This is another weird, true experience that happened to me a few years ago.
As some of you may already know, I am a bartender by trade. I usually work during the day, which gives me my nights free to do whatever I want. Well, the first few years of bartending not only taught me how to mix drinks, but also how to hold my liquor, (which, ironically, I'm not really able to do anymore).
My boss at the time had taught me, "Never refuse a drink. Customers do not like to drink alone and if someone offers to buy you a drink, take it. Otherwise they will get offended, close out their tab, and wander down to the next bar, where the bartender WILL have a drink with them." Long story short, after a few months, I learned to stomach shots instead of an actual drink. A shot was quick, over in a second, and I was able to go back to my work immediately afterward. Tequila, preferably Patron or Casadores, became my drink of choice when offered.
After about 9 months of bartending, I was able to drink up to 8 shots in a 7 hour shift. Yes, I WAS drunk as a skunk, but the money in the until would be correct at the end of my day, people still got their drinks made correctly, and their food would still come out right and on time. Now, after 9 shots, none of that was possible for me, so I soon learned that 8 was my limit.
As I said earlier, I worked during the day, so by 6 o'clock, that just meant it was time for me to clock out and get the party started someplace else. On this particular day, the "party," was in Long Beach, CA, at a waterfront restaurant and bar that offered over 100 different tequilas. Tequila Jacks. My kind of place.
It was about 7 o'clock, the sun was just setting over the horizon, I had just gotten to the bar, and, although still buzzing, my earlier intoxication was starting to wear off. Upon arriving at Tequila Jack's, I ambled outside to the smoking patio that overlooked the marina. Staring out at the water, I set my purse on top of the wooden counter in front of me, so that I could pull out my cigarettes and lighter. Still watching the water, I lit up a cigarette, and pulled an ashtray over to me. Now this is where it gets strange.
There was a glass ashtray on the counter, about 10 inches away from me, to my left. This was the same ashtray I pulled closer in front of me once I lit my cigarette. However, as soon as I slid the ashtray in front of me, it slid right back to where it had been originally. Now, in most instances, that kind of occurrence would capture a person's attention.
But because I was still somewhat drunk, it really didn't register to me what had just happened. Instead, I just pulled the ashtray over to me again. Again the ashtray slid away from me, a full 10 inches, to where it had been. Again, while in my drunken state, I didn't find it strange, just a little irritating, and pulled the ashtray to me again a third time. Despite my drunk, disinterested state, the third time this ashtray slid away from me, it HAD captured the attention of someone else.
"Did you do that?" I heard someone ask on my right. I turned around to see who was speaking to me.
"Did I do what?" I asked the well dressed man on my right. He was about 40ish, middle aged, wearing business casual clothes, like he had just gotten off of work. A complete stranger to me. I had never seen him before in my life.
"That ashtray just moved without you touching it. I watched it. Did you do that?" he asked me.
I looked over to my left, at the runaway ashtray. Had that man not have said anything to me, I wouldn't have paid attention or even remembered this incident later to tell you guys.
"No. I didn't move the ashtray," I said smiling, thinking it was some kind of joke. In my tequila infused brain, the same one that didn't find it strange that an ashtray moved on its own, I was sure that this professional looking man was somehow behind the runaway ashtray, and was looking around for the hidden cameras that were capturing my dumb drunken butt on film. Until I once again pulled the ashtray to me, it slid away again, and I looked up at the man, my dumb smile slowly faded off my face. He looked alarmed, terrified, and, a few seconds later, angry.
"Are you some kind of witch?!" he roared at me.
Now I may have been drunk, oblivious, and a little slow on the uptake, but a witch I was not, and have never been. "I'm not a witch, I didn't move that ashtray, and how the hell do I know that YOU haven't been moving it somehow?!" I retorted back, sobering up a little.
He looked at me as though I had suddenly turned blue. "Well, I don't know what's going on, but I'm getting the hell out of here." With that, he turned around, and I watched him walk inside. I turned back around, watching the ashtray.
The tequila started kicking back in my brain. Maybe I CAN move things, I thought. Maybe that man was right, and I WAS some kind of witch, only I didn't know it yet. "Move," I quietly ordered the ashtray. Nothing happened. I felt around underneath the counter for some kind of magnet, something that would cause the ashtray to keep sliding back to its original spot. It was smooth underneath. Nothing was there.
"Move," I told it again. Nothing. I picked up the ashtray, put it in front of me, and watched it slowly slide away again. Slowly it dawned on me that I had nothing to do with this happening, it was outside of me, and it made a complete stranger look at me like I was a freak.
"I think I'm going to get out of here, too," I mumbled softly to myself, turning around to go back inside, and butting my cigarette out inside a different ashtray on the way.