It would be hard to pick which of the millions of total disasters I have perpetrated, either through ignorance or absentmindedness.
But I think the one that is the most gut-wrenchingly nasty, judging from people's reactions, is the night I closed the bar (this was during grad school). I used to find some of the customers waiting outside for me at three a.m. when I had finished the cleaning required of me. I used to be a bit scared by this, but in those days...yadda. Anyway, one of the men who waited there was a friend of my father's, who had discovered that I worked at that bar. He would stay until past closing time, and complain about his wife. Clueless twit I was, but even I picked up on the fact that H thought he could solve some of his problems by screwing his old friend's daughter.
So I always refused to go home (or to a motel) with any of them, but if I felt danger, I'd invite them to go to the Carrows over on State Street and we could talk it all over, and I would listen and be so sympathetic they get free therapy, not free sex. It worked in that none of them did anything violent the next night, but that's aside.
So one morning, there I was in Carrows with H, after a week of finals, and class in a few hours. I was so exhausted that when the waitress served the coffee, as H was whining on about how his wife didn't understand him, I reached for the honey to put into my coffee, but got the barbeque sauce instead. I poured in a good dollop, stirring. He paused, mouth open. I do remember that distinctly, because it briefly brought me out of my torpor.
"Are you going to drink that?" he asked, or words to that effect.
I gave as how I was indeed, I needed a caffeine boost as I had class in four hours, and home was still a half hour away, up in Isla Vista. (These were the days of 55 mph.)
He watched me drink. I shuddered, but just kept on drinking. It was about three sips later that I realized the coffee tasted worse than any coffee ever.
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But I think the one that is the most gut-wrenchingly nasty, judging from people's reactions, is the night I closed the bar (this was during grad school). I used to find some of the customers waiting outside for me at three a.m. when I had finished the cleaning required of me. I used to be a bit scared by this, but in those days...yadda. Anyway, one of the men who waited there was a friend of my father's, who had discovered that I worked at that bar. He would stay until past closing time, and complain about his wife. Clueless twit I was, but even I picked up on the fact that H thought he could solve some of his problems by screwing his old friend's daughter.
So I always refused to go home (or to a motel) with any of them, but if I felt danger, I'd invite them to go to the Carrows over on State Street and we could talk it all over, and I would listen and be so sympathetic they get free therapy, not free sex. It worked in that none of them did anything violent the next night, but that's aside.
So one morning, there I was in Carrows with H, after a week of finals, and class in a few hours. I was so exhausted that when the waitress served the coffee, as H was whining on about how his wife didn't understand him, I reached for the honey to put into my coffee, but got the barbeque sauce instead. I poured in a good dollop, stirring. He paused, mouth open. I do remember that distinctly, because it briefly brought me out of my torpor.
"Are you going to drink that?" he asked, or words to that effect.
I gave as how I was indeed, I needed a caffeine boost as I had class in four hours, and home was still a half hour away, up in Isla Vista. (These were the days of 55 mph.)
He watched me drink. I shuddered, but just kept on drinking. It was about three sips later that I realized the coffee tasted worse than any coffee ever.