Saturday, April 04, 2009

A fictional account of a non-fictional evening

There is no honest way to describe the events of a night of heavy drinking. Hindsight is never 20/20 and in retrospect there are things you might not want to remember - at least not in crude detail. I was already hitting 70 mph on my car when I realized I was not in possession of a bottle opener for the beer that was now resting between my legs, shrinking my manhood with its cold temperature. Now, this would pose a problem to any ordinary person, but not to a man as determined as myself. No silly oversight was going to get between me and the exquisite lusty pleasure that is a cold brew on a Thursday evening.

I balanced the wheel on my left knee and opened the car door. The highway was considerably empty and I've done this before - under worse circumstances. The deafening sound of the wind mixed in with Mick Jagger's dirty voice had the ability to conjure up some unexpected euphoria.

"I was born in a cross-fire hurricane"

I was beginning to believe that my deviant behavior would have devastating results but Jagger was telling me it's alright.

"But its all right now, in fact, its a gas!"

Well, I managed to open the bottle with the side of the car door and no one got hurt. I changed lanes abruptly, but like I said - no one got hurt. I arrived at my destination: a small bar ten minutes outside the capital city. As I exited my car I got a weird look from the security man outside the bar which quickly turned into a smirk. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I was carrying six empty beer bottles that I planned to dispose of, but I can't be too sure.

Inside the bar I rendezvoused with two friends. These are serious gentlemen with a love of booze that is unmatched and a thirst for sex that rivals even my own. We ordered some rum & cokes that were going for $2 each. Herein lies a problem: Rum. No drink has a more sinister effect on your mind and body than Puerto Rican rum. I can handle wine and whiskey, but rum? That shit's like a drug.

I suddenly remembered that I'd left my iPod and laptop in the car. The security guy out front didn't inspire too much trust so I decided to get my iPod and remove the battery from my computer. I placed them in my pockets but it was too uncomfortable, and besides, I didn't want to give off the wrong impression by sporting a projecting bulge in my pants. So I walked over to the bar and kindly asked the very attractive bartender if she could hang on to my stuff. Of course, she said. And yet her smile made me uncomfortable. Was this bitch planning on stealing my shit? I couldn't be sure. That's another thing: rum makes me slightly paranoid. Not drug paranoid, but paranoid. "Everyone's fucking with me" kind of paranoid.

My colleagues and I quickly tired of having to go to the bar every 10 minutes so we started ordering our drinks double. This hurried along the inebriating process in ways that we were not quite ready for.

A band took the stage. Now, if there is one thing I must undoubtedly consume every day of my life without exception, it is Rock & Roll. And it was this very addiction of mine that caused me to stare dumbfounded at the stage from my table. These cats on stage were amazing. I grew so entranced with the music that I dropped my cigarette from my left hand onto my right arm. The fact that it didn't hurt as much as it should have was a testament to the party that was beginning to kick into my bloodstream. And what the hell, I thought - we must all suffer for our art, even if said suffering is subdued by alcohol.

It was my turn to get the drinks and what I found at the bar left me speechless: It was empty. No bartenders. No asshole owner lurking in some corner. It was an unbelievable sight that caused bewilderment at first, which quickly turned into rage. What kind of sick joke were these fuckers playing? Never mind what happened next, I got my drinks and that's that. I suggested we go to another bar. I for one, cannot tolerate people behaving unprofessionally - especially if it affects a well-established rhythm in terms of drinking.

We found a great bar in the old city that attracts the bare minimum of yuppies and airheads. It's conveniently located across the street from a hotel - in case things get out of hand - and it has one of the best jukeboxes that plays classics from Led Zeppelin and Janis Joplin to Simon & Garfunkel and Patsy Cline. We sat down close to the pool tables and promptly began chatting with some girls that were having a go at the strange pool table with the elusive name. They were obviously younger than us but that's not something to complain about. It did make me think back to when I was 18 years old, starting out my freshman year in college. I remember how girls our age only wanted to fuck older guys and that frustrated the hell out of me to the point that I was constantly lying about my age. The thought made me smile but then it hit me: now I'm that older guy. My my, how things have changed.

We started downing some tequila shots with our new friends. Things were starting to get loose and I was loving it. I've found, for reasons I've never been able to explain, that tequila gives me a runny nose. There's not enough space here for me to tell you how much I loathe this, but I've accepted it as a fact of life and learned to cope with it. I went to the bathroom to blow my nose, lest I attempt it in front of the girls and something goes wrong, like a handkerchief malfunction. And there I was, standing in line to use the restroom when the guy standing in front of me started looking back and staring. I wasn't sure what he wanted so I nodded and said hello. This apparently broke the ice and he said "Hey man, you think you can help me out with something?". I wasn't sure if he was asking for money so I asked him what he meant and he held his pinky up to his nose. I quickly waved this fucker off so he understood he was mistaken. What's wrong with these assholes that assume that every guy with a runny nose at a bar is some kind of cocaine dealer? Let's be clear about something: I am not a cocaine person. I may be a lot of things but a cocaine person is definitely not one of them.

It was when I was standing inside the bathroom that I felt that familiar vibrating sensation within my pants: It was a text message. And yet, it wasn't your typical text message. This is what we single guys refer to as a "booty call", only this time it was coming from the female to me and not the other way around, which seems to be the norm. When I was married I always resisted any sort of temptation but ever since my ex left me, I just don't give a fuck anymore. My two friends and I had all driven over here in my car so I just couldn't tell them that we were leaving just like that. It seemed they were on their way to getting laid so being the gentleman that I am, I decided to take one for the team. But right then, destiny intervened. One of the girls said she was leaving because she had to work early the next morning. I asked her where she was headed and it just so happens it was close by to where my "booty call" lives. How convenient. She agreed to give me a ride so I passed my keys with instructions to call me when they had finished their business with the young ladies.

I was on a mission. I live for nights like these. When we reached the kind lady-driver's car and she put her keys in the ignition, something blasted out of the speakers that I was not quite expecting. This girl was listening to hardcore metal - a style of music so fierce, I only listen to it by myself on the way to work. Although I was taken aback by this, I did not mention it; let's not forget who was doing who a favor here.

It was to be a 15 minute drive, or so I thought. At one point she looked over to me and very plainly said "Put your seat belt on". "Oh no" I said, "I got this shirt dry-cleaned yesterday and I have no intention of getting it wrinkled up". Just then she took a sharp turn while passing another car that caused me to slam against the door window.

I put on my seat belt immediately. Fuck the shirt.

After thanking my hell-bound chofer, I walked to the door of the apartment complex where I was to engage in sexual congress in only a few minute's time. I won't go into details, but let's just say it was 'okay'. As any man is bound to admit, alcohol doesn't necessarily do wonders for your ability to reach sexual climax. It feels like wasted effort, to put it to you clearly. I actually pondered the possibility of calling my ex and asking her to take me back. I felt like Rocky Balboa in the first movie, where he gets his ass kicked in such a way, all he can do after he leaves the ring is call for his woman to come and embrace him. "Adrian! Adriaaaaaannn!!!"

Well, enough of that. I shouldn't dedicate too many words to describe the frustration of bad sex. I placed a call to my friends to check up on their status. They informed me they were on their way to pick me up. "Good" I said, "Don't take too long... and bring some beer". I couldn't wait to get home and take a shower to wash my shame away, but after pondering this for a moment I realized I was not gonna head home anytime soon. My friends would not allow it.

Any desire I had of going home quickly faded when I saw those cold beers in the back seat and I heard Jeff Buckley reminding me of things I'd rather forget: 'Oh...that was so real..." I quickly got behind the wheel and put the car in reverse to exit the parking lot. I didn't bother to turn my head around, thinking I could rely on my instincts and the rear view mirror to do the job. Everything went fine except I hit something. I didn't see what it was, but I certainly felt it. I couldn't help but think that those mysterious, unexplainable dents that appear in my car from time to time are the product of nights like these.

We drove around for a bit, looking for a bar but nothing seemed to be open. We looked at the clock on the car dash that was looking back at us flashing the numbers 5:34 and realized it was probably time to go buy some breakfast instead. We found a lovely cafe only minutes away that was just beginning to open it's doors. The sun was already rising, penetrating with its rays a blue sky with scattered clouds, projecting light within the place in the most beautiful way. The food didn't seem to slow the alcohol down in any significant way, so I ordered more coffee and asked the waiter to bring me an orange. When he returned with my fruit he said it was going to be on the house, because it wasn't in the best condition. I thanked him kindly, but I wondered: was the rest of the food we got served in the 'best condition'?

Anyways, we left the place and started walking downhill to where we'd left the car. I'd decided I wasn't going to eat my orange, perhaps I still had a bit of that rum paranoia left. I began tossing the orange up in the air and catching it. I kept throwing it higher and higher until my lack of coordination caused me drop the precious fruit. I was amused by the way it got smashed against the street, causing some juice to spray out. I walked over and gazed at it. I couldn't help but think I was staring into a reflection of myself: Sweet? Perhaps. But undeniably broken? Absolutely.

It had been what Alexander DeLarge would call a 'glorious evening'. In the end, nothing was gained and yet nothing was lost. I was left with empty pockets and a head full of booze and deranged thoughts. What is it that drives a man to such depths of decadence and unruly behavior? I'm not entirely sure. I suppose I'll spend next Thursday night trying to figure that out.

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