And it all happened the same night

I was reading a post called Worst. Date. Ever. on the Because Emily Says So blog. In it, she remembers a terrible date that ended up in the emergency room. When I read the post I was thinking, this is worse than every date I ever had. I then I remembered...
Miami, mid-nineties. Three twenty something immigrants with no money and almost no English skills, sharing a tiny studio in South Beach and making ends meet: Sandro, an Italian chef who never cooked; Marina, an Italian sex addict who never took her roller blades off and Belgian-Caribbean me (with short spiky her died black because I was "intense"). A Friday night that started like any other.
Lily's night: After sending Sandro to his new job as a waiter at a pizzeria in Ocean Drive and convincing Marina that it was OK to keep on harassing that cute American boy she wanted to sleep with, I finally got the house to myself. Spend two hours cooking. Dinner has to be perfect for the Brazilian hunk I had caught last week, Ronaldo, an Armani model turned photographer wannabe. Times passes. Ronaldo doesn't show up. I call. He's tired. He's whining. Can I come and pick him up? Drooling over the receiver, I say yes. Drooling, I drive the 8 blocks to his house. Drooling, I bring him back to my place, where he tastes the dishes and then moves them aside (looking back I don't blame him, I'm a truly dreadful cook.) He starts asking about my new job as a magazine advertising sales person:
—Have you sold anything yet?
—No.
—You don't understand that the without money you are nobody, you have no power, you are nothing.
—Ehhh... 
He looks at me with disgusted, crazy eyes. I'm torn between getting rid of him or beg him to like me (he is indeed really good looking although slightly stupid). The stalemate is broken when he picks up the phone to call... his mother. In Brazil. An international call (at the time expensive.) And I couldn't even afford a capuccino, let alone a martini. Once she picks up, he screams. And screams. And screams. It seems she has forgotten to send his medication. For bipolar disease. So he was understandably (and probably clinically) upset. So was I. I called it a night. He could not believe it. Me neither. I started drinking and smoking (it was politically correct in the mid nineties!)
Sandro's night: Sandro's English was... let's say... basic. And his knowledge of American culture and rules was... sketchy at best. So here he is, restaurant rush hour, as a new waiter in one of the trendiest places on Ocean Drive. At his first table, a family orders wine. Sandro makes a show of opening the bottle with a professional bottle opener that gets... stuck. After ten minutes of fiddling with the cork he triumphantly holds the bottle in the air. The family looks pissed. With a nervous smile he serves the father, the mother, the aunt, the little girl, the little boy, and politely asks if he should dilute the wine in water for the toddler, at which point the Maitre D' comes and makes a disappearing act with the wine glasses before the police shuts the place down. Sandro moves on to the next table, where a woman orders a pizza with bell peppers. Ten minutes later, Sandro serves the pizza, the woman tastes it, turns red, faints and then is rescued by paramedics. She was allergic to cayenne pepper, which Sandro had confused with bell peppers. The paramedics say the woman will live and Sandro is allowed one more chance. He serves three more tables. Smooth. But when he brings the spaghetti pomodoro to the fourth, disaster strikes in the form of a three year old child who runs into his legs. Spaghetti pomodoro flies through the air and lands all over the person who ordered it: a woman dressed in white. Sandro doesn't know what happens next. He just leaves.
Marina's night: After roller blading behind her crush for over two hours, Marina finally makes it into his apartment. While she's balancing the pros and cons of taking off her roller blades (she could finally have sex with the guy, on the other hand, he may run away and she would not be able to catch him), she hears noises of furniture crashing (and crushing) on the street. The police comes to examine the situation, and they realize the culprit not only was high on drugs but had enough stored to last a lifetime, so they decide to raid the building. Marina is taken to a precinct to be questioned. Without her crush. At least she has her roller blades.

More than a decade later I still ask myself, how can all of this happen in just one night?