Sunday, February 19, 2006

real american heroes

I've replaced the Winter Olympics with my own version: the 72-hour drunken marathon. Something like that. I've stuck with Guinness though, because I've come to the decision that the sugary shit just makes me miserable. I reverted to a couple rum and cokes last night, but it's just too cold; I made sure they were Bacardi last night because everything else just bounds me to the toilet bowl for a few hours the next morning. Just because my liver hates me, doesn't mean my colon has to.

There was an old coworker in town. There were a lot of other people in town also, reliving their carefree drunken college days. It was nice to see them, and it's strange that I've become a townie.

After barhopping in the sub-freezing temps (with the wind chill), I wandered into the shittiest pizza place on Earth to grab an over-priced, three-dollar slab of bread with some cheese on it. It's the kind of shit that's good for soaking up alcohol, but not much else. The line, since it was after last call, was out the door.

The people in front of me were wasted. I was hardly drunk enough to be able to put up with them. Some dude in one of the booths tried to leave and that started an altercation between he and one of the women. It never came to blows, but even if it had, no one would have broken it up. I would have had two choices: cover up or start swinging. Another female member of the group mentioned that "I looked grumpy" and that I had a "grumpy vibe." I said I wasn't and that I just wanted a slice of pizza and to go to sleep. "Is that all you want?" she asked. I answered plainly, "yes." She was right. I was pretty grumpy. And it was all their fault, because I was having a great night up until that point.

Finally, the wild bunch in front of me had made it to the front of the line. I noticed that the woman who'd been involved with the altercation was holding a fist full of twenties and babbling in some kind of either accented English or in a frantic drunk speak. Her crew--maybe six or so of them--began to thin out as they grabbed their lousy pizza slices in paper plates. I just wanted to go home. I knew it was going to be a long, cold walk and that I'd shut off the heater before I left, and that no one would be home when I got there because both my roommates have moved out and it'll be at least a week before the two new ones come in. I shimmied my way through the crowd and dropped my forearm on the counter and got the attention of the sympathetic dude who was manning the cash register. I asked him for a slice of pepperoni (because the pepperoni is the only thing that's really edible there), and he nodded at me to hold on a second. That's when I noticed that the woman with the the fistful of Jacksons, in her drunken reverie, was buying slices for everyone. The dude behind the counter tossed a slice of pepperonin on a paper plate and sneakily hid it among the slices the drunk woman was buying. "Do you want one?" she slurred. I said, "sure," pretending to be surprised. "Pepperoni." She handed me the paper plate with the slice of pepperoni on it and returned to doling out the rest of the bounty. I didn't thank her, even though I was, and forever will be, grateful. I grabbed the slice and headed for the door. Patience is a virtue, true, but this was the first time it ever got me a free slice of pizza.

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