My head pounded. I had no idea where I was, or how I got this way. Slowly, details emerged from the swampy mess that was my brain: I’m at my boy Daniel’s house. On the couch, I think. Is that a dog? No, he doesn’t have a dog. Hopefully it isn’t a bobcat or something dangerous. Nevermind, it’s a recliner. We watched the Virginia Tech game last night. We won the game. This pillow smells like the dentist’s office. I have no pants on but they should be here somewhere.
I look over to his other couch. One of my very best friends from high school, Emily, is laying there. Hadn’t seen her in forever. Thank God, one of my very closest and dear friends had apparently gone out with us and could bring some sense to this situation.
“Emily,” I asked her, “Did we go out after the game?”
“Man, I don’t even remember leaving.”
She paused. “Honey, you were kicked out of the bar.”
Well, that sounds straight-up unsavory.
I don’t ask her anymore questions. First thing I check for is my bank card. I reach around in my pocket. It’s not there. Oh, well. Money is overrated anyway, I think to myself. After all, what good are material possessions without the blessings of friendship and family?
What happened was this: we watched the game at D’s place and then went out immediately afterwards. I basically remember up until the third quarter. After that, my memory is about as reliable as Ali.
D and Wes, who also lives there, woke up shortly after that. I had to talk to them. Even though I had a wicked hangover and I had no ATM card to my knowledge, at least I had a kick ass story to tell. In 25 years of life, I’ve only been kicked out of one place, and that was a bowling alley for rolling three balls down the lane at once with two other guys. How are my sons going to respect me if that’s the best example of my social deviance I have to offer? I still don’t know what happened last night, but if I was ejected from a place of business, it had to be for doing something cool, right?
“Dude,” says Daniel, “you got kicked out of Brock’s last night!”
“Yeah, man. What happened, anyway? Did I start a fight? Did I mess up some douche who was talking trash to us?”
“Oh, well….did I throw a beer on somebody who had it coming? Did I chuck a chair through the window?”
“No, man, nothing like that.”
“What did I do then?”
“Oh, you just fell asleep. You were kind of wobbling around for awhile, so you went over to a corner and just kind of curled up and went to bed. Like a baby.”
Well, that’s just fantastic. Here I am hoping I slugged a frat-douche, and all I did was pass out. A story in which I could only have looked douchier if I had curled up with my binky and a teddy bear. I needed to know more.
“Okay…so I fell asleep, and then what?”
“The bouncer told us you had to go.”
“Oh, allright!” I got a little excited. “So then when the bouncer put hands on me, did I at least slug him, so he’d have to physically wrestle me out? Like Jazz on the Fresh Prince?”
“No, he just scooped you up and carried you outside. He actually cradled you. You stirred a little bit, but he rocked you back to sleep and you just were fine. You sucked your thumb throughout literally the entire ordeal. You were never in danger and remained peaceful the whole time.”
Well, my sons are going to love this one. All I was missing in this one was a bonnet and a large diaper. If someone had told me I’d lost control of all bodily functions, I wouldn’t be surprised. Hell, maybe I had. I don’t know. Mentally, I wasn’t there to witness any of this.
Also, I’m glad that even though D allegedly had nearly as much to drink as I had, his recall skills are still intact at such a crucial juncture. Woudn’t want him to forget anything that might embarrass me. But he wasn’t done.
“The manager called a cab for you and everything. When the cab came, the bouncer actually put you in the backseat oh-so-gently, took your shirt off and literally tucked you in, using your shirt as a makeshift blanket. He got out a couple of bars of some lullaby before the cabbie had to bounce.”
So for those of you scoring at home, I’ve got a hangover, no ATM card, and no kick-ass story to tell my sons about how I fought eight dudes with a bar stool to defend the honor of one of my friends. This sucks. About the only thing good that came out of that morning was going to my parents’ house afterwards. My mom made me some scrambled eggs. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I drank myself into an infant-like state the night before. The fact that I looked like Jabba, post-Leia choking, was probably their biggest clue that I wasn’t feeling great.
All in all, it was a fun night, I guess, and I didn’t do anything that would stop me from getting elected president. But here’s the kicker to this: I went back to the bar to get my card back and apologize to the staff (who were beyond cool about the situation, by the way). I closed my tab out, which only ended up at like $10. When I told D this, it led to this exchange:
“My tab was only like ten bucks.”
“Really? Ours was a lot higher than that. I guess it was ’cause of all those shots.”
A realization dawned on me. “Wait a second. I was trashed and falling down when we got there. Did you guys buy me shots?”
D took a big swig from his Yoohoo. “Yup. As soon as we walked in we got you a Jaeger Bomb.”
There’s a free lesson for you, kids: if you’re ever sloppy drunk, make sure you have friends who’ll give you a shot with Red Bull in it. You’ll be glad they did.