I committed to hiring and then teaching a dance troupe of (12) 7-13 year old girls so I could surprise my sister with a special performance at her wedding as a part of my speech. Because I wanted to be extra prepared (that's the kind of girl I am)I showed up 90 minutes early. A normal person would have gotten something to eat... maybe stretched... practiced teaching the dance in their head... Not me. I changed my shoes and walked into a bar located exactly one block away (that's the kind of girl I really am).
The bar was empty with the exception of the bartender Anna (insert thick polish accent and mail order bride candidate) and Erichhgjdnfda AKA Eric (insert thicker polish accent dressed in skinny jeans and a have buttoned shirt circa 2006).
From their natural curiousity of my very awesome Flash Dance outfit, they struck up an unassuming conversation about why I was at the bar. And thus started the shit show of March 2011.
One miller light down- we exchange names, places of work, and pleasantries. I explain what I am doing and am immediatley adored for being the best sister in the world. Two miller lights down- we cover sports, sides of the city, and why his english is so poor. Three miller lights down and 4 shots of what I now call "Polish Poison", we are exchanging arrest stories and he is trying to sell me on the fact that he 1) could drink me under the table. FALSE. 2) He is known in the neighborhood for being a dart shark. DOUBLE FALSE. 3) He is the owner/manager of said bar. POSSIBLY TRUE.
After learning several swear words in polish, I decide to smoke. Erik joins me. We are laughing, high fiving, etc. He explains to me what the patio looks like when there are people in it. I know this sounds stupid but keep in mind that is a drunk conversation between an idiot and a barely speaking polish version of Rico Suave. As the nicotine takes its effect, I start to come to the realization that not only am I in a dark patio ... with no exit... connected to an alley that looks "murdery"... but I'm with a complete stranger and only one other person at this bar is polish Anna (who, let's be honest, would probably assist in my kidnapping to pay off her fathers debt from the old country). More importantly- not a single soul knows where I am. No one. I didn't tell my friends. I didn't tell my husband. I didn't tell my family... and now I am ripped in a back alley patio with the Polish Penatrator.
I get nervous. Obviously nervous. However- nicotine has me by the balls and I wasn't about to crush out my last cigarette. So instead I make the very well informed decision of hot boxing that son of a bitch and now I REALLY have a problem because I am WASTED.
We go back inside and order two more rounds of shots and new drinks. Erik explains to me that he wants to open his own dance company. I think - "Oh Great. Here we go." He take out $5 from his wallet and goes to the video juke box. He plays Usher, which was an interesting choice. I mean, I would have selected the music but I assumed I wouldn't be in English- who knew?
He then asks me to dance. I decline. He insists. I decline again. He grabs my wrist, rips me off the bar stool and attempts to waltz. I am terrified. I don't mind drinking with strangers but dancing with strangers is a whole other perogie, if you know what I mean.
You know how sometimes you when you're drinking you think that you're not as drunk as you really are but then you stand up and realize that gravity still exists? Well, that's what happened. I was twirled in two circles and hit the ground like a bag of polish sausage. And when Im down- Im down. There is no recovery. There is no grace. And more importantly there is no apology. I laid there, laughing, wanting to cry and I suddenly realized that it was time for me to go and teach children how to dance. Awesome.
I said good bye to Anna and Erik and went on my way. The dance class was terrible, as you can imagine. I smelled like liquor, I slurred my words, and I kept telling the kids how cute they were.
I went back to the class the next week and stopped in to my new favorite polish spot to see my new favorite polish drinking friends. There was a new bartender so I asked for Anna and she said "Who?" and I asked for the owner Erik and she said "Who?"
So... Not quite sure what happened. Did I go to the wrong bar or did Erik finally sell Anna to the obese 45 year old Rich Asia man who just wanted a pretty polish wife... I guess we will never know. The moral of this story is not to drink Polish liquor you are unfamilar with. There is a reason why we didn't trust them during WWII.
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