What the fuck just happened.
So, it’s past two in the morning, and I’m on my way home from work. My closing cook needed a ride home, and it’s on the way, so we’re weaving through some dark ass suburbs as I try to understand him babbling directions to me in Spanish. After a lot of desperate gesturing, he finally just opens his door to signal that we have arrived. We bid each other a goodnight – at least I understand that much Spanish – and I begin to try and find my way out of the neighborhood. The streets are incredibly dark, and it’s been raining, so I’m driving slow.
Out of nowhere, some bitch dives out of the darkness to the hood of my car.
I hit the brakes and she tumbles off. My heart is in my throat. Another girl runs into view of my headlights, and I get out of my car to check on her. She is on the ground, laughing hysterically.
The smell of vodka is overwhelming as they proceed to tell me an incoherent story about a party, King Soopers, how they were totally ditched, they are lost, and please, can I give them a ride?
All I want in the world is to go home and go to bed, so stupidly, I agree.
The girl who nearly committed suicide to get my attention (flattering) vomits on the side of the road before getting into my car. I’m relieved she’s at least that considerate. They pile in and give me a vague idea of where they live. Shamelessly, the girls light up cigarettes as we proceed, ignoring my warning that the windows do not work and I’d really prefer they didn’t.
The stories begin again. Something about prom, something about a guy named Brett, and what the hell is this music I’m listening to? I must be a huge dubstep fan! (It’s Donkey Kong Country music)
I notice, as we turn into another foreign neighborhood, that my car is beginning to dangerously overheat. The houses begin to become more elaborately lit, and larger as we go. These are the richest hitchhikers I’ve ever encountered. Smoke is starting to seep through the hood of my car, and I wonder how long it will be before all three of us are stranded.
After what feels like a million turns, we arrive at their home. All the lights are lit, but I hardly notice – my car is literally about to burst into flames. I turn my car off, hoping it will cool quickly with all the rain, and I ask if they possibly have any coolant I could use. One of the girls slurs something that sounds like her dad has some in the garage, and I wait while they disappear into the house.
A moment passes, and just as I begin to worry that they passed out and forgot about me, the door bursts open and a woman charges across the lawn.
“Who do you think you are!” the mother shrieks and flings open my passenger door. Her head thrusts in like a bird on a worm, and she jabs a finger at me. “How dare you get my daughter drunk! Do you know how old she is? Did you touch her? Oh my god, you touched her! Who are you? Give me your ID! I’m calling the police!”
And she’s gone. I don’t even know what just happened. I realize my whole body is petrified in this awkward position, pointing to my name tag, my mouth open, poised to explain that I’m a manager at a restaurant who just got off work – and really, I’m just a great big hero so shut up. But being screamed at by a furious mother is like facing off with Medusa. You’re just fucked.
I hear screaming from inside the house, and decide I’ve had enough. I start my car and veer off in a cloud of smoke. I’d rather be stranded on the side of the road than deal with this. But I make it home without a hitch and, twenty minutes ago, finally stagger into my apartment.
The worst part is not a single one of my passengers chipped in for gas.