A Wagon Birthday Whodunit

Irony of all ironies, my Wagon ridiculousness doesn’t involve me being drunk. But it does involve some Hangover-style antics by a few complete strangers.

It begins as Star Bar closes down after an epic birthday party on Saturday night, well really Sunday morning. But where is my jacket/wallet/phone/keys? Some motherfucker stole them. Monika’s too. Damn it. Guess I’m walking home through LoDo at 2:30am looking like all I’m wearing is a Quicksilver hoodie and red high heels (definitely generated some interesting propositions).

Fast forward to Sunday afternoon as I’m staring at my iPad, which is telling me that my iPhone has been carted off to Littleton (Note to Thieves: don’t take something that has GPS tracking down to like a 10 foot radius).

Best course of action? Call (I mean Facebook message, since duh, no phone) Lydia and roll down to the suburbs and attempt to get my stuff back. Why Lydia? She’s a general badass with a good track record of getting my stuff back (See: Lydia getting Jen’s car back after illegal towing at Star Bar, all while on crutches).

Initially our strategy is to get there, then call the cops to escort us. Then we arrive in quaint suburbia and decide to case the joint to see if cops are really necessary. As we’re counting rooftops and matching up the specific unit to the iPhone tracker, the old lady who is always watching out her window asks us what if we need help finding something. Being totally awesome, she directs us to two potential units – one where two college age daughters are still living (great, gonna have to shake down some snotty 21 year-old) and one where a young couple with a 2 year-old live, but they seem have young people “coming and going.” No one home at option #1, but option #2 answers the door.

With a slight smirk on her face, young mom with 2 year-old answers the door. I ask the awkward “Hey I think you have my phone…” and crazily enough, she does.

Enter young mom #2 with my coat, Monika’s coat/keys and a wireless mouse (yep, a wireless mouse—shockingly not mine—guess I missed the memo about taking computer accessories to the bar).

Turns out their husbands had a Hangover-style reunion the prior night. As in, “Such-and-such has your phone and was going to drop it off at your address, but they’re currently as the ER because so-and-so broke his foot last night.”

Cue garage door. Cue husband #1 entering.

Cue wife #1: “Honey, recognize your pretty girlfriends from last night?”

Cue ashen face and response: “I don’t really remember last night.”

Cue husband #2 entering on crutches with a completely jacked up foot.

[DISCLAIMER: Never talked to or even saw either husband—was chilling with the Wagon crew.]

Cue more laughing and somewhat awkwardness as husbands try to placate their (actually awesome and good-humored) wives and piece the night together.

The wives are asking me where their husbands went, since I was watching my poor phone run all over downtown via the iPhone finder app on a friend’s phone (Was there a strip club nearby? Any big staircases? He doesn’t know how/where he broke his foot).

With most of my stuff back in my possession, Lyd and I headed out to the car, laughed our asses off for another five minutes. We then decided to celebrate our detective skills over some Whiskey and duck fat at Le Grand to revel on our frequent, most random adventures.

TO SUM UP THE ADVENTURE: Anything involving the Wagon leads to many forms of awesome ridiculousness. 

About Jennifer Fowler

She drinks nothing but the finest of craft spirits. So think twice before you slide that cocktail glass filled with vanilla vodka in front of her. This lady likes her cocktails brown, bitter, and stirred.

  • http://www.facebook.com/jimhalligan Jim Halligan

    I love this. Also, I love duck fat.