SO SORRY

Reflecting on my younger years, I see a cornucopia of opportunities I consciously sidestepped. Thanks to Catholic school, I was programmed to evade anything remotely sinful. Moses himself, it seemed, had set up shop in my head, chanting the Ten Commandments like a record stuck on repeat. Stealing, lying, coveting? Not on my watch. Sister Nancy, with her ruler of justice, would beam with pride knowing her teachings stuck to me like gum on a shoe. Dubbed a “goody two shoes” by many, I steered clear of the typical teenage rebellions. No clandestine escapes through my bedroom window, no promiscuous adventures, no experimentation with illicit hallucinogens, and perhaps the most impressive feat of all – no curfew violations. Although, in fairness, I never received a curfew in the first place. My best friend, Lisa, shared my saintly disposition; we were the quintessential good Catholic girls, committed to staying out of trouble. 

But, as fate would have it, there was one night when our halos teetered on the brink of infamy…

Like many trendsetting suburbanites from Los Angeles, we often ventured into the city for a taste of the glamourous Hollywood club scene. Yet, the hour-long commute occasionally dampened our enthusiasm. So, in our early twenties, Lisa and I would sometimes settle for a local watering hole in West Covina called Safari Bar. We affectionately and ironically christened it So Sorry Bar – a not-so-subtle jab at its modest charms compared to the glittering allure of Hollywood. Our suburban dive had its perks, though. You see, Wednesday nights at So Sorry Bar were dollar drink nights, which aligned perfectly with our frugal philosophy: never spend a cent over $20 on a night out. But the real magic of So Sorry Bar was its proximity. It made for a swift and sensible journey home after a couple of drinks and a mild buzz. Without fail, our Wednesday night escapes would culminate in a pilgrimage to the local Del Taco, where we'd placate our inevitable late-night munchies.

On one fateful Wednesday evening, Lisa and I, who affectionately call each other "Fatty," prepared for a night out at our beloved watering hole. Lisa, a va-va-voom redhead with eyes as piercing as the judgments of Catholic school nuns, has been my partner in mischief since I was a mere eleven-years-old. She was the Ethel to my Lucy, and wherever we ventured, shenanigans were sure to follow. After defying the laws of physics with a can of mousse, a blow dryer, and a dollop of prayers, we deemed ourselves ready to face the world by 9 pm. 

That night, for reasons that now elude me, we decided to make a detour to National's Sports Bar before our main event at So Sorry Bar. National's was the go-to sports bar where all our friends – or rather, the guys we harbored secret crushes on – hung out. They served "BIG" beers at National’s, a whopping 20 ounces each. We indulged in one BIG beer each before heading to our primary destination.

By 10:30 pm, we had arrived at So Sorry Bar. Lisa opted for one more beer, while I boldly ventured into two more drinks before we hit the dance floor. Hip-Hop was our anthem, and we grooved like nobody was watching, much to the horrified looks of onlookers. Snoop Dogg's “Gin and Juice,” Ini Kamoze's “Here Comes the Hotstepper,” and Ice Cube’s “Bop Gun (One Nation)” were our siren songs. Waving my arms in the air like I simply didn’t care was my pièce de résistance. I unleashed my inner Baryshnikov of Hip Hop, a spectacle worthy of Broadway, or at least a community theater. My epic dance moves sometimes caught the eyes of potential suitors…

However, on this particular evening, my admirer wasn’t your average Romeo – he was a persistent dwarf. Despite my polite refusals to dance or drink, this pint-sized Casanova refused to be deterred. I have absolutely nothing against little people, mind you, but they just weren't my type. I prefer a partner I can't bench press. Standing next to this gentleman, at 5’2” I felt like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. His relentless invitations to dance and drink were met with my equally unwavering refusals. Eventually, I resorted to hiding in the bathroom to evade his advances. To my chagrin, when I finally emerged, I found Lisa chatting away with him, and I couldn't help but wonder what she had up her sleeve. 

Once their conversation concluded, Lisa approached me with a mischievous glint in her eye. "I gave him your phone number," she confessed, punctuated by fits of hysterical laughter.

“You guys are the perfect couple! You’re practically the same height!” she joked, giggling uncontrollably. Needless to say, I did not share her amusement. Not even a smidge.

In the wee hours of the morning, around 1 am, we finally decided to bid adieu to So Sorry Bar. I left starving. The evening's escapades transformed me into a famished beast. I yearned for a bacon-wrapped hot dog from a street vendor, expertly prepared over a makeshift grill consisting of a cookie sheet atop a tin trash can. However, Lisa, appalled by the idea, quickly vetoed the idea. Growing up on hearty Mexican cuisine, including spicy tripe soup (aka: Menudo), my stomach was as resilient as a cast-iron skillet. Lisa, however, lacked the same ironclad digestion, which is why she suggested Del Taco instead…joking that their tacos were the "healthier" option. Our fondness for Del Taco, though, wasn't just about the food. It was about Juan, an employee who worked there. I would casually strike up conversations with him in Spanish, flash a coy smile, and teasingly tell him that Lisa harbored romantic intentions toward him. And that's when the free tacos would start pouring in. Lisa, for her part, didn't mind playing along – after all, it meant a free feast.

We climbed into "The Gremmy," our affectionate nickname for Lisa's 1992 Toyota Corolla. In retrospect, I'm not entirely sure why we bestowed such a shameful moniker on her whip. Perhaps it was the slightly askew bumper or the missing hubcap that screamed "ugly duckling." In any case, it felt like a Bentley when compared to my trusty 1982 BMW, renowned for its malfunctioning fuses. In scorching heat, the hazards, blinkers, and horn would join forces, creating a cacophony of chaos. But I digress – the real drama was about to unfold.

As we departed the strip mall housing So Sorry Bar, we found ourselves on the brink of a cinematic showdown. A cop car came into view, and Lisa, though not inebriated, succumbed to nerves and executed a lightning-quick right turn from the far-left lane. The maneuver didn't go unnoticed; the police took the bait, their sirens wailing and lights flashing. It was a full-on showdown with the po-po, and panic surged within the confines of the Gremmy.

Lisa did the clear-headed thing, and immediately pulled to the side of the road. And that’s when I went into action.

Thinking on my feet, I hurriedly unwrapped gum and shoved it into Lisa's mouth. I wanted her breath to smell minty fresh with no trace of booze.

Approaching the vehicle, the officer politely requested Lisa's driver's license. Lisa, who’s a ginger, turned as pale as a ghost – and for someone as fair as my Fatty, that’s nearly colorless. Meanwhile, I fumbled with a cigarette, attempting to place it between my lips. But no matter how hard I tried, that cigarette just wouldn't stay put – it kept slipping through my trembling fingers.

Then, a stroke of brilliance struck me like a lightning bolt! I would channel my inner Meryl Streep and stage a convincing inebriation act, all in a valiant effort to divert attention from Lisa, who would essentially look like the epitome of sobriety next to me. While Lisa was indeed sober-ish, my over-the-top drunken act was designed to fast-track our journey to Del Taco.

"Have you had anything to drink tonight?" the cop inquired, his flashlight revealing a hint of suspicion in his eyes. Lisa, nervously, replied, "Um, yes. I had one beer earlier at National’s, but nothing at Safari Bar." The latter, of course, being an outright fabrication.

“Oh, you’re coming from Safari Bar, huh?” The officer seemed convinced he was onto something.  

Lisa, a bit sheepishly, confirmed, “Yes, Officer, but it was just one beer at National’s.”  

"Okay," the officer began, but Lisa interjected, "One BIG beer, officer," using her hands to illustrate the beer’s magnitude.

"Why on earth did she say that?" I silently screamed within the confines of my mind. Lisa was in trouble, I had to do something.

"She's got a thing for big ones!" I blurted out, trying my best to sound drunk. An Oscar-worthy performance, surely. But the cop, unimpressed by my thespian skills, simply ignored my antics and proceeded to instruct Lisa to exit the vehicle for a sobriety test.

Chills ran down my spine – this was uncharted territory for the Fatty’s. We had never been in trouble with the law before. Thoughts of Lisa locked up in a room full of felons started to fill my mind. I couldn’t help but imagine her perched on a grimy toilet, while a bevy of Rachel Maddow types eyed her plump derriere. And those unflattering jailbird stripes, going in the wrong direction and adding questionable bulk to her figure, would be a travesty!

As Lisa stepped out of the car, she shot me a deathly glare. I couldn’t help but silently rebuke her for gesturing the size of the BIG beer to the officer.

To my horror, the policeman commenced a sobriety test that appeared to be choreographed by a circus ringmaster. "How could this be happening?" I wondered, my despair mounting. “Surely, it’s because I failed to forward that chain letter to twelve people.”

The test began with the officer instructing Lisa to bend over and touch her toes, which she accomplished with ease. Desperate to regain my earlier acting glory, I decided to up the ante. I erupted into wild applause, and hollered, "THAT'S RIGHT!" My plan was to appear so sloshed that Lisa would look like the designated driver in comparison.

In a stroke of what I thought was brilliance, I leaned out of the car window for added dramatic effect. As I observed Lisa walking backward in her chic Steve Madden chunky-heeled clogs, I fantasized about my impending Oscar acceptance speech. Cheering her on with an enthusiastic "Woot woot!!" I channeled my inner Arsenio Hall, punctuating my applause with animated arm pumps.

Our eyes briefly locked, and I gave Lisa a conspiratorial wink. She didn't return the gesture, but I was certain she appreciated my over-the-top performance.

The officer then proceeded to instruct Lisa on a phase of the sobriety test that I had never witnessed before, and it's quite hard to describe. He extended his left hand, palm up, and began slapping it with his right hand in a rhythmic pattern.

The complexity didn't end there. As he slapped his left palm, he alternated between using the palm and the back of his right hand. Palm, then back, palm, back... SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, five slaps in total. Reading about it might be confusing, but watching it in person was an exercise in absurdity! It would have been a challenge someone who hadn’t had a drop to drink, let alone someone who had consumed one BIG beer.

"BOOOOOOO," I protested loudly, expressing my frustration at the insanely difficult test. While his intentions were noble in preventing drunk driving, this seemed a tad excessive. It's worth mentioning that he also swayed his hips with each slap – right, left, right, left, right.

Then it was Lisa's turn for this crucial test. I had faith in her and to show my support, I shouted, “You got this, Fatty! Go Fatty, go. You're the best!” adding an enthusiastic cheerleading move for good measure – my imaginary Oscar felt closer than ever.

Lisa extended her left hand, palm up, perfectly imitating the position. With her right hand, she began the sequence – SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP – her hips expertly mirroring the officer’s movements perfectly. Right, left, right, left, right. She executed it with flawless precision! Lisa had nailed it! The crowd – me, myself, and Oscar – erupted into wild cheers!

I was on the edge, eagerly anticipating a victory taco, when the officer pulled out the big guns and produced…a Breathalyzer.

"Oh shit," I muttered under my breath.

The night's events had taken an unexpected turn, and my usually effective acting skills seemed utterly futile now.

The officer instructed Lisa to blow into the Breathalyzer for a solid ten seconds.

She complied, and the Breathalyzer emitted a curious whistling sound. "Is that normal?" I wondered anxiously. The officer took the device and returned to his squad car. Lisa's big blue eyes glistened with tears, and my heart ached. The thought of my best friend facing jail time was simply unbearable!

As the policeman walked back over to Lisa, the theme song from Taps played ominously in the background of my mind. Had Lisa passed the test? Did she sway her hips sufficiently? Had my cheers fallen short?

Suddenly, the second officer, who had been in the police car until now, burst out, shouting, “We gotta go! We got a call. LET’S GO!”

The first officer turned to Lisa and said, “You just got very lucky. Drive straight home, I'll be checking to make sure your car is there later.” And with that, he turned around, got in his squad car and left.

In an instant, the ordeal was over. We had dodged the bullet and were free to head to Del Taco. The tantalizing scent of shredded cheese seemed closer than ever. Or so I thought...

As Lisa walked back to the car, her expression was a storm of fury. Was it disappointment over missing a potential jailhouse drama, or frustration at our delayed Del Taco pilgrimage? She opened the door, sat down, took a deep breath, and then, to my shock, punched me hard in the arm.

“Ouch! What the…?” I whimpered in confusion.  

She glared at me, as if I had just announced the permanent closure of all Del Taco drive-thrus. “What the hell, Adryana?!”

 “I was acting drunk to make you look sober,” I snapped back.

Her anger boiled over. “ARE YOU F**KING INSANE?”

“I’m sorry. I was just trying to help,” I murmured, feeling defeated. “Let’s just get to Del Taco. It’ll make you feel better.”

Then came the second punch.

"OUCH!" I screamed, my arm throbbing from her Mike Tyson blows. She looked me straight in the eyes and said verbatim, “I may not have gone to jail for a 502, but I’m about to go to jail for a 187 homicide because I’m about to kill my best friend!”

Lisa and I drove home in awkward silence, hunger pangs ripping at my stomach the entire ride. By the grace of God, we made it home that night with our reputations intact…and a lesson that would last a lifetime. Never put yourself in a predicament where you might be forced to wear horizontal stripes. And who needs the glitzy allure of Hollywood when you’ve got the twinkling lights of a Del Taco sign, beckoning with the promise of not just late-night sustenance but also a story to tell.