A Vacation From Hell For A Mets Fan

My boyfriend and I are both Met fans, so we decided a spring training game in Port St. Lucie would be a perfect spring break activity. We decided to stay for two days and booked a hotel room. “Hotel,” though, is a grandiose term for the roach-infested shoebox on the corner of bumblefuck and nowhere. We aimed to check in around midnight, but found out we couldn’t check in…because they hadn’t entered our reservations in the computer. The technology proved too complex for the simple folk behind the desk. We stood with our bags at our feet for about an hour while they tried to book us a room, watching ourselves on the security camera in the corner. It was very entertaining.

A cold front came through that night, and all we had packed were T-shirts and shorts. We tried to make the best of it and just go. Because we were on a budget (we took out the exact amount of cash we wanted to spend so we wouldn’t go overboard with credit cards), we decided to stop at a liquor store to get good and wasted beforehand. The bottle of Belevedere was almost gone by the time we got to the stadium.

The “parking lot” was actually a big field. We parked the car, and when he swung open the door, all our cash flew out the window and scattered throughout this massive field. Somehow, we managed not to lose any. That was probably the only fortunate thing that happened that day.

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So we’re sitting in the stands. My boyfriend continues to drink, but I don’t realize how truly wasted he is until I get a text message and he snatches my cell out of my hand. He was so drunk he thought the text from “Jessica” was a text from “Jon,” an old fling of mine. “I should crush this fucking phone, you cheat!” He screamed. Everyone heard.

“You’re drunk,” I whispered. “And you should shut up before you embarass yourself.”

“I’m gonna break the fucking phone,” he announced to our section.

“I rolled my eyes. “Do it,” I dared.

Crack. Bad decision. My phone was now in two pieces. I decided to stay quiet.

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“OH MUH GAAAAAAAAWD!” two girls behind me screamed. They looked to be from a similar gene pool as the women who ran the front desk at our hotel, meaning they had more tattoos that your typical professional basketball player and had probably learned to chain smoke before they learned to walk.

“Honey, you ain’t have to take that! We saw the whole thang! Sit with us, he’s a jerk!” Much as spending 9 innings with Aunt Nanny Bug and her daughter/sister, I decided anything was better than sitting with him and I sat with them while they offered to drive me home after Duffy’s, apparently a popular bar with quality women such as themselves. I politely declined.

Way More Interesting Than Watching Future AA Players

My boyfriend decided to keep hissing insults from where he sat, in front of everyone. More people were watching our spectacle than the game at this point which, if you’re not super into baseball, makes sense since we were much more entertaining. I, like a girl, decided to run and hide in the bathroom. The game ended and he finally found me. But I refused to drive back to the “hotel” with him. So we sat on a bench and screamed at each other for an hour, until cops walked over. We left.

At the hotel, he passed out. His ex-girlfriend called while he was sleeping, and I decided to alert him of his missed call by throwing the phone at his head.

Beware of Large, Naked Men Running Down the Hallway

At around one in the morning, my boyfiend and I are watching a murder mystery on A&E when our hotel door swings open. He, though ass naked and sprawled on the bed, jumps up and screams, “WHOOOOOAAAA!” The guy closes the door, but my boyfriend covers his junk with a pillow and chases him down. The guy apologizes over and over. It turns out the brain trust at the front desk people gave him a key to our room.

The next day, we got breakfast at Waffle House, the only restaurant around. I didn’t eat because the food was gross and I felt feverish. In retrospect, I had a kidney infection. I was in agony the whole drive home. The perfect end to a perfect trip.

This article is from Miami Beach 411’s Vacation Horror Stories Weekend. Up next: An unmade hotel room in Coconut Grove leads to a drunken revelation in Grand Avenue Meltdown

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