose connected outside. The place was pretty busy so I knew the attendant would be occupied. Even so, I tried to be stealthy and pulled the hose over to clean off my car. The water pressure was lacking. Instead of the vomit being blasted off my fender it was turned into something resembling one of Salvador Dali’s clocks. Or the Nazi’s face melting at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.
I had to bite the bullet and find a real car wash with a pressure washer. I’m too cheap for the soap. I ended up a few miles away at a super-shady run-down car wash. The kind of car wash with no attendants, broken change machines, leaky hoses, and crack dealers. All he had was rocks and I’m more of a psychedelics kind of guy, so I sent him on his way. I pulled out some quarters from a jar I had in the back and proceeded to pressure wash the shit out of my car. My baby was getting a good cleaning, but I was getting more and more dejected. I’m out of change, my Chuck Taylor’s are soaked, I’m missing out on rides and I have no idea where I am. It took me a while to find a car wash and the one I did find was in an extremely sketchy neighborhood. It only took me a few minutes to figure out how badly I stuck out. I’m in a button down and slacks that scream “not from around here.” I drive a car that might as well have a bumper sticker saying “I’m trying to blend in.” My stupid accent confirms the stigma of “easy target” and my haircut tells the world “off-duty cop.” In my head I decided that if there was an incident I was going to use my outfit and demeanor to my advantage and play to my strengths. By “strengths” I mean lying. If a shifty looking guy with seven teeth and a trucker hat approached me my go-to line was going to be to ask them if they had a minute to talk about our Lord and Savior.
I got back to familiar territory and turned the app back on. Almost immediately I got a request close by and I headed to the pickup site. A well dressed young man sat down next to me and shook my hand.
New Guy: “Take her easy, brother. I’m not feeling too hot.”
This is why old people wrap their couches in plastic.