On Being OverServed

Hi. I’m Peter, and this is my first post on this thing.

Nice to meet you.

And there we are. That was easy.

Now what?

Why not start with a funny little self-depricating story? I always find that to be among the best of ice-breakers in a new relationship. And because I am hoping that this will blossom into a long-lasting, healthy and trustful relationship between you and I, I am going to lay all the proverbial cards on the table, as it were.

Here’s my favorite over-served-related yarn. It’ll make you laugh, it’ll make you cry, it’ll make you wonder how the hell I have managed to remain alive for as long as I have.

Believe me, I’m as baffled as anyone.

The best way to begin this tale is at its end, with my lovely roommate waking me up at 9:15am on a Wednesday morning saying, “Good morning, Peter! It’s time to get up and go to work!”

“Holy fuck,” was my mumbled response, if I remember correctly. My head was pounding. I was home and in my bed (which was a relief, and always is when emerging from a dark, crushing blackout), but I had entered wakefulness on this particular morning in a state of much discombobulation.

“You okay?”

“I think so,” I managed.

“Do you remember anything about last night?”

“Oh god.” Being asked that question was never going to bode well for the person being asked that question. “No. Why?”

“You really remember nothing?”

“What did I do?”

“Oh, no big deal. You were just brought home by the police. After you had apparently passed out on a city bus.”

“What the hell was I doing on a fucking city bus?” I feebly demanded.

“I don’t know, man,” my roommate responded.

“How the hell am I not in jail right now?”

“I don’t know, man.”

“What did I do when I got home?”

“You kinda just went to bed.”

“Did I say anything?” I asked hopefully. “And where the fuck’s my bag?”

“I dunno. You didn’t have it with you when the officer dropped you off.”

“The ‘officer.’ Great.”

So this is how I went into my day: hungover, ready to barf a vomit-rainbow, confused, full to the brim of aggressive self-loathing, and without my goddamn messenger bag (which carried nothing of particular importance, but whose disappearance was thoroughly inconvenient nonetheless).

What happened to me last night? What drunken notion made me think it was a good idea to climb on a city bus? What on earth did I say to the police to make them think that I did not deserve a decade in detox? And WHERE THE FUCK WAS MY BAG?

Cut to: The Previous Night.

So I’m out with this beer rep that I don’t know all that well, right? She’s cute, she sells beer, etc. Why not? We’re out, it’s springtime, it’s mating season, I’ve got nothing better to do on this particular Tuesday evening, blah, blah, blah.

As attractive as this woman was, it became glaringly obvious after a brief time that she was not very mentally stimulating (read: stupid). She had an uncanny ability to say the same boring shit a dozen different ways, and it did not take long until the gaze of her vacuous eyes began to make me feel as though I was slipping into a coma. Apparently, she was a beauty pageant participant as a little girl, which suddenly made so much sense. So, I did what anybody would do in my current situation: I gave up on conversation and trying to get laid and focused on getting loaded. It wasn’t so much a conscious decision to get as stupid-drunk as I did, but more of a defense mechanism in response to this woman’s complete lack of anything interesting to discuss. She forced my hand.

We started out at happy hour at one joint, and then wandered into another couple of bars that I remember hazily at best…and then I woke up the following morning to my roommate’s gentle knocking on my door to get my ass to work.

Naturally, there were a number of questions that needed answering in regards to my bag, the bus, the police, etc., and a week later Beer Rep gave my phone a ring to let me know that it was she, in fact, who had my bag. I met her out on neutral ground to collect my belongings, fearing what she would tell me, but looking forward to hopefully having some light shed on my drunken adventure.

“Do you remember anything about last week?” she finally asked, getting to the point, after about five minutes of awkward banter.

“Not really,” I sighed. I hate that fucking question.

It was then brought to light that I had evidently gone to the bathroom at one point in the evening, leaving my bag on the bar stool, and never come back, leaving this poor woman–as boring as she was–alone at the bar. Not very gentlemanly, to say the least. But to be fair (and this is by no means an excuse), this is kind of a thing I do when I get too drunk for public–I just dip out the back door and head home. I’ve done the very same to most (if not all) of my best friends. At least once. Just ask them, they’ll tell you.

As for the bus, I guess at some point in our languid conversation the two of us had discussed doing a bar crawl via bus, which might explain why I thought it was a good idea to jump on a bus to take me the seven blocks home. Maybe. Who knows?

The falling asleep and the dealing with the cops, well, that remains a mystery that only Drunk Peter, the bus driver, and those kind, kind officers who brought me home and not to the clink will know.

Needless to say, it was a while after that fateful night that I permitted myself any alcoholic libations. And since then, any time I complain about having done something stupid, I can safely say, “Hey. At least I didn’t wind up on the bus.”

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