Warning: Long Post

I can't tell you how many times I've brought up this site and just stared at the monitor wondering if anything noteworthy will pop up. Because at this point, I'm simply managing another caddie program until the 31st and the members at the course don't even TAKE caddies, so my position has become that of a glorified starter. Not a bad gig if you want to get a lot of reading done. But as far as excitement goes, I always feel like I'm at a loss for something to post.

So I thought today I'd deviate just a bit. This is not caddie related. But Shanks posted a comment recently that really hit the nail on the head. Females. No, I’m not up to anything criminal these days, but I am trying to spice things up at night by finally going out on the town with some of my caddie friends and I feel like some of these stories should start coming out. I may not be caddying right now, but I’m still participating in caddy-like extracurriculars. Why the hell NOT post something.

Last Thursday I was dead tired and I was in bed by 8:30 pm. At 10:30, I turned over just in time to see my phone light up and start vibrating. Crap. That's right. I had promised to hit the town with another caddie this weekend. Guess tonight's the night.

So I throw on some clothes and head out, expecting nothing special to happen. I'd drink some beers, drink some water, wait till I was sober, drive home, and wake up at the ass-crack to go back to doing nothing all day at this other course.

But this particular night would prove to be anything but ordinary.

On our way to the bars, my friend got a phone call from his sister. She had just gotten into a car accident. She wasn't driving, but apparently both her and the girl driving had had a lot to drink. They blew through a red light, smashed into a Saturn and flipped their Wrangler upside-down. The crash site was only a block away from the bar where we were all supposed to meet.

After seeing that Wrangler upside-down in the middle of the street and seeing the driver being steadied and fitted for a neck brace, I was in no mood to have a good time. I was just concerned. But the driver was surprisingly normal and calm, telling all of us to "Go and drink your faces off. Don't worry about me. Don't even visit me at the hospital. I'll be fine."

She even gave us the thumbs-up.

My friends’ sister wasn't wearing her seatbelt, ended up in the backseat and had some of the drivers' blood on her dress. She also held an ice-pack over her knee. Yet despite her condition and the incredible array of lights and sounds surrounding the scene, she seemed euphoric.

"I'm alive I'm alive I'm alive. I never thought it would feel so good to say that. I feel so good right now."

For some reason my friend felt sorry for ME in having to wait through this before we hit the bar. "Don't worry man. We'll head in in a second. And my sister will be fine. She just needs a few shots and she'll be golden."

Is anybody else other than me feeling incredibly concerned right now?

Just then, a girl walked over from across the street. Her hair was so blonde it was almost white and her tan was a little obscene. There's no way somebody needs to be that tan. It's like she had just been to a tanning salon that day where some inexperienced rookie cranked up the juice a little too high and zapped her for 20 minutes on the “Middle of the Fucking Sun” setting.

"I saw the whole accident. I was on the phone across the street talking to a friend. Is everyone okay? You may not feel anything now, but the doctors will tell you that most of the pain will come 2-3 days later. I just had a car accident recently. I know how you guys feel."

She was quite calm for someone who had just witnessed the apocalypse on wheels. I would find out later that she loves drugs.

So I think I asked this blonde girl what the hell happened. Maybe twice. And then left with my caddie friend and his sister to see what was going on inside this bar.

A few hours go by. I dance, I drink—all of one beer—and I happen to run into this extremely tan blonde on the dance floor. She’s in the middle of dancing with some guy, and when she notices me she shakes her head and shouts out, “White-boys really can’t dance.”

Well of course I took offense. I had to try and prove her wrong. So I make my best attempt at dancing alongside her for a moment. I feel like an idiot.

She smiles.

“Well…maybe you can dance a little. But only slightly.”

The song ends, she breaks away from the guy and pulls me aside to a quiet corner.

“Will you give me a call when you get home tonight? I mean…Will you just let me know if those girls are alright? I really want to make sure they’re alright. And when you call, make sure you leave your number.”

All logical processes in my brain stopped after that last statement. It was doing fine for a second there. Sure, call her and let her know things are fine. I guess she’s still just concerned. And sure, I’ll just…leave…my…number. What?

She gave me her number and I left the bar.

In thinking about it now, I can’t believe I called her. I’m leaving for Florida in a week. I don’t want a girlfriend. I consider myself to be a fairly romantic guy (much to the surprise of a few readers in here) and I don’t think I could ever bring myself to take part in a one-night stand. I mean don’t get me wrong, I WANT to, but something has always held me back. My conscience maybe? It sucks. Still, I guess in the back of my mind I was intrigued at the prospect of a “booty call,” something that I had only heard about and never expected to get.

The next day, she called me four times. Twice during work, and twice after 2 am. Part of me was excited at the prospect of ANY girl calling me, and part of me was really really pissed off. Now I’m not really sure how these “booty calls” are supposed to work, but I always imagined they would emerge as casual endeavors where both parties end up meeting seamlessly with no headache being imparted on either participant. I guess I was wrong.

I predictably go out the following night and buy enough food to make the apartment look habitable and finish off the shopping trip with a box of condoms. Hey, you never know. I might actually be able to smother my conscience for a few hours. Around 8:15 pm she arrives with a bottle of wine and the words “man I’m so glad I could blaze before I got here.”

Yeah, I am too.

At first, I was pleasantly surprised. Apparently she had graduated from high school a year early and instead of going straight to college she took the next year to read all of the books she had always wanted to, including writing a personal autobiography that one of her teachers paid her to write. She loves poetry, music, and taking physics and chemistry classes even though she’s studying to be a personal trainer. Basically, it sounded like she had a lot of things going on under the surface. I was intrigued.

Then she ended up drinking 8 beers and three massive glasses of wine.

She talked constantly, occasionally getting in a couple words as she inhaled. And honestly, it was nice. Normally the male needs to take the initiative and start tossing out topics to get the conversation going, but with this girl I needed only to sit back and listen. Sure I was a little annoyed when I actually thought of something interesting to contribute and she would simply interrupt me and keep going on her merry way, saying a few minutes later, “Oh I’m sorry. Were you going to say something?”

Guess not.

I think I learned more about cocaine, heroin, ecstasy, marijuana, meth, crack and the effects cigarettes have on people’s lungs than all of my health classes in high school and college put together. Apparently she’s even done lines of coke with a few celebrities.

Now, being more or less a straight-shooter myself, I was half amazed and half disturbed by these stories. Apparently she had even been pregnant for a while before she miscarried on account of “stress.”

Obviously I was rethinking the whole “one night stand” with this one. We don’t need little cracked-out Jam Boy’s running around. Lord no.

In an effort to behave like a 5^th grader and cut through some of the sexual tension / innuendoes I decided to tease her at one point. I can’t really remember what I did. I may have tickled her or poked her or something. Either way, this immediately transformed this incredibly innocent lass into a world-class boxer (a south paw I believe). She actually started throwing punches. I blocked most of them, but I wasn’t really trying that hard because I thought she was just playing around.

Then she connected.

A hard right-cross to the face. For a second I thought my nose was bleeding. ALLLLLLRIGHTY THEN. Fun’s over princess. I spun her around and put her in a bear hug until she stopped squirming and said that she was okay. I held on a little longer, more for my own sake to count to ten and think about puppies or cotton candy or something even remotely resembling a happy thought.

I’m not gonna lie. The rest of the night was a little awkward, and she ended up passing out on the couch while I slept in my bed upstairs.

The following morning I wake up early and head to work before she wakes up. It’s pouring rain, windy, and the high for the day was 45. The head pro decides to close the course. So I’m happy. The previous night was very tiring and very awkward. A day of rest sounded phenomenal.

*By the way, as I’m writing this she is calling my cell phone for the second time in a span of 5 minutes and I am choosing, yet again, not to answer.*

So I’m heading back to the apartment and guess who calls. And I, being the dumbass, tell her that I’m on my way back. I think I was just expecting she had somewhere else to be and had already left my apartment. Nope. She was just waking up.

“So what do you want to do today? Go on some adventures?”

“Umm, sure.”

Now remember it’s freakin’ freezing outside. And raining. Don’t forget the rain.

Much to my surprise, aside from losing 3,000 calories and a gonad from shivering, I had a good time. We went to a state park where she used to work and visited a man-made lake nearby with mom-and-pop shops and hiking trails. I mean, the conversation never deviated from designer drugs, but I suppose it was just nice to go to these typical “date areas” again with a girl. And despite the topics discussed, she was pretty funny.

We came back, ordered Chinese and relaxed until she had to leave to go pick somebody up. Supposedly her license is suspended thanks to a DUI, but I guess that’s more of a guideline than a rule.

Before she leaves she forgets a few choice things in my living room, signifying that oh yes, she will be back later tonight. This of course means that the cycle will begin again. Get beer, she drinks a lot, makes sexual innuendoes and I end up not really feeling like using any of those condoms. Not sure what’s wrong with me. Maybe there are just some areas in this world men were not meant to penetrate.

So she ended up spending the night again, this time I notice she’s getting really annoyed that I’m not trying to take advantage of her. I offer her my bed this time, saying I’ll take the couch. But she protests, saying that there was plenty of room for both of us in the bed. Not wanting to make her feel unattractive, I obliged her and squeezed into the smallest bed on earth. It’s a single that’s too short for me as it is, and now we’re throwing two awkward bodies along with some good ol’ sexual tension in the mix.

She made it perfectly clear earlier in the night—amidst talk of what I would name my children (yeah, I know…WOW)—that she will not stand for men blatantly burping and farting around her.

Yeah, we probably shouldn’t see each other anymore.

So, while trying to squeeze in next to her I’m forced to contort my body in these very unnatural “Exorcism of Emily Rose” positions WHILE holding in farts. Yeah, remember the Chinese? That ended up being a bad idea.

The result was terrible. I wake up a few times during the night to leave the room and try to blow SOMETHING out, but find that the twisting and bending of my abdominals while trying to fit into the smallest bed in the world have fused the gas and lactic acid around my stomach, making it extremely painful to lean backwards or forwards. But, as long as I stood perfectly erect and pressed down on my stomach like a Medic trying to apply pressure to a torn artery, I would be perfectly comfortable. Thank God for that.

So after a good night’s rest, I left for work and proceeded to fall asleep on the floor of the Starter’s shack. And YES the pro was happy. But now I’m home. There’s a note on my bed from her thanking me and saying I need to “make myself available” for her tonight. Umm, no. I’m leaving for Florida next Monday and I think you’ve monopolized enough of my time.

Plus, I haven’t even told you guys about the “other girl.” That same night with the car accident, I drove my caddie friend back to his apartment and met his roommate. She’s clean, intelligent, funny and a Hooters girl. Not sure how I pulled that one off. I definitely wasn’t smooth about getting her number, but she wants to hang out with me tomorrow night. And I would certainly like to “make myself available” for that. So, it’s been fun, but I think it’s time to say goodbye to this first little tweaker.

To be continued…