The Service Sucks, But the Floor Show is Great!
“I know John Bobbit!”
This was how she introduced herself to me, as she stumbled from her place at the bar, lurching unsteadily toward my inner thigh.
“What?” I said.
“You know! John Bobbit. The Dick-Cut-Off-Guy.”
“Yes,” I said, “I know who John Wayne Bobbit is.”
“I don’t just know who he is, I know him!” she replied as her hand came to rest just a few inches from my wedding tackle. I glanced at Red, to make sure that she was not becoming angered at this woman’s unwarranted advances.
Red had her own problems. The hand that wasn’t digging its nails into my leg was massaging Red’s chest. Suddenly this was a more interesting conversation than I thought.
“How do you know John Bobbit?” I asked.
“They don’t believe me!” she shouted towards a couple of people sitting at the bar. Ah yes, the wonderful logic of tequila shots was working its magic on her already fragile brain. “I’m from West Palm Beach. Do you believe me?”
“Of course I do. How did you meet him?”
“After his wife or girlfriend or whatever did the choppity-chop on his Johnson, he got that prosthetic, or extender or whatever.”
“I thought he just had it stitched back on, I didn’t think it was prosthetic.”
“What the fuck do you know?” she snapped, “Anyway, he had his dingus stapled back on and then the first place he ever showed off his frankencock was at a strip club that my friend owns in West Palm Beach. I don’t know what’s so special about it though. He can’t even get hard now! Did I tell you I’m from West Palm Beach?”
“No.” I said solemnly.
Red couldn’t take it anymore and began laughing so hard that she couldn’t breath. She actually began to squeak as she struggled for air, and her face began to turn purple. That’s when the drunk began yelling, “Help! Help! She can’t breath! She’s having a heart attack. Somebody come do CPR! Somebody call 911. I’ll give her boyfriend mouth-to-mouth!”
This didn’t help Red. She began squeaking and laughing so hard that she fell out of her chair. That’s when people starting thinking that maybe she really did need CPR. The fact that I was laughing at her only made me look like a callous asshole (which I am) and it took quite a bit of reassuring through my guffaws to stop the bartender from calling an ambulance.
I finally managed pry her hand off of my thigh, and she lumbered off toward the bar to fetch another cocktail. On the way, she coughed so hard that she almost fell over, and righted herself only by grabbing the arm of a passing man and pulling herself up. In the process, she knocked him from his feet. She also spun around and landed back in Red’s lap, where she proceeded to use both hands and Red’s chest to bring herself back to full-upright. This started another laughing fit that nearly ended with the paramedics.
She talked about John Wayne Bobbit for about ten more minutes, but didn’t say anything new. Finally, she put her cigarette out in my martini, pulled the Christmas tree in the lobby over on herself, and left the building.
God I love my town.