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Midnight on Market Street

By: Cade Grunst

Posted: 11/30/07

"You wanna go to Mexico?"

There we were, my buddy Kyle and me: sippin' some delicious Reggae-style ginger beer down by the Martinez waterfront, bored as hell on a Friday night. "Nah, forget Mexico. Too much driving." I slurped contemplatively. "Ever been to a strip club?"

It was the summer after freshman year. The answer was no. Thusly are legends born.

We justified our trip by prescribing naked women as the clear solution to our friend Scott's epic girl problems. There we quickly hit a snag - Scott wasn't with us and was unaware he needed his balls forcibly reattached. So we kidnapped him.

We rolled up on his house at ten and walked right in on Scott checking his Facebook. "Dude," I told him. "Grab your jacket because you're coming with us."

Scott, being Scott, didn't protest much until we hit the Bay Bridge, at which point it was too late. We parked in a super-seedy spot, locked up thoroughly and hit the streets.

Market Street is not an inviting place at night. There are crazy people. I'm a high school graduate, so I'm used to a little drug dealing here and there. What I'm not used to is an 8-foot-tall homeless guy wearing nine sweatshirts and sporting a beard that would make ZZ Top proud, staggering around drunkenly and yelling, "Shrooms! Crack! Heroin! Dope! I got 'em all, right here!" That's odd. I'm also not used to being accosted by an unreasonably well-dressed man with Armani shades (at 11 p.m., mind you) trying to sell me porn while I'm in a bathroom.

"Did you see the breasts on this one?" No, dude. Please. Come on. Let me at least finish peeing before you sit me down for some carnal comparisons.

Our club-selection strategy was somewhat less than meticulous, so we walked in the doors of the first place featuring a sleazy heckler who browbeat us past the curtain. Once inside, we were shoved toward a money changer, who exchanged our crisp, shiny twenties with greasy, wrinkled dollar bills of dubious origins. Sweet. We sat down for our first dance.

Turns out there was a reason the cover was so cheap. For the sake of my parents who are just now getting this story for the first time (sorry, folks), I won't go into details. There were fake breasts large enough to audition for stage plays involving hot air balloons. There were girls who would set off airport alarms despite not having piercings above the waist. Scott was propositioned by a dancer who had apparently made a living by selling her teeth to the tooth fairy. Kyle handed a girl a five and she repaid him by shoving his face deep between her cheeks. Not the ones on her face. The other cheeks.

(We joke about that now, wondering how homeless veterans would fare with the same tactic: "Hey kid, I'll let you sniff my crack for five bucks!")

Since our collective pain tolerance is low but our desire for sophomoric humor is high, we left "La Gals" for the "Secrets" porn shop next door. Loyal reader, if you haven't ever stepped foot inside an adult superstore, you're really missing out. Where else are you going to get the chance to stage a lightsaber duel using 48-inch-long two-sided bright pink dildos? Our loud sound effects and blatant violation of a strict no-picture policy (what do they have to hide?) got us thrown out, but not before Kyle bought a novelty condom shaped like the bastard lovechild of a Trojan and a Koosh ball.

We left Market around 1 a.m. Scott, who hadn't wanted to come at all, wanted to go home. Kyle wanted to stay in the city. I didn't care where we went, as long as it didn't involve Snaggletooth the Masculine asking me if I wanted to go somewhere a little more private.

We compromised with a walk along the harbor, soaking up a miraculously mist-free view of the Golden Gate Bridge. That night, I lost $40, several brain cells and my dignity, but I walked away with a good story about a good time with some good friends, which is all anyone can really ever ask for.

CADE GRUNST wants to hear tales of youthful folly. Send 'em his way at cade@ucdavis.edu.