That Time When I Was Kidnapped (AKA My First Night Out in NYC)

I only really have one near-death experience to date, which isn’t too bad although it makes me feel like a loser. This experience happened on my very first night out in New York City. Go figure. I should have known it was going to be a bumpy ride after that.

The year is 2007, little fresh-faced bright eyes me had just transferred out of Penn State University (main campus… aka Disney Land for young alcoholics) in hopes to get better acting training and intern for Saturday Night Live. I had only been into the city for high school field trips to see musicals and give homeless people my money.  The day following my move-in to my 5 feet by 9 feet (I kid you not… these rooms were so fucking small I was so sad) dorm room in the middle of the hostel floors of the YMCA on 47^th street, I sadly sat on my bed, friendless, starring up at my Dave Matthews Band posters and cans of Red Bull. I knew not a single soul in NYC except for a few high school friends that were already established living in the city. I didn’t want to walk around the streets for fear of getting lost (this was pre-smart phone era) and I was so drenched in a depression coma over the idea that I had a LOT ahead before I could call this place home and feel established here that I was bed-ridden.

Then, a knock on my door. HOLY SHIT A FRIEND?!

It was a gorgeous tall beautiful blonde girl named Ashley who is now one of my best friends. This was my first time ever meeting her and she said “Hey… wanna go out?”

$&#@!&%#()!YES)#$*!OMG OK!*@#$)*$)@#PLEASE LOVE ME$*#)

She knew a girl who knew a girl who knew a  guy who was a club promoter who could get our 19 year old selves into some crazy places. Please keep in mind that up until this point, the coolest thing that I had ever done was shotgun a beer at a frat house at PSU. I had never done drugs or been around them and certainly have never stepped foot in a NEW YORK CITY CLUB HOLY SHIT SO EXCITED!!! We got dressed, thankfully I had raged in a Forever21 weeks prior and had a plethora of hooker dresses and cheap high heels. It was about 10:30PM (an OUTRAGEOUS hour to leave the house), we hopped in a cab (first time ever hailing a cab) and went down town to a place called Pink Elephant in the Meatpacking District. My brain exploded, there were all these hotties walking around, limos, people yelling at other people, and then this shady club promoter named Rishi. He sucked but at the time I was in awe of him and his “power.” We walk up to the door and were instructed to just give the door man our 19 year old IDs as Rishi whispered to the towering black man with sunglasses on. We walked in and my brain re-exploded. Hands down the coolest I’ve ever felt. We had bottle service, were dancing on the tables, taking photos, being all like “No, YOU look totes GORGE OMG” (I was the girl that I now hate).

After an hour or two of dancing, we met this man with a heavy Jamaican accent. We didn’t know his name, which just appropriately dubbed him “Jamaica.” How racist. So Jamaica offers to take Ashley and I to Marquee. I had read about this place, it’s co-owned by P Diddy or Poofy Doofy or whatever the fuck he decides to call  himself this month. It took us .5 seconds to ditch Rishi and go with this guy. He walks us down the block to this club and we go inside and our jaws drop. This place is insane, we got VIP drinks and dance for hours. (I think it’s vital to note that months later, Ashley came back to this club and made out with Chad Kreoger of Nickelback. I have vowed never to let that go).

Then, Jamaica asks, “What to go to a hot karaoke spot?!”

“YES PLS SIR MISTER JAMAICA SIR”

He walks us to his extremely fancy car and my conscious chimes in, asking me if that’s the greatest idea in the world. The answer to that question is of course, no. No, Krystyna, getting into a strangers car in NYC after partying and drinking all night is NOT A GOOD IDEA YOU TURD. Oh well, did it anyway.

Ashley is in his front seat, I’m in the back. We are texting each other because we both have a bad feeling. And then, I look out the window to realize that we are driving over a bridge. At the time, I didn’t know exactly what that meant but I did realize that we were going in the opposite direction of my small but comfy and safe dorm room.

 I asked Jamaica, “Hey… uh, where are we going?”
“The best Karaoke spot in town”
“Which is where exactly?”
“Well, it’s at my house!”

Whoa, what bro?! We politely asked him to drive us back into the city and he said no. After which, I texted Ashley asking if I could dial 911. This was it. We were DEFINITELY going to get raped. Legitimately raped and murdered. I went to call 911 and he knocks the phone out of my hand asking what I was doing. Ok, yep, absolutely going to get raped. Like, 100% chance.

When you’re horrified for your life AND drunk at the same time, it’s a weird balance of emotions because  a part of you is trying to plot how to escape and the other 87% of you is trying not to barf. Very confusing. So we pull up to his house in what I now think had to have been Queens. He gets out of the car and says, “c’mon guys! Just one song and then I’ll take you home, I promise! You just have to sing ONE song with me!!”

“Fuck. No,” said me.

“Ok, if it’s just one song!” said Ashley as she walked up the stairs with this man into his house. I couldn’t let her die alone and convinced myself that when he tries to force himself onto our bodies, I will key him between the clavicles with my old house key because that’s fool proof. He kept saying “Just ONE song!!”

Ashely and I get into his apartment, we walk into his living room where there is, in fact, a very elaborate karaoke set up. We dart for the bathroom.

“Ok, so I’ll grab his legs and you punch him in the face?!?”
“Krystyna, no we just gotta sing ONE karaoke song and then he will take us home! He said so!”

Jesus Christ. We walk out of the bathroom to see that Jamaica has already set up the karaoke and hands us both a microphone. He asks us what song we want to sing.

“Oh god, he’s going to kill us while we sing. That’s his creepy sexual fantasy,” I thought. We told him to pick a song. His choice? ‘Don’t You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me.’

So we fucking sing this fucking retarded song, crying, looking out from the corner of our eyes for his murder weapon. It was a sad and very hilarious sight to see. He looked on as we sang and finished the song and then he said…

“That was great! I will take you guys home now.” To which, he did. We lived to see another day. Unfortunately it was a day of vomiting but also a day of thanks, for our body parts were still intact and no one had entered us that was not welcome.