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The night I found myself in the lobby of a Courtyard Marriott, covered in hot dog relish, about to die.
My friend Alfie used to sneak water bottles full of vodka into the movie theater. This was in the mid-2000’s before every AMC in the country had stadium seating and a liquor license. Some called it a problem. He called it "enhanced entertainment".
One particular booze-fueled cinematic experience led to Alfie and I standing in the lobby restroom at a Courtyard Marriott, covered in hot dog relish, about to die. The night had begun with an innocent 8:15 screening of The Dark Knight and ended in attempted homicide.
The movie went about as well as I could have expected. Alfie took a few large swigs from the water bottle, muttered some wildly inappropriate comments about Two-Face's sex organs in his best Batman voice, and slept through most of the Rachel Dawes scenes. But he was wide awake whenever The Joker was on the screen.
He was so fired up by Heath Ledger’s performance that, on the way out of the theater, he dumped his leftover popcorn on a 10-year-old boy's head and dropkicked a Kung Fu Panda standup poster — all while imitating Ledger's maniacal laugh.
After another half-dozen vodka sodas at the bar across the street, Alfie was ready to take his obsession with The Joker to a new level. He wanted to get into character. Shockingly, I didn't have anywhere better to be, so I helped him raid a nearby Dollar Tree for supplies.
Alfie emerged from the fitting room a few minutes later rocking a purple women's cardigan, bright red lipstick, and splotches of Coppertone sunscreen smeared all over his face. But the best part was the jar of Vlasic sweet relish that he let me dump in his hair to achieve the proper green hue from the movie.
We then proceeded to wander aimlessly around town, with Alfie asking every random person we passed if they wanted to know how he got his scars. Nobody seemed interested until a dirty black pickup, complete with a giant set of truck nuts, pulled up alongside us and flipped us the bird.
“Why so serious?” asked Alfie.
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, as the owner of the truck started aggressively pointing to a nearby parking lot, insinuating that he was about to introduce Alfie’s pickle-covered head to the asphalt. We handled the challenge in the most mature way we knew how — by running away cackling. But we didn’t get far before the truck violently cut us off at the next crosswalk. He blocked our path and came pretty close to actually running us over. The sudden escalation sobered us up (slightly) and we had the wherewithal to duck into the nearby Courtyard Marriott to hide from our new friend (and grab a few more drinks at the bar).
"Two double vodka sodas please," ordered Alfie.
"Sure thing, but don't drip any of that green shit on the floor," replied the bartender, astonishingly unfazed. "That'll be $36".
"Holy shit," I exclaimed.
"If you're good at something, never do it for free," deadpanned the bartender. Touché, sir.
Following a round of hotel libations, we had forgotten all about our would-be assailant. But apparently the close call had affected both of our bladders, because we really needed to hit the head. Immediately upon walking into the bathroom, I realized our mistake. With a powerful shove, someone pinned me against the paper towel dispenser with a dull thump and started shouting homophobic slurs that would make Jeremy Piven blush.
“Oh shit. It’s Truck Nuts!” slurred Alfie.
Turns out Truck Nuts was some kind of skinhead brandishing a truly awful face tattoo and a pretty large knife which he was now waving around menacingly. He slapped Alfie on the back of the head with his non-knife hand and shouted, "What the fuck are you wearing, Fairy-boy?"
"Never start with the head! The victim gets all... fuzzy," Alfie quipped.
"Dude, shut the fuck up. He's got a fucking knife," I unsuccessfully tried to calm Alfie down.
The tension built, much like two evacuation ferries, one carrying civilians and the other prisoners, rigged to explode at midnight unless one group sacrifices the other. Just when it seemed like Truck Nuts was about to use his blade to pop Alfie's stomach like a vodka-filled water balloon, one of the stall toilets flushed and out sauntered a hotel security guard.
The security guard's satisfied grin quickly turned deadly serious as he noticed the tense atmosphere and the knife in Truck Nuts' hand. Either startled by the security guard's presence or repulsed by the thick, sour odor of his bowels, Truck Nuts bolted, pushing past us and disappearing into the hotel's labyrinthine emergency stairwell.
The guard, after a brief moment of shock, sprang into action. He radioed for backup, describing the assailant and his last known location. To be honest, he kind of oversold the whole thing. He made it sound more like an armed robbery than a drunken disagreement.
But within minutes, the hotel's alarms blared, and an announcement echoed through the halls, declaring a lockdown. The police arrived swiftly, armed to the fucking teeth (again, this was blown totally out of proportion by the flatulent rent-a-cop). They barged into the lobby, shouting at Alfie and I to remain in the stanky-ass bathroom while they swept through the hotel, room by room, with guests huddled in the hallways or barricaded behind doors.
"What the fuck did you do, clown?" shouted the bartender from across the atrium as we slunk back into the men's room. The joke was on us, as we now had to hunker down in a 10x10 space that smelled so disgusting it made Alfie's eyes water, streaking his carefully-applied Coppertone makeup across his semi-conscious face.
About twenty malodorous minutes later, we were given the all clear. Truck Nuts was nowhere to be found and the police wanted to take our statement. "Did you know him?" asked the lead officer. "No sir," replied Alfie. "He's the phantom we now chase, but not the adversary we desired. So, we'll pursue him because we're compelled to, because our commitment is unwavering. A silent alarm blinks, a subtle sentinel amidst the grandeur. He's a fleeting enigma. A veiled protector. A Silent Watchman."
"All right, whatever kid. Go home and take a shower. You smell like a horse who shit out a hot dog."
The bartender laughed. The security guard blushed. I rolled my eyes.
Just another night at the movies with Alfie.