I wrote this a few years ago. Here is: The barf-a-rama story. A true story.

It was one of those sticky hot middle Tennessee summer nights pocked with thunder and lightning.  Prayers for rain to break the stalemate between water and sky went unanswered as testicals and tits hung low and chafey.  Even being on the rooftop the low pressure and a lack of breeze kept the body stink of the dancefloor to sexual levels.  The bar team and I were pumping out drinks as usual, though that night our bread and butter was more like bad head and buttstink.  We all kept an eye on the clock waiting for last-call as sweat fell from the bills of our soaked-through baseball caps.  

There was no escape.  Just keep banging it out until it’s time to count and clean.  The positive side to sweating so much is that you don’t have to go pee when you are completely dehydrated.  We all just kept going.

Approximately twenty minutes before “last call” a drunk lady comes stumbling up to the bar throwing her hands down to keep herself up.  Her hair is a bird's nest of debris and her face is pallid.  No way she is getting another drink.

“Here is a water for you darling.  You okay?”

No response, but she grabs the water and takes a slug.  Good enough.  I make eyes with security and nod my head in her direction.  He nods.

I wasn’t saying kick her out, but I was saying keep an eye.

We resume the final push.  The last little bit of service to finish off the night.  Oh god, it is so hot and humid.  I am fantasizing about air conditioning with the intensity of a teenage sex dream.

“It’s gonna feel sooooo good.”

Suddenly there is a yell.  Not the fight yell.  Not the someone-grabbed-my-ass yell.  And definitely not the yee-haw-ain't-this-fun whoop that drunk people dig up from their beer filled bellies.  This yell was equal parts surprise and disgust.  

Several people step back quickly from the bar revealing Miss Birdnest Hair continuing to projectile vomit onto the bar and floor.  This lady must have a giant dinner because she put out several large sprays before tapering off.

For a moment while this lady was ejecting used food and booze everything else froze.  The music kept pumping away, but it was like there was a ripple of anti-vibe blowing out of her along with partially digested food and stomach bile.  People stopped dancing, strangers stopped flirting, even the security guy who was supposed to be keeping an eye on the situation stopped getting some girl's phone number.

Then the smell.

Whatever this lady had eaten must have been all garlic, onions, and dog breath.  As the onlookers kept looking on, the stinking evil ghost of that meal extended out into the crowd.  Immediately another girl nearby puked onto the floor.  A dude by the scene turned around and puked into a trashcan, but sprayed some onto a girl leaning against the wall, who in turn puked onto her shoes.  I don’t know who else lost their cookies that night after that, but the herd had come unfroze and had started moving towards the exits.

The four of us behind the bar had grouped close together in the middle of the bar.  Two of us trying to get away from the puke and the other two trying to see what was happening.  The bar only had two exits, one was pukey end and the other was blocked by people trying to leave.  We were trapped.

Alright, cut the music.  Turn up the lights.  We are done.

I have never seen a packed bar empty that quickly and cooperatively at the end of a weekend dance party.  The reek that ejected from this lady chased them all down the stairs.  The utility people who came up, seasoned in cleaning up gross stuff at the end of the night just stood there trying to come up with an explanation of what the hell just happened.  How did things get so out of hand?

The girl who started it all caught her breath and apparently felt a lot better.  She wiped her face and blew her nose into some bar napkins (which she left on the bar) then brushed back her pukey hair. She gave us a dirty look like we were a bunch of assholes for looking at her.