Saturday night

This is the reason why Bee and I don't leave the apartment on the weekends.

Around midnight, Bee and I went for our last walk of the evening. When we arrived in front of Carmine's, a famous Italian restaurant known for its boat-sized entrees and desserts, we heard voices coming from a white stretch SUV limo. The car's windows were completely black; the rims on all twelve of its wheels were shiny chrome. From the street, you could see the neon light that trailed around the seats of the interior.

"Yo, does ya dawg wanna drink?" a voice with a thick accent yelled. No, I was too busy trying to do my business, thankyouverymuch.

Two dudes, one bald guy relaxing without a drink, another more excited passenger held a bottle of Grey Goose as large as one of Bee's nephews, stuck his head out of the window. Both were from Queens. That's about 40 minutes from the Upper West Side. "Yo! Is that French Bulldog?"

'Yeah," Bee answered. And then the invitation.

"Why dont' you and ya dawg come inside and have a drink with us? C'mon! We're waiting for friends that are eating in Carmine's. So we're hanging out in our ride, yo!" (yes, he really said this.) "Have a drinks with us! Does ya dawg like Grey Goose and cranberry?"

Bee was puzzled. "Why are you sitting in a car outside of the restaurant if your friends are inside?"

"We already ate dinner," Mr. Grey Goose answered, believing his own BS. "And we can't leave the limo alone, ya know?"

He had already poured Bee a Cranberry and vodka and passed her the red colored beverage through the window. Is it illegal to accept alcohol from strangers—especially those sitting in a stretch Navigator—or is it just dangerous?

We left before we could find out. "That's okay, we're good," Bee said.