Keep Your Hands to Yourself − 13 February, 1993 - 14 February, 1993

Ever get into a situation so far, that once you figure out it's a complete cluster fuck, you just tough it out? Not always the best idea. The experience can sure be interesting, though.

A month or so prior to this weekend, a girlfriend from high school got back in touch with me. I say girlfriend because I wouldn't classify her as my high school sweetheart -- I don't think I really had a high school sweetheart; dated a few girls, but that's about the extent of my emotional involvement (if a teen-age boy can even have emotional involvement). As I was saying, Jennifer got back in touch with me and we spoke and wrote to each other for several weeks. About a week before Valentine's Day, I had the tremendously moronic idea to plan a weekend getaway as a surprise -- you know... see where things go, talk about our feelings. Aw, hell, it was all about seeing if I could get a little action "for old time's sake."

What can I say? I was a horny college kid trapped in the prison-like environment of USAFA (and showering with my roommate was just NOT going to happen).

Perusing the Sunday paper, I came across an ad for a weekend trip to Central City: one night at a nice hotel, shuttle to and from the casinos, dinner, drinks, and a champagne breakfast. Sounded good, even though neither of us cared one way or the other for gambling.

I called Jennifer to see if she would be free that weekend -- yes, she was -- then called and set up the reservations.

The big weekend arrived and I drove out to pick Jennifer up. We stopped by the grocery store where her mom worked so she could tell her goodbye. They hugged and shared some weird "look" between them -- I would unfortunately discover what that was all about in a few hours.

The hotel was on the west side of Denver. We checked in and unloaded our stuff in the room. The bus to the casinos (and dinner) didn't leave for an hour, so we hung out in the room.

Jennifer was nervous and fidgety. Not good. She finally told me that she had something she needed to tell me. Getting worse.

"I'm pregnant."

Bingo. The weekend officially went into a tailspin, and it had hardly begun.

I hadn't even seen Jennifer in over a year, so no, she was not pregnant by me.

Allow me this brief tangent: Although this wasn't exactly great news for me, it was for Jennifer. It may have been unplanned, but doctors had for years told her she couldn't get pregnant (for reasons I won't go into here). So there's a happy little bit of sunshine to remember as I relate the rest of this crap-tacular weekend.

I sat there slack-jawed for I don't know how long. I don't remember saying anything; I may have given her a hug. I loathe to admit it, but my only thought was, "No sex for you. No sex for you. No sex for you." Shallow, I know. (I'm not like that now. Usually.)

A short while later we were climbing on the bus with the other couples. What the fuck?! Everyone on the bus was geriatric! We were the youngest couple on the bus by at least 30 years! Did I miss some fine-print on the ad for this weekend stating that you have to qualify for senior-citizen discounts to be able to come on this trip?

I sat in stony silence for the 45-minute trip to the casinos. I was at a complete loss for anything to say, and Jennifer didn't seem to feel the need to prod me into a conversation. Thank God.

At the casino, we had our buffet dinner -- I don't recall what it was, though the image of old shoe leather dipped in Gravy Train comes to mind. After that, we pissed away some money in the nickel slots. It wasn't long before we were out of gambling money and exceedingly bored -- the bus didn't return to the hotel for hours. Then I remembered the free drinks.

The free drinks consisted only of beer and wine. The beer was the worst kind of piss you could imagine, and the wine was essentially alcoholic vinegar. But I drank and drank. Cheap date that I am, it wasn't long before I was good and "happy." Jennifer, being pregnant, stuck to water.

A short time later, a band started setting up on the second floor. We made our way to a nearby table so we could sit and listen for a while.

The band, from what I remember, was pretty good. They soon started taking requests -- people would just shout out what they wanted to hear.

For some reason, I was jonesing to hear the Georgia Satellites. Thirty seconds of drunken shouting, and I got my request. But the lead singer saw that I was piss-drunk and wanted to have some fun with me.

"Which of their songs do you want to hear?" the guy asked.

"Keep Your Hands to Yourself!" I shouted, spilling the beer I was holding into Jennifer's lap.

"Well, I think we know the music, but I don't know the words. Can you start us off?" The sly grin should have been a give-away, but I was waaaay too drunk to notice such nuances.

I stumbled my way to the stage with a sloppy grin as the lead singer relinquished his mic. The band started playing, and I belted out a wonderfully drunken rendition of "Keep Your Hands to Yourself." At least I think that's what I sang -- memory is a bit hazy about that. Could have been singing "Sex Gorilla."

I had to have sounded like a cow being butchered. A drunk cow.

When the song was over, I was greeted with enthusiastic applause -- I doubt it was genuine appreciation of my vocal talents. It was either applause that I stopped singing, pity applause, or applause for having the nuts to get up there and do it.

As I made my way back to the table, several bits of paper with phone numbers were pushed into my pockets by various women I passed. At the time, I thought I was the cock of the walk. They were probably all women over 60 with their hearing aids turned off. I guarantee that if they had heard me sing they would have been throwing rotten fruit at me and not their phone numbers.

Back at the table, Jennifer sat glaring at me with her arms crossed. Ah, the happy state of alcohol-induced apathy. I kept on grinning.

I crashed hard at the hotel. The next morning I felt surprisingly good. Jennifer seemed in a less-surly mood, as well. Probably because she took all the phone numbers from my pants pocket and tore them up while I was sleeping.

Breakfast was quiet, but not awkward. So was the ride back to drop her off at home. Strange. I think we both knew that "we" were never going to happen, and we were ok with that.

Well, I certainly was, anyway.