BUSTed

So after I decided I wanted to make the move out of my Rocky Boots, chef coat and toque into a real suit and work the front of the house, I worked for a great family country-cooking restaurant chain as an Assistant Manager. I availed myself to travel around the country to help other units. Usually restaurants that were understaffed, or in some cases, mismanaged to the point where I would be assigned to help. I was able to get my store as GM earlier than the 14 months manager incubation period it normally took.

Everything was first-class with this employer and every year, the General Managers were all flown down to southern Florida for 5 days of fun, sun, eats, drinks, golf, and poker.

Top shelf. The company pulled out all the stops.

Since it was the first weekend off the Training complex following 4 grueling weeks of tests and training, we were primed.

From the beautiful oceanside condos to the VIP golf reservations on Kelly’s Plantation, Fred Couples’ course, it was five days of complete fun and spoiling ourselves. We even found time to go deep sea fishing whereby I landed Moby Lips, a mythical 25 lb. grouper with blue fins and yellow lips. Mythical because I don’t have any actual proof  of this catch due to an unfortunate accident with my phone.

But that is a story for another day.

So it is day four of our debauchery and I end up going to a strip club with several District Managers. I’m figuring I am safe hanging with them as they all outrank me. Now, keep in mind I was still drinking and quite copiously back then, so I am going at it hard with the DM’s to the point where I don’t remember anything after we started shooting pool for money.

I think they call that a blackout.

All I know is I won mucho dinero off the boys shooting 9-ball, to the tune of 900 smackers.

Probably not the best career move.

However, somehow I lost my American Express card and since our night included stops at two other clubs, I had no earthly idea where I left it.

The weekend was greatly anticipated, but in the fateful year of 9/11 all domestic air travel would be restricted. So there were four of us that drove out representing Tulsa, Norman, Midwest City, and Lawton, Oklahoma.

When we returned the following week, I don’t know how on earth it came up, but somehow Karen wanted my AMEX card for something or other. I bought a day with the “unpacking” thing, then I decided instead of just telling the simple truth that I was out “networking” with the DM’s and couldn’t remember where I left my card, but NO.

I came up with this half-assed whopper about how I lost my card when my golf cart spun out and spilled the contents of my golf cart all over the fairway I even went into detail of a mythical person who stopped to help me, recounting every word of our conversation.

Remember the mark of a great lie is details.

So Karen comes in with the mail and as she sorts through it, I heard The Tone.

“So you lost your card in that spinout? Are you okay?”

Opening the door once more for me to put my foot in my mouth.

Before I had time to open my mug to spew more untruths, she handed me an envelope she just opened.

I saw the postmark was Panama City, Florida.

Inside the envelope was this cutout card with two very large breasts and nestled between them was my American Express card. The card said You left this here! The company looked sort of legit. BTE was the company the card was billed to.

The Domestic Despot met my eyes as she underscored the company logo with her index finger.

Big Tit Enterprises.

Dead silence.

Stay well.