Story: So on I flew back to the Great Lake state last week for some R and R with the fam, but ended having some booze and fun with the friends. On Friday I got even more housed than usual. See, when you’re home visiting those who stayed, and an all star in your own mind, EVERYONE wants to do a shot with you. But instead of it being your 21st birthday, it’s really just 10 months into your 27th year. Translation: doing more than a few shots of Jim, Yukon, and Jager between each drink = a crazytown you never want to visit.
So, I’m out on the town with my boys, hitting one of the town’s two bars, which coincidentally is identical to the number of the town’s stoplights. Had I had enough drinks to wax poetic about the cinematography of CASINO like a total douchebag to room full of ingrates that loved PAUL BLART? Absolutely. Had I had enough to brag myself up as a perfectly adequate Hollywood loser to the local old maids? Not at this point, but this was soon to follow.
The few of us that withstood the barrage of alcohol leave bar number one to walk down the street to the town’s other bar. This is where things get fuzzy. When we arrived, I remember hugging old high school enemies and telling specific girls that I wished I had mounted them while they were still young and attractive.
BLACK…
I wake up. I walk to the bathroom to take a piss. It seems weird that there is no bathroom door, but I think nothing of it. It’s on my way back to my bed that I scratch myself and realize something is off. I look down at my ‘bed’, and realize it is a spot I have fallen in the middle of the floor of a concrete basement. At this point I furrow my brow and take in my surroundings. This is definitely not my parents house.
I look left. Two piles of people laying on a fold out couch. I can’t see their faces, but they’re probably nice enough despite their massive girth. Must be my friends. I look right. Right into the eyes of the Devil that is. There sits a Native American child. Or maybe Samoan, but that’s beside the point…
The point is, I’m laying on the basement floor and there is an obese minority child of some type laying on another couch. His eyes wide, he peeks at me from under his blankets in fear. Now I’m beginning to get suspicious.
I creep over to the pullout to get a better look at the large lumps. Low and behold, I obviously see two Native American (or Samoan) people laying in a lurid, barely clothed embrace. Their sheer size astounds me, but not as much as my confusion as to who they might be.
The man stirs awake and notices a half drunk white man leering over his face and his wife’s business. I think to myself that this is how I would die. But instead, he just says, “What’s up, man. You were pretty drunk last night.” What?? I know. I’m awake and somehow alive in a strangers house. I grumble some sort of nonsensical jargon I barely remember and stumble up the stairs.
In the kitchen I find two more little kids. They look at me with both fear and pity. As well they should. Their native cultures have probably taught them to smell my whiskey and shame. I say harshly, “Shoes!” The smaller one hides behind his brother. The larger one says, “Tommy’s in the living room.” Tommy? TOMMY? Who is TOMMY????
I stare at them suspiciously as I stagger into the living room to find a guy named Tommy, passed out in a La-Z-Boy. Now… I know Tommy. Check that. I did know Tommy. 12 years ago when he was in high school I had a class with him. Maybe. But I don’t even know his last name. Does he live here? With the family?? Were we scoring meth??? What the hell is happening here???? I decide I don’t want to know the answer, so quietly back out of the room.
I try to go back into the basement but fall down the stairs, waking the woman. I apologize and she points me to my shoes before going back to dreams of a life that will never be.
I sneak out through the garage and into the light of day, where Papa Native American was having a smoke. Looking around, I can tell I’m in the country. Like, the sticks. Where? Who knows.
I mumble several unintelligible non sequitur’s and bum a smoke before finding out what road I’m on. I figure out I’m about 2.5 miles from my parents house, and in the state I’m in, I figure I can make it back in the 12 hours before nightfall.
So, off I stumble down the busy highway. Chomping a cigarette, trying to both remember and forget the night behind me, and cursing Tommy’s unknown surname for bringing me to this bastion of terror and uncertainty. I miss California and the relative safety of Los Angeles…HOLYHANGOVER
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