August 13, 2009

Fact is Better: Adventure of An Ice Cream Overeater, Take One

There's a place in Maine called Old Orchard Beach. It's a tourist trap for French-Canadians from Quebec to come down, wear their speedos and their socks up to their knees, and gorge themselves on pier fries, pizza, and deep fried Oreos on a long stretch of sandy beach. There are overpriced boutiques, fireworks every Thursday night, and a 700 foot pier that extends into the great Atlantic.

And there are bars.

Lots and lots of bars.

So, naturally, as a beer model, we spend a large part of our summer in this area of Maine.

There are several bars we work at, for example there's one where the short angry greek man running the place doesn't trust us to do our job right; one where the lesbian owner (we think she's a lesbian - she winks at me everytime someone's not looking) feeds us our weight in french fries and chicken fingers.

Tonight, after an especially exhausting night of dealing with other promo girls (the lazy Three Olive Girls showed up and spent most of their time huddled in a corner moaning about how difficult their precious little lives are), my business partner and I (in our uber skanky Monster Outfits [fishnets, hooker heels, and polo shirts that we "altered" so that massive amounts of cleavage were showing) decided to grab an ice cream.

As we were walking from the pier back to the car, we passed several pizza joints that were still open and schlepping their cardboard-stale pizza to dumb teenagers who had nothing better to do (fast forward this situation three hours, and these pizza places would be hocking their pizza to drunks), but we noticed all the ice cream places were closed.

I spotted a giant neon sign of an ice cream cone and made a bee-line for it. The lights were dim, the counter had been pushed to block the entrance, and there were two exhausted looking twenty-somethings standing behind a counter.

When I realized they were closed, I began pouting.

Guy One: "You want ice cream?"
Me: "Yes! PLEASE! Do you take Visa?"
Guy One: "$10 limit."
Me: *more pouting* "There's no way we can eat $10 of ice cream right now."
Guy One: "Aww, c'mon. You look like you're ladies who know how to handle your ice cream."
Guy Two: "Wait, are you The Monster Girls?! That shit's my favorite. Got any schwag?"
My partner: *pulls out shirt* "What's in it for us?"
Guy One: "A hug. What do you think?"
My partner: *tosses them the shirt*
Guy One: "Alright, we'll make it a $5 limit for you."
Guy Two: "Aaah, dude, just give 'em ice cream for free."
Guy One: "Are you the owner, or am I?"
Guy Two: "Giiiiiiiive it to 'em. C'mon."
Guy One: "If it was your business you wouldn't be saying that."
Guy Two: "Yes, I would be, 'cause they're hot."
Guy One: *looks at us* "Fuck it. I'll give you each a small for free. And it's only 'cause I'm too fucking lazy to swipe your card . . ."
Guy Two: ". . . and because I said something."
Guy One: "Just tell your friends about us, and we'll call it good, alright?"

And so, another adventure in which I scored free ice cream.

True story.

Further proof that fact is better than fiction.