So this weekend, Hubby and I had babysitting. Babysitting always means cocktails. A lot of them. So 5 1/2 hours and 3 wine bottles later (What? We were on the beach. It was hot. We were thirsty. Really thirsty.), we ended up on South Beach. We head over to THE pizza place...this place is synonymous with South Beach, clubbing, and the IT scene. Now you have to understand, this is not a chic place, really...more like a greasy, noisy, crowded hole in the wall with a gazillion delicious pizzas you order from behind a glass case and then stand around and try not to tip over in your drunken exhaustion as you thank the heavens that this place exists and wonder how in the world a place this greasy can mass produce pizza this good.
So we're standing in line and I am not even caring that we are finishing our night up at 8:30 while the South Beach-ites around us are just starting to ponder which uber-chic club they will go to before ending up right back at the same pizza spot. I am feeling pretty happy...the kind of happy you can only get with a bottle (or three) of wine, a day on the beach, and uninterrupted time with Hubby. This is when I get the uncontrollable urge to pee.
I saunter on down the long dark passageway of patrons and pizzas towards the bathroom. I yank on the handle, but nothing happens. I read the blurry sign on the door. Yep. Ladies Restroom. I pull again. Nothing. Within my drunken near-stupor, I notice an intimidating-looking brass contraption at the top of the door. I can not for the life of me figure out what in the world that is or how it functions, but I know, with every passing second that I must get into that bathroom. Turning over to the end of the pizza counter, I spot an employee...picture: toothless trucker/homeless guy who happens to run a ridiculously lucrative pizza joint in South Beach. Yeah. I can't figure it out either. But there he was, raspy voiced and greasier than the linoleum.
"Hi!" I bubble over to him. "How do I get into the bathroom?"
Without even looking over at me, he grumbles, "Ya' gotta put a coin in."
"A coin? What do you mean? Do you have a key or something?"
Unable to be bothered by the likes of perky, confused, sloshed li'l ol' me, he shoves a gold circle into my hand. "Here," he grunts.
"A token." Still grumbling. Still not looking at me.
"Yeah, a token."
I look down into my palm. I blink rapidly. Confused. I stand there, frozen, my alcohol-saturated brain trying to make some sense. Then, suddenly, it dawns on me. My face lights up.
"Ooooooh!" I squeal, smiling. "You mean like at Chuck E. Cheese?!?"
Raspy-greasy-can't-be-bothered-pizza-guy finally looks at me. Now it's his turn to blink rapidly and look confused. After a long pause, he responds: "Sorta."
I skip merrily to the bathroom, token in hand.