SUNDAY NIGHT IS NOT FOR AMATEURS
by Erin Brown

“Where is the after hours party?” My friend Maura asks me in a panic on a hot summer Sunday evening in Newport Rhode Island.

“After hours?” I ask, “We just got here.”

“Here” was The Deck, the new Sunday night hot spot.

“Remember we’re in New Port not New York. Bars here close at 1am.”

(Sidenote: If I ever do a one person show, it will be titled “All My Friends are Alcoholics.” Don’t worry, they’re not bad alcoholics. They are more like Lindsey Lohan. She’s barely legal- how is she supp to know her tolerance level? Just like my friends – how are they supp to know their tolerance level? They are barely 40. I digress.

“Don’t worry Mog (that Maura’s nickname) this place is filled with 20-something prep-sters dying to invite us back to their boat, the Mayor is working on it right now.” Any of you unfamiliar with Newport RI, it’s really wealthy, preppy, and it’s got lots of boats.

Abby, AKA the Mayor, owns a house in Newport. She is basically the mayor of every place she goes. This girl can drink anyone under a table while managing to maintain a great shape. The calories go straight to her boobs.

She looks over and winks a sure sign that this won’t be an early night. Thank God. Mog is filled with a sense of relief and asks “Er what do you want to drink?” “Bacardi limon and soda.” I say. It was Sunday, after two previous nights of hard core primping, drinking, and dancing I needed a pick me up or as my friends like to call it my coo coo serum. No matter what, it guaranteed good times.

I was decked out in my Sunday best – a hot pink halter top that accentuated my bosom (I needed all the help I could get since I’d be standing next to beer boobs the whole night.), tight, “sexy”, low rise jeans and my ultimate purchase that summer - hot pink suede open-toe backless stilettos, on which I blew a mere $450. I’m not talking about downtown four-fiddy, I’m talking four hundred and fifty smackaroos. It was equivalent to my paycheck at the time. (I wish that was my paycheck today.)

My toes were wrapped in a suede knot – they looked like presents – and the heels made of wood, made a cool knocking sound on the deck at The Deck. I was sporting a matching purse with a bamboo strap. I’m not gonna lie, I was looking good and rocking it out on Sunday - Funday.

At 12:30 the music stops and we hear the bell ring as the bartender shouts out those dreaded words “Last Call!” Per usual Danielle, another in our crew, is already getting our last round, plus a round of shots cause after 3 hours of drinking who doesn’t needs a shot of Yegermeister?!

The Mayor quickly seals the deal with our soon-to-be late night hosts. It goes something like this, “Any of you girls have a cigarette?” “Any of you guys have a boat?”

So, we’re walking to the boat. The Mayor rarely disappoints but tells us she’s gotta go because she has to drive to work in 4 hours. Work? On a Monday in the Summer??

Mog and Danielle act sensible and let our late night hosts assist them on board. My Bacardi Limon is also sensible, so sensible it’s made me invincible.

“Seriously, don’t offend me with you assistance.” I make it to the end of the dock in my four-fiddy stilettos. I see a 3 foot gap between me a gorgeous fishing boat, where the party has already begun, and a six foot drop between me and the water.

I hand one of the guys my precious purse, you know the one w/ the bamboo strap, my only smart move of the evening and get ready to hop on the party boat 1…2… “Oh my GOD!”

SPLASH!

I head straight down into the freezing, black water – I don’t know what hit me and I desperately try to swim to the top. I finally get above water when I feel a hand grab my arm, “I can’t catch my breath!” A twenty-something Prep-ster is grasping my arm as he leans off the dock on the back of the boat.

All eyes are on me, “Don’t pull me, I can’t breathe.” He tries to reel me in like a flounder. “Wait, I have to catch my….Holy shit, where are my shoes?” I turn my head and see one shoe bobbing up and down towards me. It looks like it’s nodding and laughing, “maybe you should have taken me off before you decided to take a swim you drunk idiot!” I hated my shoe. I’m glad its $225 twin had drowned.

Another twenty-something prep-ster shouts, “Man almost overboard!” I didn’t even fall off the boat; I had fallen off the dock – a pre-boarding accident. Mortified, I pee myself. At least I’m in the water. My perfectly applied make up has transformed my face into Bozo the evil Clown. At this point Danielle finally notices the chaos and shouts “Erin what are you doing in the water?” That girl is sharp she’s always on top of her game.

As they pull me in like dead whale, my “sexy” low rise jeans are living up to their “low” giving everyone a perfect view of my pathetic white ass. Classy.

I finally make it on board and am informed that before I hit the water my chest hit the side of the boat, probably the reason I could hardly breathe. But with every great tragedy there is a silver lining of which I am told by yet another twenty-something prep-ster, “You coulda broke your face if it wasn’t for you big tits.” I was saved by my ample chest – and push up bra.

I want to leave, but the crew including my friends, insists I stay until I feel sober. Sober? I just took a flop into ice cold water, I’m pretty sober.

They throw me a dingy old sweat suit- that smells like lunch meant - so I can change out of my wet clothes. This was not quite the way I had envisioned someone trying to get me out of my clothes.

I sit shivering, reeking like spoiled pastrami and am handed a 14oz Coors light, the silver bullet. If only I could put it in my head. My friends are happy, “Yeah, Erin is alive! Let’s go dance on the upper deck”. To them the night is young; to me way old.

I crack open the beer and decide to grin and bear it for a little while. Good thing I didn’t have to work the next day. I had used up all of my vacation days so told my boss I had to go to a funeral. Ironically it was almost true since it could have been my own.

At 5:00am I am ready to jump ship, no pun intended. I try to get the girls attention, but the music is so loud and I can hardly breathe let alone scream. I grab my purse. At least I avoided having to call a diving team to search for my license, credit cards and $18 lip gloss. My clothes are nowhere in site, but there lies my evil twin stiletto waiting for me to hobble home.

Every move hurts. As Mog reminded me, we are in New Port not New York, where many streets are cobblestone and cabs are not easily found, especially at dawn. I call the Mayor, but there is no answer. Her house is at least 3 miles away. I have a new rhythmic walk “Ow! ow, ow!”. I am walking for what seems to be an eternity and finally see a car drive by and park in front of a gym. Out walks a perfectly toned girl, sporting a turquoise spandex thong. Desperately, I exclaim, “Excuse me! I’m sorry, but I’m drunk, and I fell off a boat and I really need to go home can you call me a cab?”

She gets me a cab and somehow I find Abby’s. Not such a hard task, since everyone (at least every Newport cab driver) knows where the Mayor resides. I bang hard on the front door. She finally answers while kicking out some guy. She claims he followed her home, but she’s not into him. I do a double take, and blurt “I made out with him last summer. Not worth it”. I swallow 4 Advil and pass out.

A few hours later the other girls come home. I’m paralyzed. They insist I go to the hospital before we drive back to New York.

We are punch drunk as I lay on a gurney. The doctor explains my X-ray results and we learn that I’ve fractured 2 ribs. We hold in our laughs, so the hospital doesn’t realize we’re still drunk at 10am. We’re then told that they need a cat scan of my abdomen because there’s a chance I may have ruptured my spleen. We break into laughter, painful laughter. “This is SO freakin hilarious!”

Thankfully, my spleen is fine. I am given Percocet – my friends are jealous. On our way out of town, feeling better by way of Percocet, we return to the scene of the crime because I want my jeans. We get to the boat. The Prep-sters are more interested in scoring Percocet than my condition. Flying high mast next to the sails are my jeans, halter top, bra, and oh-so-teenie- thong. They are blowing in the breeze in full view of an upscale restaurant. “Glad I could help make it look like you guys really scored last night.”

We head back to Manhattan, where I’d be lying in bed for a few weeks after claiming short-term disability. I would hang out with my evil shoe. After this horrible accident you may wonder what I’ve learned. Three things: (1) True friends are those who laugh with you when you get a cat scan, (2) It’s all fun and games, even if you break a rib, (3) above all if you are drinking never wear $500 shoes.