The Karaoke with Ray Adventure

It was a quiet Friday night with no foreseeable plans until a text message came in from a friend. She asked if I wanted to meet her and her friend at a bar for Karaoke. While I am a very big fan of sing-narrating my life, I tend to shy away from the microphone – unless Rock Band© is involved.

I decided to take my friend up on her offer for two reasons:

One – I wanted to “git crunk”.
Two – She’s hot.

I decide that it’d be a good idea to put on pants before I go. I arrive at the place and see my friend sitting at the bar with her friend and her boyfriend. We exchange hugs, smooches, and pleasantries before I order myself an ice cold beer.

Not five minutes into the evening a boisterous fellow comes staggering over to us. He introduces himself to me as Ray and shakes my hand as if he were pumping for oil. He goes on to tell my friend that she is beautiful.

He isn’t lying.

She says thank you and her friend chimes in that Ray is her contractor. Ray dignifies that with a big, “Yup.”

Ray then swallows his drink in one gulp and turns to my friend and again tells her that she is beautiful.

He’s still not lying.

He then approaches me again and re-introduces himself as Ray. Again he goes with an oil pump handshake.

This amuses my friend.

“You better get used to this.” She says.
“Used to what?” I asked.
“Ray, and him coming up to me.”
“He does this a lot?”
“It seems that way.”
“How long have you known him?”
“About an hour now.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I just met him tonight.”
“He’s my contractor.”
Her friend interjects.
“Yeah, you had mentioned that earlier.” She replied.

The night was still early and not enough people had lost their inhibitions to sing, so the Karaoke Man running the equipment was singing. Ray liked the song Karaoke Man chose.

“Good fucking song!” Ray screamed.
“You like this one?” I asked.
“Fuck yeah. I love the Allman Brothers.”
“It’s .38 Special.”
“It’s not the Allman Brothers. It’s .38 Special.”
“Hold On Loosely is by .38 Special.”
“Care to wager on it?”
“I’m not going to bet.”
“Come on you pussy. Let’s bet. I’ll bet you your next drink.”
“Pussy? Okay. The bet is my next drink. Go ask Karaoke Man.”

Ray runs up to Karaoke Man excited like a kid on Christmas. Karaoke Man appeared to be wearing a very bad toupee and it looked like his eyebrows were painted onto his forehead. Karaoke Man didn’t meet Ray with the same excitement as he was still singing the song as Ray tugged on his shirt. The song ended and a dejected Ray returned to the bar where he plopped down a $10 and told me that I was right.

My friend who had not witnessed any of this returned to where we were sitting.

What’s going on?” She asked.
“Ray lost a bet on the song Karaoke Man was just singing.” I replied.
“Your friend is a walking musical encyclopedia.” Ray exclaimed.
“Is that right?” She asked Ray.
“Yeah. It’s like whoa.” He replied.

I looked at her and repeated, “It’s like whoa.” At this moment it was like a light bulb clicked on inside Ray’s head.

“Good fucking song!” Ray screamed again and then proceeded to do some kind of dance that involved stomping his feet and clapping his hands to a beat that was clearly in his head and not coming from the music.

I look at my friend as if to say, ‘Who is this guy?’ when her friend comes over and advises, “He’s my contractor.”

As the evening went on, people decided to get up there to sing. A very tall woman was singing Whole Lotta Love by Led Zeppelin. She was really getting into it, so much so that she was screaming the names of the band members during the instrumental parts. A little distracting but she might have been a little loopy. Ray enjoyed it and repeated right after her, “Jimmy Page. Robert Plant. John Bonham.” John Paul Jones didn’t make the roll call for some reason. Ray came back over by us and decided he wanted to make another bet with me.

“Double or nothing.” Ray proposed.
“It can’t be double or nothing, Ray.” I advised.
“It can’t be double or nothing. You already got me the drink from the bet. I’m drinking it right now.”
“I don’t follow.”
“It would be a straight up new bet.”
“No, I wanna go double or nothing. Don’t be a pussy.”

Not wanting to get into a battle of wits with the witless, I conceded.

“What’s the bet?”
“Let’s be the gender of who comes out of the bathroom first.”
“Gender means boy or girl.”
“I know what gender means, I don’t understand the bet.”
“I bet the next person to leave the bathroom is a girl.”
“That means you bet it’s a boy.”
“Got it.”

Ray stared at the restroom area intently. Patiently waiting for someone to come out. I sipped on an ice-cold beer and listened to a guy give a poor rendition of Johnny Cash’s Folsom Prison Blues. Ray screamed, “Yeehaw!” when the friend of my friend emerged from the bathroom to join us.

He screamed, “I win! That was double or nothing so you get nothing.”
“Okay.” I said while directing my attention to my friend who was now dancing.
“What’s going on?” Her friend asked us.
“I won double or nothing that a female gender would come out of the bathroom first.”
“Didn’t you already bet him a drink before?”
She asked.
“Yes, I lost that one but I won this one, so he gets nothing now.”
“But he already has a drink. You should have bet another drink instead.”
“I said you should have bet another drink.”
“He’s my contractor.”
She looked at me and said.

My attention waned from them and veered towards my friend dancing. It was hot. Way hot. She came back over and leaned back onto me – ass to crotch, her ass – my crotch. I will not confirm nor deny that she was making my pants tight.

“What are you doing?” She asked.
“Me? I’m not doing anything.” I replied.
“No poking.”
“I’m sorry what?”
“No poking.”
“I’m not quite following.”
“Put that thing away.”
“Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?”
“Yes I am.”
“But you’re leaning into me. Ass to crotch.”
“So, what does that have to do with anything?”
“You just were dancing, which was way hot by the way.”
“And what’s your point?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well say all you want, just no poking.”
“I can’t have it, so it’s ridiculous.”
“Who said you can’t have it?”
“I can’t have it here so yes, it’s ridiculous.”
“So no poking. Got it?”
“Got it but…”
“But what?”
“You’re going to have to move a little more to the left.”

At this point Ray was doing some kind of makeshift Angus Young duck walk across the dance floor area. It would have been good if AC/DC was playing or any music at all really, but there wasn’t any. The Karaoke Man took himself a little smoke break (or maybe he was adjusting his wig, I don’t know) but that didn’t stop Ray. He was dancing to the concert in his head.

The Karaoke Man returned to his little machine and my friend’s friend was up next to sing. She decided to do her version of The Door’s LA Woman. She got up there and gave a very good performance with her smoky voice. When the song got up to the point where Jim Morrison sings, ‘Mr. Mojo Risin’ Ray decided this would be a good time to start heckling her.

“It’s Mo-Ho Rising. Mr. Mo-Ho Rising.” He screamed to her as she continued to sing.
“Can you believe she’s singing the wrong words?” He asked me.
“No she’s not. It’s Mojo Rising. Not Mo-Ho.”
“You don’t even know. Okay? You don’t even know.”
“Don’t know what Ray?”
“You weren’t even born when this came out. So you don’t even know.”
“Actually Ray The Doors is my favorite band so I think you’re wrong on this.”
“Am not.”
“Care to make a bet?”
“Oh no no no. You tricked me last time with that double or nothing bullshit. I’m not falling for your tricks.”
“You got me Ray. I was trying to trick you.”
“I knew it!”

At this point, as soon as Ray said ‘it’ he collapsed to the floor. Not wanting to go down, he tried grabbing onto the bar for support but wound up taking down a few bar stools with him. My friend’s friend came over to us.

“What happened?” She asked.
“He fell down.” I replied.
“He fell down before?”
“Yeah, about 10 minutes before you got here.”
“He’s my contractor, you know.”
“He is? I didn’t know that.”

My friend hits me on the shoulder indicating to me that she is sensing my sarcasm.

Ray gets up and dusts himself off and tries to order another drink. The bartender says he’s cut off. This makes Ray sad, to the point that he’s almost crying. At one point, I think he might have actually cried.

“I can’t believe they flagged me.” He cried.
“I think you might have had too much for tonight.” My friend said to him.
“You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“Can you believe they flagged me? I fucking built this bar.”
“You did?”
“He’s a contractor.”
I said to my friend. She hit me again.
“Damn fucking Skippy I helped build this bar. I helped build this whole fucking town.”
“Oh okay. I didn’t know that.”
She said to him
“Where’s my car?”
“I don’t think you should be driving Ray.”
I said.
“No I don’t want to drive I loaned it out before.”
“You loaned your car out, to who?”
“I don’t remember but I want to go home now. I gotta wait until he gets back. Without a drink.”
“It’s for the best. You need to sober up a little bit.”
“He wants to go home?”
My friend’s friend asked.
“Yes.” We both replied in unison.
“Then he should walk home. He only lives two blocks away.”
“Is that true Ray?”
I asked him.
“It doesn’t matter I built this fucking bar. I built this fucking town.”
“He is, after all, a contractor.”
I said to no one in particular.

Last call was called and they poured Ray into a cab because the person that borrowed his car never came back. I said good night to him and wished him well. I leaned over to my friend, looked her right in the eyes, and gave her a kiss. Right on the lips. We said we would do it again soon but I suggested next time a little less Ray. She suggested that next time there’d be a little less poking.

The End

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