We were all on the bus when Nikki and Lauren started going at it. Lauren didn’t say much, but Nikki kept cracking jokes about how she smelled—petty stuff, really; trivial to the max. But as soon as the bus screeched to a stop and let us off, it got a little more serious. Nikki was in Lauren’s face, challenging her to do something by increasing the trash talking and shoving her a little. With a face as hard as stone, Lauren walked past her until something snapped in all its mysterious fury. I had been walking ahead of the girls the whole time, telling Nikki to cut it out while the neighborhood boys acted like idiots, hungry to see a ripped shirt or exposed boob.
Truth be told I was afraid well before the first punch landed. I had never been trained in the arena of ass-kick-a-thons, and certainly never had a friend who counted on me to literally have her back. So once I heard loud “Oh’s!” from the group of testosterone-driven boys, I immediately started walking faster. Torn between helping my friend and avoiding the possibility of getting beat up myself, I decided it was Nikki who started it, so damnit Nikki was going to finish it.
She called me when she got home, and joked about how she won before bursting into tears in true best-friend fashion. I’ll never forget the words she said to me that tense, blazing hot
“Where did you go?”
“Uh, I just...I had to get home,” I lied.
No words I used to justify the situation in my head fifteen minutes earlier would have sufficed at that particular moment. I didn’t tell her that I was angry at her for starting something she never wanted to finish. I didn’t tell her I was scared. At fifteen I didn’t know how to take a punch unless it was at the hand of my brothers. I obviously knew very little about loyalty as well, and would be reminded of it well after Nikki’s bruises healed.
*****
Almost a decade has passed since I failed to rescue my friend from her self-induced cat fight, and for many years I figured I was in the clear. If I had successfully made it to my twenties avoiding a fight—something I prided myself on—there was no way I would ever get into one. Right?
My boyfriend, Josh, had a weekly DJ gig at Homme Lounge in downtown
Homme was originally a gay bar, but has slowly started catering to a mixed crowd in recent years with the introduction of various weekly events. It’s actually a house turned club which is obvious upon first entry off Camelback and
Before the upstairs area (conveniently named “Upstairs Bar”) was considered a violation of fire code and shut down by the city, club goers could enjoy the intimacy of one of
I happened to be off work for the Miami Vice party, so Josh and I went to Savers beforehand to search for the perfect tacky outfits to wear. I settled on a foul smelling black sequined dress that fit me like a pair of nylons and an over sized fur coat with a rip in the armpit. I finally had an excuse to wear my new, obnoxious glitter-threaded pumps that wouldn’t have worked with any other ensemble. Top that off with pink and purple makeup, curled hair, granny hosiery, and a cocktail and you have yourself a classy Heather.
Josh picked a number I couldn’t have imagined in my worst 80s nightmare. In one single trip he managed to find a white blazer, white pants, a hot pink tee (off of which he ripped the sleeves), and white faux gator shoes for an absolutely golden Crockett impersonation. After slicking his long hair back with Mega Mega Hold LA Looks gel and throwing on a pair of aviators, we were ready to go.
I should have known it was going to be a dangerous night when I uttered the self-fulfilling prophetic last words: “This is going to be a dangerous night.” It must be a sixth sense, but whenever I feel the night is going to go downhill fast, it usually does for one reason or another. But always up for drunken challenges (hey, you’re only twenty three once) I grabbed my clutch, had a pre-game drink, and was out the door faster than Crockett can say, “Watch it, pal.”
Josh was already at the club, early as always, to set up his equipment and generally run his portion of the party, so my roommate, Matt, and his girlfriend, Jess, drove me downtown. The night started innocently enough. The three of us picked a cozy spot upstairs since I was always happier getting drinks from fuBAR’s main bartender, Pablo. It was easier than trying to fight the downstairs crowd for a fifteen minute cocktail that would end up weak anyway.
Josh’s friends, Justin and Mikey, wandered upstairs eventually along with my favorite duo, Manny and Denis. We sat around for a while as one vodka cranberry turned into four, then casually made our way downstairs to see Josh spin only to return back upstairs to our table. All in all it was a successful night, though I think my group dressed most appropriately to the theme. Who dances in a fur coat for God’s sake? I was burning alive.
True to my psychic foreshadowing, I went from zero to sixty before the batting of eyelashes and grabbed Jess for a drunken stumble into the bathroom. That’s when the night’s true calling—my repayment to Nikki circa sophomore year of high school—reared its ugly head. And by ugly, I mean that in all respects.
There are exactly three stalls total in Homme’s entire layout. There is a single men’s and lady’s room downstairs and one unisex bathroom at the Upstairs Bar. We’re talking three toilets for an entire club of drunks. Naturally, there is a line for each of these restrooms with the seasoned club-goers heading upstairs in hopes of relieving themselves sooner. For whatever reason, the upstairs bathroom was wide open when I turned the corner from the bar. This was obvious if only for the fact that its light shines into an otherwise pitch black room more blinding than a hungover sunrise.
I went toward that light.
Jess touched up her makeup as I hovered over the toilet, imagining I was back in seventh grade and making a futile attempt at passing the wall-sit test during volleyball tryouts. I’m not any better at the hover than I was back then, but my focused effort to avoid peeing on my leg was rudely interrupted with a sudden banging on the bathroom door.
“Be out in a minute,” Jess politely answered.
“Oh hell no,” I snapped.
The banging continued followed by a string of obscenities from the mouths of women who sounded like they were trying to rip through the door to get to our throats. I was confused. Then angry.
“Who the fuck do they think they are banging on the door? Obviously someone’s in here!” I said. Jess was certainly the more collected one between the two of us.
When I finally got the nylons back up and traded places with her so I could wash my hands, the banging became increasing more violent and the door handle started to rattle. With an unfamiliar rage that took about a millisecond to get from my gut to my mouth, I twisted the lock, yanked open the door, shouted obscenities only sailors would be proud of, and then slammed it back in their faces. It happened so quickly I didn’t even get to see who I was facing, but I didn’t care. My heart was pounding out of my chest. I quickly locked the door once again and steadied my shaking hand for a pink lipstick touch up. After intentionally waiting a moment or two longer, we decided to let the crazies do the line of coke they obviously couldn’t wait for. Quite honestly the dumbest thing I think I’ve ever done was open the door and walk right into those girls, but what else was I to do? Jess pushed one of them out of her way before heading downstairs. Much like my biweekly paycheck, she just fucking disappeared. BOOM! Like that.
I actually made it about five full strides toward my table before one of them grabbed my hair. She was wearing a shiny leotard with jean shorts and flats and her messy blonde hair was stuck in place by a hipster headband. I didn’t get a good look at her equally cliché friend for I was on the ground before I knew what was going on.
This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. That was all I could think from the floor as this girl was thrashing at my head. She wasn’t hitting me so much as she was pulling my hair. Typical, really, but I was still surprised. I would think that if you’re going to get ballsy enough to fight someone, you should at least give them a shiner or something. But no. In retaliation of all the hair pulling I grabbed at her neck and hung on for dear life. And it wasn’t just the one girl but her door-banging partner in crime and her boyfriend. Of course my friends were nowhere to be found. Perfect. The music was still going. The lights were still off. Pablo was still serving drinks. Someone pulled us off each other. Even mid-fight I couldn’t help but think of how I looked. Here I am in a Saver’s ensemble, fur coat still intact, flinging my nylon-bound legs around like I’m the main attraction at a strip club for the elderly. I must have been a horrendous sight—luckily the mirror that ran along one side of the room didn’t extend to the floor. When I was pulled to my feet by Oscar, the bouncer, I was immediately met by the owner of Upstairs Bar.
“What happened? Who started it? What did they say to you?” he asked.
Adrenaline rushed through me at speeds I didn’t know were possible as I rambled off an incoherent explanation for what had just happened. Suddenly the girl’s boyfriend, a heavyset man of the Hispanic persuasion—we’ll call him D. Bag—charged at me with a verbal, nearly physical, assault for merely defending myself against his tacky girl. To my horror, he made a sound that only guys can make before expelling his spit onto my face. With my rage at a new height since the initial incident, I screamed at him, too shocked to do anything else, repeating the same question over and over—
“What the fuck kind of man are you? Huh? What the fuck kind of man are you?”
Meanwhile, someone had notified a quite-disbelieving Josh that his girlfriend was throwing down, and he quickly went outside to find me. In a New York minute I went from hysterical hot mess to pavement warrior as Oscar dragged me out the door to finish my business sans the liability that comes with homicide. He held me back from starting round two.
“Is that your girl?” D asked, pupils dilated beyond the point of an obvious high.
“Yeah, what the hell’s going on?” Josh replied.
And without a moment’s notice, D punched Josh square in the forehead. I watched Josh stagger back before he lunged at D, pulled his shirt over his head, and hit him back.
“You fucking bitches!” I yelled to the girls. Oscar told me to let it go.
“Fuck that!” I told him. “They started it, I’m gonna finish it!” Oscar and I were friends and I knew he wanted me to kick their asses, but he also had to do his job. He stopped holding on so tightly. I tore past him and flung my fists at whoever I could hit first. It was still essentially two (three if you count the one trying to kill my innocent, extremely confused boyfriend) against one.
My knees were bleeding as we rolled around on the pavement swearing at each other while the girls tore at my hair some more.
Again, we were pulled off each other and all three of them made their way back into the club. I still don’t know why we were the ones who left when fuBAR was Josh’s gig, but as I would come to find out later, little miss hair-pull and her roid rage boyfriend were actually the guest DJs from El Paso invited by none other than the French Kiss crew. They didn’t know where or how to set up their equipment when they got to the bar so Josh, not even responsible for tweedle dee and tweedle douche but being the nice guy he is, showed them the ropes and generally took care of them. If you didn’t catch all that, let’s recap.
Two coke-addicted DJs and their friend from El Paso come to Phoenix as guests in someone else’s venue, and, eager to get another bump, start static with the girlfriend of the man who helped them set up in the very spot he runs on a weekly basis. To say they had no tact would be an understatement.
Jess suddenly appeared outside with Matt, Mickey, and Justin. As for Manny and Denis—well, they were dancing the entire time, completely oblivious to the situation. That left Josh and me, still in my fur coat with bloody knees and a missing clutch, hobbling around on one heel. Days later I heard that D had grabbed my Coach bag (which cost more than all our outfits combined) and chucked it as far as he could across Camelback because, you know, when you can’t hit a girl you spit in her face, steal her stuff, and attack her boyfriend.
Josh walked me to Justin’s car and told me to wait while he went inside to get his stuff. Mikey, always hilarious, had apparently just smoked and was in dire need of a drink. So there I was, bloody, shoeless, still shaking with rage, and he asked if I had any water.
“I have unbelievable cottonmouth,” he said.
“Sorry to hear that, Mickey.”
“Are you sure you don’t have any water?” he asked pacing.
“I don’t have any fucking water, Mickey!” I shouted.
The rest of the night was an embarrassing blur—much worse than the morning after when you’re trying to recap a night of drunken debauchery. Over and over and over I thought, I can’t believe that just happened.
We all congregated briefly at Justin’s as I sat to myself and Josh jumped from friend to friend trying to get the story. He sat with me for a while, but my ever-present adrenaline prevented me from speaking until I finally stammered—“You don’t care about me!”
Uh oh. I still don't know why I said it.
“Are you serious?! I just took a punch for you!” he said, but he knew I was still drunk and angry so he let it go.
Josh eventually took me home, kissed me, and put me to bed—smeared 80’s makeup and all. He told me he thought it was kind of hot the way I went after the girls in the parking lot, but with ripped pantyhose and missing hair follicles I felt anything but.
*****
“You got a new bike?” my mother asked over the phone the next day.
“No, ma, I got in a fight.”
“Were you drunk?” Obviously, mom. Then, “Did you get any hits in?”
“I don’t remember,” I answered. “Everyone told me I choked the hell out of her though.”
Turns out How-To-Fight-Like-A-Girl 101 was well worth the girls’ money because they had successfully managed to rip a perfect chunk of hair from the center of my skull, really only noticeable to people several feet taller than me though I was self-conscious about it for months to come. My co-workers joked it would never grow back. But it did, and nine months later it’s currently in the Alfalfa stage where it takes about two palms worth of hair putty to prevent it from just popping right up out of nowhere.
I suppose there are some valuable morals to this story. First and foremost, enjoy your recreational drugs in moderation, ahem, Texans. Also, there is an unspoken code of conduct that states when a woman is peeing, trying to hold a drunken stance like it’s an Olympic sport, you quietly wait your turn outside the door. Similarly, if you’re the bathroom occupant and a hysterical broad is trying to break through the door, clearly ignoring said rule, it's best to take a deep breath and let it go. Telling someone to calm the fuck down and slamming a door in their face has never successfully diffused a brewing situation in the history of DrunkbitchLand.
And lastly, if there’s ever a possibility of engaging in post-cocktail battle, please—I urge you—leave the nylons at home, kick the heels off before the fact, and for God’s sake don’t count on your friends.
Read more!
