|Photo credit: Doug Hay|
Let me back up.
That evening there was a fundraiser for the local Catholic school. A card party. You don't play cards at a card party, although I suppose at some point in the misty past cards were played, hence the name. Nowadays, you eat a catered meal - something nice but not extravagant like chicken francese with a potato croquet and side of green beans or some veggie - I don't remember.
You get a bunch of raffle tickets with your entry fee and you can buy more. The raffles are for different prizes - mostly stuff for the house. I won a basket of liquor one year. There's a cash bar to bring in some extra money and because things can get a mite tedious. One year the priest reading off the raffle winners got a bit slap happy and started making fun of one of the prizes - a world clock that was a little bit god awful and little bit nice, and someone donated two of them every year. The poor woman who'd actually chosen the first of the two clocks was mortified that the priest was mocking her new clock because no one else had picked the other one. But she also thought it was hilarious.
You know, the power of wine.
So anyway, one year, a bunch of us went to a local bar after the card party to see a local band play. And some of the card party attendees came as well. Including the priest and an off duty party clown who I will not name because the neighborhood only had one and I want to be able to go back home without risking getting my ass kicked.
At one point, Drunky the Clown actually stepped up to the microphone to sing What Child Is This? in honor of the priest and Christ Almighty, why didn't her friends take her home? And why the hell can't cover bands take a set break without someone trying to jump into the act?
Not long after that, I went to use the ladies room. As one does. Drunky the Clown appears outside the stall, peeks through the space between the door and the wall and sees that I'm buckling my belt. She orders me to get out of the stall because I can do that outside. She spouts some crazy shit about not being able to wait because she has kids. Which, OK, clown needs to do some kegels. And get to the ladies room a little sooner because there are plenty of intoxicated leaky moms who don't try to order people out of the toilet stall.
That's right. Tried to. Because you know I didn't budge. I am not about to be pushed around by some crazy drunk off-duty clown even if she has a hundred pounds on me. Because I'm more stubborn than smart.
I made it back into the bar unscathed and told my friends what had happened. I was just all, bitch is crazy. One of my friends is the one who started laughing and shouting that I'd almost gotten my ass kicked by a clown.
Because the only things that seem to happen in Gerritsen Beach are kinda lame or incredibly bizarre. Like clown assault.
Or a really hot guy showing up at the bar dressed as Christopher Columbus, but it's not Halloween. Or Columbus Day, if I'm remembering correctly. But that's another story.