The Palladium is world renowned for its theatrical performance of making the Devil come out. Although the fanciful show is just a hazy memory to me now, I recall I was quite impressed with the on-stage theatrics. It is commonplace at clubs in Acapulco to pay a one time entrance fee that includes unlimited drinks for the evening. It was 500 pesos to get in, or $50.00, which is a great bargain for a drinker of my status.

I sat with my recently made friends and enjoyed one of the better, visually fascinating, non-drug-related scenes in my life. We had a few rounds of drinks before my usual wandering began. The club was packed with sparingly dressed, beautiful women from all around the world. Unlike Cancun, Acapulco attracts many domestic tourists, as it likened to the Las Vegas of Mexico.

Drinking at a rapid pace, I was bouncing around between the bar, dance floor, second bar, and our table for a period of four to five hours. It’s unfortunate that what should have been one of the most enjoyable nights of my life is now likened to a drunken blur with flashes of memories pieced together for the purpose of my memory and this story.

One distinct memory is that I ran into a pretty good friend whom I had known from high school, and the years thereafter. Marci Schwartz was a student at Michigan State, in Acapulco on spring break with the majority of her sorority. Amidst a chaotic week filled with stress and little familiarity, it was of great comfort to stumble upon a friend and familiar face. I sat at their table and took a break from my usual cycle of wandering; we discussed the chaos that was my first few days of the trip, and that is about all I recall before venturing about once more.

Sometime near 3 A.M. my group was leaving and thought it would be a good idea for me to leave with them. I assured them I was fine, that I had run into an old friend and would find my way back to the hotel a bit later. Clubs in Acapulco do not close. Knowing this it had been my desire to drink and dance until the sun came up, sure to be an aesthetically unique experience overlooking the bay from the mountains.

Of course, such a desire was merely hypothetical, having zero possibility of being realized, or remembered for that matter. Between the hours of four and five thirty in the morning, I decided, or had it decided for me, that it was time to go.

One big problem however, I hadn’t anticipated the increased cost of a cab now that I would be riding by my self. Without the money for a cab, and once more the ability to withdrawal more money from the ATM, I set out by foot on the return journey to my hotel.

It was a 20 minute cab ride there; you can imagine the walk. I had little concept of how far or long I had traveled, but what I did know, I was going in the right direction so long as the ocean was on my left.

I traveled at a decent pace, alternating between jogging and walking, and of course stumbling in-between. My journey reached an eventual speed bump in the form of my second altercation with the federals. It should come as no surprise that the police were keen to a wasted, giant gringo stumbling down the street in the wee hours of the morning.

Only this time I was faced with a greater dilemma: not only was I twice as drunk, but I also lacked the ever essential… valid identification. My only advantage this time around was that I hadn’t really done anything illegal, though I do acknowledge that I could have been easily arrested for drunk and disorderly, a charge any individual could be slapped with and it’s his word versus the cop’s.

Around my right wrist was my yellow Avalon Excalibur bracelet, and virtually the only thing I had going in my favor. We talked for a while, or to be more accurate, negotiated, how this situation would be revolved. I respectfully insisted they point me in the direction of the hotel, so I could be on my way. They assured me that was not a possibility, and I should come with them.

I made every effort to be certain that if I entered their car, it would be for transport to my hotel, opposed to the police station, or jail.

I entered the car with about 70% confidence that I was being taken home.

Few sites have pleased me enough as the lit sign for the Avalon.

I graciously thanked the men, stumbled up to 10th floor, and collapsed in one of the least comfortable beds I have ever slept in, concluding day three of my trip.

It was Tuesday, and had been what felt like an eternity, as I had twice in three days narrowly escaped the custody of Mexican police, had my phone/wallet/passport stolen (hidden), and to top it off she believed/claims that I punched her in the face the morning she substituted for my wake-up-call.

I have little history of violence and a non-existent history of violence with women. I am probably one of the friendliest, non-threatening guys you could meet. But for the sake of the story, and an accurate recollection of facts, let us consider the possibility that I punched her in the face. I am a large individual that has probably never taken a full swing at another in my lifetime. If, however, I had and landed this punch as it is claimed, there undoubtedly would be evidence, a mark, cut, or bruise the next day.

There was nothing.

People tend to recount things in hyperbole. After all, what story isn’t made a little sweeter with that extra special touch of exaggeration? Imagine the additional sympathy everyone would employ if she had been punched in the face by her boyfriend who left her to be robbed and assaulted by Mexicans on the beach.

That is of course how the story was spread. She is a sorority girl, and from the time she accessed Facebook the morning of the third day, the birth of a new hate group had cometh.

One of the more comical (not really) tales I heard was that this wasn’t an isolated incident, that I had a history of beating her. It makes perfect sense, that despite a history of being beaten, she was arms in the air excited and willing to go on trip with just that person.

When considering the factual presentation of any scenario, it is important to understand the people, their mental capacities, and capabilities as a means of clarity to the situation.

Somewhere between the third and the fifth day, she passed out drunk by her self on the beach in the middle of the day. When she woke, she believed her disposable camera had been stolen. You see, this was a particularly prized possession on a few different levels: (1) her digital camera had been stolen the night she was assaulted, so these were the only pictures she had to remind her of our delightful Acapulco vacation, and (2) the night she was assaulted, she was helped by staff members of Student City, and had priceless pictures with them on the disposable camera.

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