Worst Night EVER
Thursday, November 08, 2001
So, I really have to tell you my story. It's a long story. It's a scary story. But it must be told because the horror and pain lies too deep inside me to ignore.
This story involves a girl (me) and a parking garage the size of Texas. So you probably know where this is going, don't you?
It all began on Saturday afternoon. Our heroine (me) had just finished her first nine-mile run. It was unseasonably warm. About 70 degrees. So warm that I actually took off my outer T-shirt for a few miles and ran in my sports bra (much to the horror of that afternoon's park attendees). MPR's Saturday lineup kept me company and the first 5-6 miles were great. I smiled. I ran. I listened to the Splendid Table's suggestions for wines under $10. And then I got thirsty.
I kind of knew deep down that this would happened. But I really didn't have anything to carry water with and I really wanted to attempt 9 miles, so I figured, I should be fine for an hour and a half. Besides, if I got desperate, I could drink from one of the park's water fountains.
Wrong.
You see, they close those things here in the fall because they might freeze. You know. Minnesota. Cold. Freeze.
Crap!
So, I was thirsty, but I jogged on. What could I do? And, still, miles 7 and 8 were fine. I was getting hot (hence the shirt off) and my saliva was all but disappearing from my mouth. Still, I was making good time and I only had, what, 10-15 minutes left.
But those last 15 minutes were grueling. I needed water. Aches appeared out of nowhere and suddenly it seemed miles just to reach the overpass 800 ft. in front of me. I couldn't even envision running up the hill that leads into the city back to my building.
I made it though. Albeit, I did walk one block up the hill. But I was tanked. I was beat. The minute I got in the door, I filled up the biggest glass in the house, sat my butt on the couch and drank.
My legs were tired. My head was tired. THAT WAS HARD. Why didn't I think running 9 miles would be hard? What was I, some fool?
It WAS really hard.
But I did it. And I was proud and I told myself next time I wouldn't be such a knob. I'd bring water and that would make it much easier. It had to.
So, the thought crossed my mind to just sit and chill for the rest of the night. But I couldn't. I had plans. Plans I considered canceling.
You see, a girlfriend of mine here has this group of women who get together monthly for a Girls Night Out. It's actually called that. Girls Night Out (or GNO if you're really hip). And this was literally the first time since I've moved to the cities that I could attend one. I always had schedule conflicts and finally my calendar was free. Sure, I'd go.
The plan was to get together at one of the Girl's (you notice I used a capital G there to represent the GNO? Clever, huh?) place. There were about 10 of us attending and we were all instructed to bring a small appetizer to pass. Amy was providing the booze. We would drink, eat and then go out for dancing at the Gay 90s (which is a gay/dance/drag bar that I've been dying to go to). But, at 3 in the afternoon after spending the morning at the salon getting my hair colored and then an hour and a half running without water, fixing an appetizer, going to a party and going out dancing did not sound very inviting.
Still, I promised. And who knows when I'd get to go again. So James and I ran to Whole Foods to pick up some Edamame for my appetizer and made a little run to Target too.
We got back and I had an hour to shower, get ready and cook the pods (which James took over because, really, he's a gem). Of course, with my hair newly colored and it being one of those "fat" days, none of my clothes met my satisfaction and my hair is always difficult to style the day of the color. You know. Typical, cliché girl stuff that I hate to admit. But I felt yucky. Blah.
I did try to dress up. As much as the weather and my body would allow (again, it was unseasonably warm so I didn't think a turtleneck would be appropriate), I donned a black skirt with knee high boots and a green three-quarter's-length sleeve sweater. I wanted to wear my green button-down shirt. But, alas, it was dirty.
So.
I arrived at Rachel's a little after seven because parking near her apartment is a bitch. I hate Uptown. It's so overcrowded with hip, cool kids who know how to parallel park (you gotta hate that!). She and her sister jumped in my car and we proceeded to Amy's. (Again in Uptown so more crowded parallel parking). The appetizers were good. I drank more water and met some lovely women. One of which is an Anestitician (sp?) and she does facials and waxing and told us stories of waxing gay men's gonads which was both very bizarrely fascinating and hysterically funny. ("But all the guys are really clean, you know")
I was hungry, but I probably didn't eat as much as I should and soon we were off to the bar. I was told to follow Amy and Rachel, her sister and I chatted in the car as we drove to downtown Minneapolis. I had no idea where I was going, but I was following someone so I really didn't care. Only, where we went wasn't the Gay 90s. They had a cover so no one wanted to go. Therefore we ended up at some horrible meat-market bar that I now know is called Rosens, but at the time could only refer to as Hell.
When we parked, I asked where we were. Only the group of Girls I was with were talking and Amy said we were fine, so I trusted her. We were in a parking garage near the bar and I knew it was the second level. No problem. ("Yeah, right!" you're probably laughing because you DO know where this is going...)
So, we're at Hell. And this place IS Hell. There are scanky women everywhere in various states of undress (okay, women? why do you dress so slutty at the bars? it's embarrassing...) And there are all sorts of men hanging at the edges gawking and waiting to pounce. By this time, Rachel's sister and I are bitching about Hell while Rachel is having a grand old time dancing. She's all hot and stuff and the guys like it and she enjoys the attention. But, whatever.
I'm having a terrible time. I feel kind of yucky. I can't really drink because I'm driving and I just want to be home.
But it's Girls night, you know?
Girls. Night.
So, we wait and finally some of the girls we are with talk about a party they want to go to and I say I'm going to go home and Rachel's all, "I want to dance" and her sister's all, "I hate this place"and finally Rachel's, like, "Hey, let's go to First Ave. Both of you should like it there and I can dance."
First Ave. Now, I've been wanting to go there for a while. It's the bar where Morris Day and Tyme are performing in Purple Rain. Remember that? And I've heard dancing there is great and the music is techno so I said, "Sure." It seemed really important to Rachel to dance and I didn't want to be too much of a spoil sport.
Rachel, her sister (Erica) and I leave Hell and we walk three blocks to First Ave. It's a $5 cover but we pay it anyway. We get there and it's nothing like Hell. The people there are there to dance not scank and we get down. It was fun.
But I was tired. The Girl's were tired. We drank some more water at the bar, discussed Rachel's "life" and then decided to call it an evening at around midnight.
I should have known something was wrong right away. But I don't know downtown. I didn't know where we had come from and I was trusting Rachel.
You see, when we left First Ave, we walked right across the street to the parking garage and I think I even said, "Hey, Rach. Are you sure this is right? I mean, didn't we walk three blocks here?"
She mumbled something about being on the other side and I took her word for it because what do I know and we proceeded to walk around and around and around.
I guess our first problem was that we did know we were on the second level and that we went down an escalator to get to Hell, but that's all we knew! And the parking garage we were in had one escalator that took us to level 3. Still, we walked around and around. But to no avail. We could not find the car.
By this time, Rachel's feet are starting to hurt. I'm a little cold because I had left my coat in the car, but it wasn't a huge problem. Rachel's was bigger and she started to complain and fall behind from time to time while walking.
But the minutes turned into an hour and we finally asked for help. The security guard didn't speak English very well, but he helped us as much as he could. Only, everywhere he took us, we'd been before. It was like the fucking Blair Witch Project. Only in a parking garage. And by this time, I was sure we were in the wrong ramp.
"Rachel, where was the bar we were at first? What street?"
"I don't know."
"What was the name of it?"
"Rosens"
The security guard had never heard of it.
"Rachel, what's around Rosens? What's nearby?"
"I don't know."
The security guard then asks if we noticed a number where we parked. Embarrassingly, I answered, "No. We didn't. I know. This is so dumb."
Finally we come to the consensus that we are in the wrong garage. We were in the 7th street ramp and decide to try the 4th street one. I had by this time deduced that the first bar was in the Warehouse District which was more the 4th & 5th Street area (which Rachel also confirmed with a cell phone call to her husband about Rosen's address -- although the little fucker never volunteered to come out and help us, but, whatever...).
It's about 1am now and we thank the security guard and head down the skyway to the 4th street ramp.
(At some point, Erica peed behind a black VW Jetta because "she really had to go" and I felt totally like we were in a Seinfield episode).
But now Rachel's feet hurt even more. She has taken to removing her boots and is consistently about 500 feet behind her sister and I. Sometimes we'd lose her and have to stop so that she could catch up. A few times I would hear her wimper thinking she was beginning to cry. Only I'd turn around, she'd giggle and I'd remember that she was drunk. Oh yeah. Wish I was...
At the 4th street ramp, we're no better off. We can't find our car and the parking garage is becoming fluttered with after-bar crowds. No one offers help, but we get a few laughs. A homeless guy starts to harasses us and then another security guard (or, as I'd like to call him, Mr. Guardian Angel or Mr. GA for short) offers help.
"So, you can't find your car."
"No," I answer exasperated. "I don't know downtown. Erica isn't from here and Rachel, well, she's back there."
"Now, tell me this..." he says as he tries to gather clues from us as to where our car was hiding.
"Now, tell me this, did you notice the color painted in the garage you were in?"
No.
"Now, tell me this, did you park in a single row or was it a double row?"
Double.
"Now, tell me this, did you pay before you parked?"
Yes.
Finally, he thinks he knows where I'm parked and we follow his lead out of the 4th street ramp and into the skyways. Rachel is still stumbling along.
"What's wrong with your friend?" he asks as we all turn around to see her pigeon-toed struggling to walk with a boot in each arm.
"She's retarded" her sister answers.
I laugh for the first time in hours.
Mr. Guardian Angel takes us back to the 7th street ramp. I only realize this once we're there. But I know it straight away seeing as we just walked all over this entire ramp just an hour earlier. Mr GA is stumped. (He also catches a guy pissing in the parking garage and I become really REALLY glad he's my friend and not my enemy. Yeesh. If only he'd caught Erica!.)
"Now, tell me this, did you drive up in a circular ramp or over a little incline?"
Incline!
"I know where you're at."
So, we head back in the direction we came from. Only this time we're headed to the 5th St. ramp rather than the 4th St. one. (Why didn't anyone tell me there was a 4th St. AND a 5th St. ramp?) Rachel is, yes, trailing. Her sister begins to also. I assume she does this to keep Rachel company. Mr. GA looks at me, "You've got a lot of energy. More than those girls."
"Yeah and I ran nine miles today!"
Mr. GA then runs into another Security Guard with one of those motorized carts and asks for a ride.
A ride?
I look at the car. I see the space available (one, maybe two seats?) and I do the math. How can the four of us get a ride?
But we do it anyway. Rachel, Erica and Mr. GA in back. I in the front with the driver where I became intimately involved with the seat post. Still, the ride saved Rachel's feet a bit and it definitely quickened the trip. (I bet Mr. GA didn't mind sitting in the back with two hot girls either!)
We weren't five minutes into the 5th St. ramp when I saw it.
My car.
My beautiful Regal Beagle. Shiny wheels and all.
We hug Mr. GA. Rachel gives him money. Life is good. Life is okay.
Let's go home.
The clock on my dashboard read 2am. We'd been walking for two hours. We were beat, exhausted. But we were headed home (that is after I got a little lost in the ramp and couldn't find the exit right away...). I dropped off Rachel and her sister. I arrived home 20 minutes later.
God. What a night.
Only I couldn't bitch about it because James wasn't home. What? Up? So, I left a note on the door for James to take the dog out and I fell deeply, deeply to sleep.
The next morning, my feet were sore. My legs were sore. I didn't know which was harder on my body: the run or the parking garage walk-a-thon. I was also famished seeing as I'd hardly had dinner and had ran, danced and walked. We went to the Birchwood where I pigged out on Vegetarian comfort food and James reassured me it would all be okay.
"But, how? How could I lose my car in a parking garage?"
This is the question. I feel so dumb. I feel so stupid. But it happened. And I'm woman enough to admit it. Although, I can promise you it will never EVER happen again.
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