Power in numbers seems like a safe idea at parties, but when a group of Dominican baseball players obstruct your path back to the rest of the party, things can get a little sketchy.
Such was the case when Jackie and I, after engaging ourselves wholly in a few rounds of beer pong, decided to use the restroom. Blaine had invited the most of the team of minor league baseball players in our town over to her house for a party, and included on that team were a group of guys from the Dominican Republic who, from the time they arrived at the party to the time they left, had looked upon every female in the house with eyes rabid with desire. They stood together as a group, eying each girl from across the room and speaking in Spanish. One guy sat on the couch next to the beer pong table and retrieved every ball that missed the cup and landed on the floor for me, handing it over with an uncanny grin every time.
Jackie and I were rejoicing as beer pong victors when we both decided that we needed to go to the bathroom. We were only a few steps into the hallway when the Dominican birds of prey swarmed in. “What’s wrong?” One inquired in a heavy accent that was hard for me to understand, mostly because I was drunk. Jackie and I looked at each other, thoroughly perplexed, and explained to them that we were simply using the restroom, double checking to see that the door was locked once we were in. We stumbled back into the hallway and began our trek to the living room when a swift divide and conquer mission was carried out by the Dominicans; a group of three grabbed Jackie and took her to one end of the hallway while another one cornered me on the other end, citing that I needed a “password” to get through while repeatedly asking if I had a boyfriend; the password ended up being my phone number. Due to my surprise at the Dominican blitzkrieg and the inebriating effects of my Jack and Coke and beer, I couldn’t find the time nor the mental capacity to make up a fake number.
Once Jackie and I were released from Dominican captivity, we settled into the living room couches with the rest of the party and discussed amongst ourselves what had just happened; I told Jackie that I ended up giving my phone number to the Dominican who pulled me aside and persistently asked if I had a boyfriend while she informed me that one of them had tried to make out with her but she turned her head just in time to have her cheek engage in a full-on make out session instead.
Drunken confusion and mild disgust was the theme of our hostage stories that night. Needless to say, I made it a point to use a different bathroom for the remainder of the party.