Just as American Idol came back from commercial, I heard a knock at the door. I wasn't expecting anyone. Peeling myself off the couch and away from the sounds of Katharine McPhee's warm-toned belt, I looked through the peep hole to find out who was there.
It was Stacee. She was clutching her new leather Gucci hobo bag and weaving heavily on top of her wedge heels.
"I need to use your bathroom," she said, as she barged straight past me and unevenly stomped across the living room floor toward the hallway. I heard the door to the bathroom slam and the sound of an extra-long stream of urine that could only have been brought on by some serious drinking.
Showcase wasn't even here. He was all the way up in Hollywood at the theatre where he was about to begin the closing night performance of the play he'd been doing for the last 2 months. Stacee had come up from Orange County to see his show. And, like many of her trips up the 405 from Laguna Beach to L.A., she did it bombed out of her DD-cup tits.
As Stacee continued to pee, my phone rang. It was Showcase.
"Your girlfriend's here. She's drunk and pissing in our bathroom."
" I need you to put her in a cab."
"Does she know where she's going?"
"I think so. But could you make sure?"
I put Stacee into a blue and white Beverly Hills cab 10 minutes later. Her cherry-red BMW Z3 was parked crookedly in our driveway and partially on the sidewalk.
Two or three nights later, I awoke to screams around 3:15 AM. At first, I thought some poor woman was being attacked in the alley behind my building. Turns out, it wasn't that kind of mugging.
"Ohhhh ohhh ohhhh... pull my hair! Pull my hair! PULL IT!!"
The sound of bamboo on concrete intensified as Showcase's headboard continued to slam into the wall. Stacee moaned and screamed even louder.
"Oh yeah... that's it... ohhhh....ohhh... PULL MY HAIR!"
I heard my upstairs neighbor get out of bed (yes our walls are frighteningly thin) and start walking around. I wasn't the only one up. It was around this time that I realized that I had to pee. And that Stacee was sure to hear me if I got up. Whatever. I let her "finish" before creaking open my bedroom door and tiptoeing out to the bathroom.
Stacee was gone by the time I got up the next morning. She'd usually sneak out by 6:15 AM to avoid the traffic back down the 405. Showcase got up about an hour after I did and apologized profusely for the noise.
"She drove up here drunk off her ass in the middle of the night again, didn't she?"
"This girl is crazy, Showcase. Certifiable."
"Yeah, but when a hot chick shows up at my door at 2:30 in the morning wanting to fuck me, I'm not exactly gonna turn that down."
The happy couple had plans again that night. I was in my room, deep into a tournament on Full Tilt when Stacee arrived. She sheepishly appeared in my doorway. I mucked a J2 offsuit and waved her in.
"I'm really, really sorry about last night. I'm like, so embarrassed."
"Don't worry. No reason to be."
"Next time... I promise I'll use a pillow."