Saturday Night Fever

When people ask about my writing, they usually seem pretty surprised that I don't write fiction. (Although, that's unless, of course, you talk to my mother who would claim that I do indeed write fiction, but bygones.) That's usually when I explain that I'd much rather write non-fiction because life is so full of stuff that you just can't make up, or stuff that if you did make up stories along the same lines, people would balk at your cheesiness or call you ridiculous. (For further proof that "truth really is stranger than fiction," please see my brief encounter with Ivanka Trump.) Anyway, one of my weekend adventures is another great example of this tenet. A few weeks ago, I visited a bar in downtown Nashville with my friend Lindsay. After hanging out for a bit, we were ready to head home and left the bar to head to the parking lot. When we got to the car, we realized that we didn't have Lindsay's keys, so we headed back inside to make sure that they hadn't fallen out under the table where we were seated. Inside the bar, our table had already been taken by a couple of guys. It was a busy bar after midnight, so Lindsay explained the situation to the new patrons, and we proceeded to climb under the table in search of the missing key. Luckily, we found the keys and climbed back out quickly. But, as we were preparing to leave the bar for the second time, a girl walked out of the bathroom and made a beeline towards me. Before I could really comprehend her scowl and determination, she yanked me by the elbow (hard, I might add) and screamed, "What the f*** are you doing with my boyfriend?" For the next few seconds, I was completely stunned, mainly because a) no one has ever grabbed me and accosted me like that in public before and b) her boyfriend wasn't much to write home about, and therefore not what I would imagine as a prime target for "man-stealing." (Not that I know too much about "man-stealing," but I did watch a lot of "Beverly Hills, 90210" in my adolescence, and a young Luke Perry would have been a different story. But, this guy? No.) As I was still standing there - in shock - the boyfriend stood up to intervene, and I imagine explain that we were just trying to retrieve some keys, when she turned on him and proceeded to take his head off. Thankfully, Lindsay and I know the bartender where we were, so we were able to exit quickly after this and avoid any further commotion. (And, not that I would have, but for the record, I could have made her sorry for such an inappropriate accusation. I don't like to be touched -- especially by strangers leaving dirty bar bathrooms.) Anyway, the point to my story is this: The name of the bar where this near chick-fight occurred? The Trailer Park. I leave it at that.