Champagne Girls – Time: 8:45 AM, Friday morning after Thanksgiving. Location: Buckhead, just north of downtown Atlanta. I answered the chime to pick up two females. I had some difficulty locating them, but after a few moments, they stumbled into the nearby parking lot. When they piled into the backseat, the car was enhanced with an odor that mixed stale smoke and a urinal with an exhausted freshen disc. Destination? 50 miles north…50 miles equates to at least 45 minutes in the best of traffic. Fortunately, the Friday morning after Thanksgiving is as slow a traffic window as possible in Atlanta.
All was acceptable until they spoke. “My friend doesn’t get out much. She’s got a ten and twelve-year old at home.” Wow. My first judgment was that neither was old enough to drink. Wrong.
“Did you have a good Thanksgiving?” That seemed an appropriate and safe question.
“Did we f….ng ever! You know, we’re not cheap drunks. We’re what you call champagne drunks. There’s a difference, you know?”
“I didn’t. Thanks for the information.”
That introduced me to 45 minutes of a new education in foul word combinations that I never imagined. They laughed. They shared their opinions on some of their acquaintances, all interspersed with expletives that were not fit for a prison cell. Perhaps not even solitary confinement. I located their destination which was one of their homes and they dragged themselves out of the car and stood erect at the garage door, giggling and chatting like death row inmates granted a few more moments of a stay of execution. They weren’t home yet until they walked in that door. I left them in glee.