There was whiskey and cabs and more whiskey and more cabs - and a guy who may or may not have been in an open relationship. Story by Annie Duckworth.
Listen to the story as it was told at The Watercooler storytelling night or read on ...
I was in New York City working on my first feature film. I was in the lowest possible position: production assistant but, as a foreigner, I was everyone's favourite pet. During filming I caused a bit of a stir in the camera department by shacking up with the focus puller. It transpired that he had a history with his female camera assistant and she was warning me to stay away from him because Mr Focus Puller, it turns out, had a girlfriend.
I brought this up with Mr Focus Puller and there was some to-ing and fro-ing, and it basically came down to his word against the rumours. In America non-exclusive relationships are actually a thing - not like in New Zealand where one party pash means you're going steady.
Everything was largely fine, until the night of the wrap party, that was when things took a turn for the worse.
The rounds of whiskey continued to flow and all was going well until I realised my handbag had stayed in one of the cabs I had fallen out of.
A hellish shoot. Overtime every day. A tyrant director. Everyone was thanking their lucky stars it was over and the open bar in Manhattan was a welcome reprieve. We all wanted to get our free booze and get out of there. We gapped it to a secret cool-kids-only wrap party. So of course I got pissed - New Zealand pissed.
There was whiskey and cabs and more whiskey and more cabs and we ended up at a bar in Brooklyn.
This part is all a blur. Basically we drank more, and then more, and even more still. Mr Focus Puller, now a little out of focus, was getting amorous and informed me that his non-exclusive girlfriend was currently asleep at his apartment so I would not be going home with him tonight.
The rounds of whiskey continued to flow and all was going well until I realised my handbag had stayed in one of the cabs I had fallen out of. For the uninitiated this means it was gone forever. Luckily for me it had only contained my cellphone, keys to my apartment, my subway card, credit card, some cash and my passport.
I was mostly concerned that I now had no way to get to my apartment, get into my apartment or contact my flatmates to let me in. Given my superb critical function at this point. I decided the only solution was to go home with Mr Focus Puller.
He was hesitant – I explained how desperate I was. He was still hesitant. I allayed his fears – I told him I’d sleep on his couch – just a random New Zealand girl who lost all her shit in need of a place to crash. Nothing out of the ordinary. It’d be fine. He bought it. We went back to drinking and making out.
We only decided to make the trek to his house when the bars closed. So as you can imagine he was very very drunk at this point, and very handsy. He started talking about how I didn’t have to sleep on the couch. How he and his girlfriend had this open relationship, how I should sleep in the bed with them… she’d be into it … they’ve had threesomes before.
I assured him that his girlfriend would not be into being pawed at by two whiskey-soaked idiots at 5am – especially if one of them was a complete stranger.
Mr Focus Puller persisted until we were right outside his apartment and I put my foot down – I’m going to go in there, and sleep on your couch and that’s it. He was a bit sulky but accepted it.
There is this great thing in New York City called ‘railroad apartments’ - lots of rooms strung together in a line – no hallway, you just have to walk through one to get to the next. In his case – the living room was only accessible by walking through his bedroom.
I assured him that his girlfriend would not be into being pawed at by two whiskey-soaked idiots at 5am – especially if one of them was a complete stranger.
We tip-toed passed his sleeping girlfriend to the couch. The rooms were separated by a thin concertina door, more like a wardrobe door than anything else. He decided he’d help me get comfortable. Like… really comfortable. And I mean, I like being comfortable and all, but his maybe exclusive maybe non-exclusive girlfriend is sleeping literally mere inches away from us. I finally draw up the will-power to instruct him to go to bed. I fell asleep.
At this point things really took a turn for the significantly worse. You see, I was really pissed, New Zealand pissed remember. And my memories of this are hazy but I’ll tell you the events as I have pieced them together.
I was really drunk, and you know what drunk people need? A bathroom. So I wake up in the middle of the night and partially dressed stumbled into the bedroom where Mr Focus Puller and Ms Focus Puller are sleeping. It’s an unfamiliar place, I can’t find the door, the urgency wells up inside me until… well… at a certain point you just know it’s going to happen so you drop your pants and squat. In the corner of his bedroom, where he and his girlfriend are sleeping – I peed. I peed in the corner of the room.
Then I pulled up my undies, returned to the couch (I at least knew where that was) and went back to sleep.
Later in the night the urge returned, but I managed to make it all the way to the bathroom – and noticed on my way through a towel had been placed in the corner of the room.
The next day I pieced it all together – the pee soaked rug was a big clue (sopping floor boards).
I get back into my vomit-speckled party dress, my high heels and sit there – head thumping. I can’t just walk out – I have no money, no cellphone, no subway card. I have to go into his bedroom and ask him and his girlfriend for money to get home. It took me a full hour to work up the courage to go in there. Just don’t say anything about it – maybe he won't say anything – just don’t say anything.
By some divine intervention – his girlfriend had already left. I told him I had to leave. He was in worse condition than I was – seemingly without opening his eyes he handed me his subway card and $20 and kissed me goodbye.
Later that day he messaged me on Facebook to tell me my cellphone had been found at the NYC trash depot and he had gone to collect it for me – he wanted to buy me lunch and return it to me.
Did he not know I had peed on his floor?! Was he trying to be kind so I wouldn’t be embarrassed?!
Well to this day – he has never mentioned it. We even continued seeing each other for a while. He actually sent me a postcard from New York recently.
My best guess is that his girlfriend found the urine and assumed it was a gift from her drunk boyfriend. Or in fact he found it and assumed he had done it drunkenly himself.
Or maybe – and this is a real possibility – they both woke up to the sound of me urinating in the corner of their bedroom. His girlfriend watched in awe as I pulled up my undies and returned to the couch – just threw a towel down and cleaned up my mess in the morning before she left.
Unless he reads this and I receive another postcard soon, I guess I’ll never know.
This story was originally told at The Watercooler, a monthly storytelling night held at The Basement Theatre. If you have a story to tell email thewatercoolernz@gmail.com or hit them up on Twitter or Facebook.
