If California is sometimes called 'the land of fruit and nuts' than south Florida is the land of fruits and nuts and bath salts.
With my two weeks of freedom rapidly coming to an end, I checked off another American bucket list item for Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife. I brought her to a dive bar. Not just any dive bar, either, but a south Florida dive bar famed among dive bars. Harry's Banana Farm is billed as the area's best 'adult day care center,' and even the pretentious, self-important douchebag writer-wannabe's at Yelp recognize that the place pisses excellence. I went there with my friend V a few months ago. It's a biker bar disguised as a neighborhood bar, and at night some scary-ass people show up.
Where my wife has the exotic Brazilian look- long black hair and dark eyes and dark skin, her friend is the polar opposite. Platinum blonde with blue eyes. Both have the same body type- think Sofia Vergara meets Dolly Parton, but iall done in zero gravity.
And so we go to this great bar and it's 3 double scotches to get started. after that, I order two Cape Codder's for the ladies (Vodka and cranberry juice) and more scotch for me,and that's the tone for the night.
Well, there's a pool table. And it's me vs. the ladies, their two shots against my one each time, and we all three of us aren't good at pool, but there's lots of laughs and the ladies are bending over the table to make their shots, (both ladies were wearing white short shorts and low cut tops) and suddenly the entire place is very interested in our game.
And this is where I get my "What the fuck" moment of clarity. I didn't bring the ladies to the good bar I know about. They brought me as chaperone to a dive bar they heard about. Because they need one.
One by one, guys are finding a reason to suggest shots to me made or how to improve their game. Overall, fairly polite, but I'm having to cockblock here and there, by virtue of the ladies standing in my shadow when they're not playing. And they're hanging on to me. After a while it wasn't that much fun. What was cool was that there was not trouble. I used to bounce, and I can smell bar trouble like a fart in a car, and this wasn't it. But we were under a magnifying glass, and when our game was done, we relocated to the jukebox area where the girls hung out inboard of me at our table, like ducklings to their mama duck, and from this vantage point, once things opened up a bit, they could then venture out a little more and have fun once whe looky-loos settled back in.
And that was the tone of the night. Much of the time, I was King Shit. My wife would occasionally lean over and perform a public display of affection, and her friend was hugging me all night, pretty much laying claim to being With me, capital W, and we had some fun with it. Along the way, we all met some nice folks, which, in my experience is common at a dive bar. A crazy cat lady was very adamant about selling my wife's friend an 8-ball of coke at rock bottom prices, and my wife at one point, absolutely shocked, handed me the smallest glassine envelope I've ever seen of something, a sample of whatever was being sold in the bathroom line. That was about the only time I got pissed that night. I found out who gave it to her, and when they were trying to order a drink at the bar I slapped my hand down on the bar, not hard, but enough to make a good slap sound, left the envelope and walked back to my table. And that was pretty much that, but my poor innocent wife was pretty shocked. Me, I was hired to bounce once, at a bat that was trying to drive the resident dealers out, and I know that if you are firm, polite and don't cost them money, you can often get them to work with you in not pulling shit where and when you don't want it. which is a nice alternative to the door or window game ("you walk out the door now, or fly out the window, your choice").
At any rate it added some spice to the night. The girls ended up dancing to country and 80's rock music quite a bit, which attracted an attentive crowd. A few guys quietly asked what was up with my women and my "just needed to get them out of the house for air" was met with quiet approval. As happened when I went to that place the first time, I had a nice night, met some cool folks. And yeah, I looked like a redneck sugar daddy, but whatever, I'm not complaining.
Oh, and my wife's friend drives a 2015 Camaro. So I quit drinking early on, and got to drive that bastard home because the girls got tanked up pretty good. I may have found my next car. Nice ride, the new Camaro's, responsive and good tracking, some decent zip, and very satisfying 0-100 on the on ramp, too. Been a while since I really floored a gas pedal.