“I went downtown to a gay bar. Where was you?”

       We survived the Dominican Republic. Statistically, it’s no big deal. There is probably a greater chance of dying on a trip to Chicago. 

       We had been looking forward to this vacation for a while. We were facing eight glorious days with the family on our first foray together outside of the country. I have been outside the U.S. myself, but not my family. Other than Trey’s shitty Passport photo, this trip was perfectly planned by my wife. I just paid for it. She did all of the leg work and planning. It was perfectly laid out (except for that passport photo). 

     Truth be told, the Dominican Republic was not the closest that any of us came to meeting our demise on this trip. The night before our cruise left port, Gracie and I ventured out to get pizza and wings for the family while we were staying in Cocoa Beach, Florida. The producers of “Live PD” should really consider this town for future broadcasts. 

      Dinner on this night was the only detail my wife missed. While searching the internet for food places, I discovered an “authentic Italian” place. It had to be great, right? Local, authentic, family owned... Perfect. I was certain that our best meal would take place before we even left the country.  Gracie volunteered to ride with me to pick up the food that we placed over the phone.

       The lady that took our order told me that the “restaurant” was located next to the Chevron. This was a detail that I should have paid more attention to when she spoke. You see, the boarded windows and lack of lighting on the exterior of what was probably once an abandoned convenient store, made it easy to drive past. My GPS never said “turn right onto the busted asphalt parking lot filled with cars made in decades gone by”. Nope, we missed it and had to double back. As my fourteen year old daughter stepped out of the SUV and into a water-filled pothole, I thought to myself “shame she’s gonna die so young”. 

       I’ve seen enough crime shows to know that I needed to leave a trail. I touched a lot shit on my way inside. I touched the car next to mine. I touched the entrance door in several places. I touched the door sill. I figured that I needed to leave evidence of my presence. I had to leave as many of my fingerprints in as many spots as possible. I was walking to my death and bringing my teenage daughter to the slaughter. Did I mention the windows were boarded? 

       “I went downtown to a gay bar. Where was you?” He wore a blue-striped wife beater t-shirt. He lit up a True Menthol 100. He sat at the end of the bar and smiled as he spoke to what was most likely his cousin/wife. Smoked seeped from his nostrils. His eyes were bloodshot. 

       The combination of poor lighting, smoke from cheap cigarettes and bad grammar, strengthened my belief that we would soon die. My poor Gracie, so young,  so sweet...too soon. At least the NBA Finals were on TV. I had that going for me. Gracie and I took a selfie. A selfie that I felt would be featured on an episode of “Dateline”  a couple of years from now. 

       The kitchen staff consisted of what appeared to be two underaged boys. The rest of the establishment was sprinkled with middle aged people that certainly had a bail bondsman in their contact list. They wanted us dead. I could see it in their eyes. Would it be a beer bottle smashed on the bar and shoved into my throat? Would they gut me and wear my skin as a dress? Gracie is in better shape than me. I figured if I floundered around on the floor, I could slow their “killin’ spree” enough to allow her to run to the Chevron for help. 

       Our food was boxed and bagged up as the patrons stared at us. They gave us looks that said “You ain’t from around here is ya?” Gracie stood close to me. I found comfort knowing that we would have an awesome double funeral. 

       We walked back to the SUV past the boarded windows in the dark and through the water-filled potholes. As we sat in the car, we laughed about the experience. I thought to myself “somewhere in this town there’s a gay bar that is better off tonight. It’s better off because the guy married to his cousin is dumping his bad grammar on underaged teen cooks in an “authentic Italian” restaurant instead of their establishment on this night”.

       Surving the Dominican Republic was easy compared to escaping Cocoa Beach.   In case you were wondering, the food was fantastic. I wish had a slice of their pizza and a dozen of their wings as I write this on my back porch “Over Yonder”.