Memorial Day Comment: May He Rest In Peace

Image by John Martinez PavligaYep. Drunk. Doesn’t matter.

Memorial day. I don’t really care what it means to anyone other than me. What it means to me is remembering someone who is no longer with us. We are all influenced by someone… that one person who made us who we are.

My mentor died.

I didn’t go to his wake. I didn’t do a lot of things he would have wanted me to do.

I’m not good enough to show him respect in front of all the people who were a part of HIS life. If I were to tell HIS friends and family about how much he meant to me doesn’t really matter. But I know damn well that the second I tried to do that… the focus would be on ME.

He did that. My confidence and the ability to tell you to fuck off is because of HIM. The music I listen to is because of HIM. The reason I smoke is because of HIM. He taught me how the world worked when I was a 14-year old kid. He was my best friend and taught me that I shouldn’t tell his new girlfriend (who he ultimately married and is the mother of his children) that… [insert a stupid as hell comment here].

Michael Grenley died.

I’m not good enough to be a part of his life or death.

But he made me who I am today.

The fact that I don’t think I am good enough to lick the bottom of his shoes is me… the fact that I can tell everyone else that they aren’t worthy of getting soft-serve shit served out of my asshole is ME.

Fuck YOU.

But may Warlock Bones rest in peace.

Welcome To San Jose Part II: Poking Around Town

Read San Jose Part I here.

(If you are easily offended by descriptions of debauchery and misplaced misogyny, please stop reading now. For the rest of you…)

While sipping my beer distractedly at the hotel bar, I slowly became aware of a tall Colombian girl rubbing the inside of my left leg. This was probably about the fourth incidence of reverse sexual harassment I had been subjected to in the last hour alone, each time from a different young woman. What made this one unusual was that she was using her thighs to do the rubbing, putting her hands on my knee for leverage and working my left quadriceps like her own personal Sybian.  Molestation – usually in the form of pushing, poking, or pinching – was how the working girls at San Jose’s Hotel Del Rey said hello, which they inevitably followed up with from a hackneyed script with a single variation: “What’s your name? Where are you from? Do you like to party/get nasty/fool around/have sex?” But the Colombian’s approach certainly broke me out of my distraction with its animalistic boldness.

And although slightly startled, I chose to play along, as there really wasn’t much to do in the rest of this dead city. Most of the locals of the Costa Rican capitol had left for the Pacific and Caribbean beach towns, shuttering the doors of their places of business and taking their nubile daughters with them, much to my chagrin. The only game left in town were the brothels, bordellos, and boudoirs, where the range of options ran from a $40 cathouse quickie to $200 for a night’s worth of ‘hide the salami’ with a top-end pro.

The Colombian was, I could tell, angling toward the latter end of the spectrum.

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Welcome To San Jose Part I: Now Go Home!

7 April 2012

Dear San Jose, Costa Rica:

I hope this finds you well.

I am writing you to complain about the subpar customer service experience I had recently while staying with you.

Frankly, I was offended by the ill-timed religious ceremony – also known as Saint’s Week or Semana Santa – that was taking place during my visit, and not only because I’m a non-practicing Jew who thinks the only good thing to come out of Easter is Cadbury Crack Eggs.

Had I known that all the hot women would be out of town, as they traditionally are, and the only tight dresses I would see walking the streets would be those of transsexual prostitutes that kept on chanting “papiiiiiiiiiiiii, you have a cigarette for me?”, I would have changed the dates of my trip.

I was looking forward to dining in several of your high-end eateries, only to find them temporarily shuttered. If I had intended to consume a diet of quick-serve-junk like quesadillas, chili, and club sandwiches – as I was required to do – I would still be hanging out at my college cafeteria.

But the most unkindest cut of all was saved for last. As a former alcoholic professional, now professional alcoholic, I can’t imagine what you were thinking by deciding to close all the liquor stores – including the one in duty free!!! – during my last day in town. As the Brits say: really? Seriously? Were you taking the piss, mate?

I have reviewed the terms & conditions that were listed when I signed up to stay with you, and there was no mention of this cruel and unusual punishment I was forced to endure. Would I invite YOU to New York, then proceed to hide away all my eligible daughters and lock the liquor cabinet, and force you to subsist on microwave pizza while I spewed some Old Testament whatnot in your ear? I think not.

Please refund my 72 hours at your earliest convenience.

Most sincerely,

Duck S. Stevens, Esq.

Rant In Bar Minor

Yeah man, let me get a ah, let me get a Fernie an’ a bottle, and get my man here a Jesus Christ.  Yeah get my friend a Jesus Christ, he looks like he needs one.  You look like you need one man.  How you doin’, how you doin’?  You doin’ good, you doin’ okay?  Good.  Yeah man, that’s cool, glad to hear it glad to hear things are going well.  Wish I could say the same, you know, man, wish I could.  But it’s like, man, I can’t sleep, you know?  I try to sleep at night and I can never sleep.  I try to; try it by laying down, you know, I just find I can’t sleep you know my brain just keeps going.  It’s like a fucking hamster on crack or some shit I don’t know, I can’t get the damn thing to stop.  I just start thinkin’ and thinkin’ and thinkin’, man I don’t think this much— I didn’t think when I was in school, man.  So I took my job, you know.   I didn’t want to fucking think, I was never good at thinking, I was never good at reading and writing so what the fuck, so, I dropped out of school and took my job man.  Now I can’t stop from thinkin’.  Man I’m telling you it’s like a fucking hamster the fucking thing just won’t quit like somebody gave it crack and I wish it would just have a heart attack already and fall off the fucking wheel so I could get some fucking sleep you know? You know, it’s like I lay there and all of the sudden all these fucking problems start going through my head like all this shit like conversations I had with people that pissed me off like how much worse it could have been and what I should have said and what I should have done I don’t know, I keep having those uh, like worst case scenario type things those you know, those what do they call it they’re like hypodermics or hypothermia, or yeah, yeah, that’s it, that’s it man, hypothetical, the, uh, those uh hypothetical situations, like those things. 

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I Got Soul, But I'm Not A Soldier (An Honest Mistake)

My most emotional year was probably when I was Twenty-five.  It was for so many reasons, but the events of the year before really created that.  I didn’t know how to deal with life much for the previous decade or more; I just kept riding highs and running away from lows.  I’d been through so many drugs and moves and chaos and disasters, of which I created about half of, and finally was starting to put it together.  I thought I had it down the year before.  I had girls, I had music, I had work, I had school, I had a place to live… but by the end of that year it was all falling apart again.  It’s probably my own fault, but I know it also all revolves around a single girl, and well, honestly, that was always my problem…

I met this girl online.  We had similar music tastes, and were both writers.  We were both looking for something else in life.  We didn’t know what, we just knew that we’d both been dealt a shit hand, and we wanted something different.  The American dream doesn’t work for dreamers, so we kept chasing something new…

She was a Russian model, a disaster of a human being who had only been out of jail for a few weeks when I met her, still bearing the scars of when the police shot her, and I was infatuated before I laid eyes on her.  She was enthralled by me, the chaotic poet, before we met in person too.  She had a boyfriend at the time, but we still fucked in my car the first night we met.

She had called me while I was gone, when I was on a week long lake trip with my friends, with no phone service, and she left me a message.

(People
They don’t mean a thing to you
They move right through you 
Just like your breath)

I called her on the way back.

The first night we met was on campus at the school I was attending at the time.  She was an out of work veterinarian, living with the engineer who had fucked her over, but still paid all her bills.  We spent the night driving around, listening to music, smoking cigarettes, and trying to deny the connection between us.

As I was driving her home, that first night, we pulled up to the corner of her building, and I said “Fuck it.”

We had been listening to the Bravery’s “Honest Mistake” which was brand new at the time, and was a song we both loved.  She told me she liked the way I sang along, and I pulled the car to the curb and kissed her.

(But sometimes
I still think of you
And I just wanted to
Just wanted you to know
My old friend…
I swear I never meant for this
I never meant…)

I drove to the nearest parking garage.  I dropped the seat, and fucked her in her skirt.  I couldn’t resist her.  I let her go that night, knowing there was so much more to come.

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Nepenthe

As I walk home, I hear the leaves blowing across the street.

My childhood comes rushing back, fleeting, grasping, like a bum in the last desperate throes of a Central Park November night. 

The horse kicks me in the arm.

The child is dead, and the leaves  rustle across the San Francisco street in the dark.

A long day and a bullet is on my trail.

Solipsistic

I am a caffeine junky

that sits alone

at the patio of a café, 

in a silence occasionally broken

by the writhing and spasmodic fit

of a body that wants to

jump and shout in a way

familiar with Methodists

and snake-handling Christians.

On my second cup,

I am sipping it gently,

uttering to myself,

“I like my coffee like I like my women—nerve-fraying.”

(My nerves are starting to resemble

the cuffs of my well-worn blazer.)

On my third cup,

the sips are more frequent;

the hands, more jittery.

I start to think about time,

how it passes people by,

how the hours overlap the minutes,

leaving the seconds behind to eat dust.

A fourth cup beckons me,

but the mind is in overdrive,

going at a million thoughts per minute,

thoughts that are jagged, disjointed—

a stream of consciousness

barely contained by puckered lips

and self-awareness.

Fidgeting, I reach for a cigarette

with a twitchy eye staring to my left,

weary of the same scavengers

with their same refrains

(“I ran out of smokes and the stores are closed.”)

Today has been hobo-free, 

and aside from an occasional

 misanthropic fit,

I really cannot complain.

But my mind, my mind is racing,

racing somewhere,

trying to keep a date

I did not even know I had.

©2011 José-Ariel Cuevas

Spork Filled Semi-Truck Jackknifed on I-80. News at 11.

Walking down Valencia in the Mission I saw my friend, Dean. “I thought that I might run into you.” He said. ‘No shit. I live here.’ I thought. “What are you doing up here?” I then received some vague associations and cryptic responses. When Dean is in this mode he is usually about to do something drastic. This is one of my pet peeves, when my male friends act like insane women. See possible outcomes below.

1) Dean is moving to Tennessee because he got laid off from his job. He is, somehow, still hirable at his last job there at the local lumber mill. The lumber mill seemed a dangerous place to work and it consistently reached 115F degrees in violation of OSHA regulations.

2) Going to jail in Tennessee. “Want to clear up my warrant.” I can hear Dean saying. In reality running away from something in CA, weather real or imagined.

3) Moving to San Francisco. Probably the best outcome for Dean. Taking on school debt and transferring to SFSU to finish his degree. Already has a part time job in vicinity.

4) Moving to his parent’s house. This is an outlier but cannot be completely ruled out.

5) Getting back with ex-girlfriend and driving cross-country to NYC. NYC is where her dad should send her to work in the industry that closely aligns with her degree. Probably craziest thing on this list, so in Dean’s world, the most plausible.

5A) Has started drinking again. (See #5)

6) Moving to Florida to be with his grandparents. Dean said that he is starting to become sensitive to the cold and “winter” is around the corner.

7) Going to jail in the south bay. Dean’s probation has been violated and the judge threw the book at him. DUI upgraded to a felony and he goes to rape-you-in-the-ass-state-prison.

Stay Tuned!

We've Traveled a Long Way and are Tired, Let Us Rest Our Weary Weight a While.

It's Thursday night, and I don't feel like venturing out into the city, since a cold is slowly creeping its way into my nose and throat. It's off to the local bar for a Guinness or two. I don't like this bar that much; the staff is mostly older, and mostly unfriendly, but tonight the kooky Australian is working, so it's not so bad. It's moderately busy, but there's a seat open at the bar. That's how stories like this start.

She sits down, at first, a few stools away, at the part where the bar curves around towards the wall where the jukebox is. I think she looks my way. She doesn't catch my eye too much so I don't dwell on it, focusing on the sports highlights on the HDTV that's staring me in the face. I sneak a peek a couple of times, in the mirror that lines the wall behind the bar. Not bad, short-cropped red hair. Boyish looking, I would have thought lesbian would be likely. Not thin.

It isn't five minutes that go by before she walks up, grabs a stool that's nearby, and asks if she can squeeze in the space next to me — so she can see the TV. It's fine by me. We talk a little about sports, our mutual halfheartedness towards it, since that's all that's ever on the fucking television in this bar. It's cool following the Giants this season. The World Cup was great to watch.

She likes my glasses, but it's hard to believe that they are the most comfortable pair that I own. Maybe it's easy to believe otherwise, since they're big, plastic and bulky. But really: they barely feel like they're there.

"Do you play poolball?"

What?

"Do you play pinball?" My hearing is fucked at this point.

Haven't in years. Liked it when I was a kid. I especially liked Pin*Bot on the NES, Alien Crush on the TurboGrafix 16. Those were video games, sure, but they tried to be like pinball. We go over to one of the pinball games, this one a is construction-themed. The plights and hassles of the construction industry enshrined in blinking lights and bouncing metal balls.

We play pinball, taking turns each time we lose a ball. I turn out to be terrible, or at least get the terrible luck of having the ball always run down right between the paddles. Or is it skill? The mechanics of the game have got to be mostly deterministic, so if you hit the ball in a certain way it will score, hit it another and it will go down the tubes. Hit the ball right. Haven't figured that one out yet.

I finally lose all of her quarters down the drain. We play pool instead. I'm better at pool than at pinball, but neither of us are that great. I'm a slightly stronger player, and bag both games. And circling one another, yeah, her hips are on the wide side, but her blouse is loose around the neck and it's hard not to see her shapely breasts when she leans over to take a shot.

Want a free beer? Play a game of pool with someone. It doesn't matter who wins. When the game's over, make a bet: if the other person can clear the rest of the balls on table without scratching, you'll buy them a beer; if they scratch, they buy you a beer. They play. If they're any good at all, they'll sink the rest of the colored balls pretty quick, and if they scratch you've got a beer already. They'll look at you. Look back. Tell them there's one ball left on the table. Clear the table without scratching.

"Do you smoke?"

I quit. Or I'm trying to quit.

"I did too. But I've got some American Spirits if you want to have a cigarette with me."

Fuck. Yeah.

"I have to warn you, they're pretty weak."

Yeah that's probably a good thing.

We go out and smoke, sitting on a little bench that's built around a tree. Small talk.

So what do you do?

"That's a loaded question."

I know. That's why I asked it.

It isn't before long that she clams up pretty tight, and is hunched over and moaning -- hardly audibly -- that her back is killing her. She asks me to massage her back, lower back. I do my best, thinking to how I'd warm up and cool down after workouts, using a foam roller to roll out the tight spots in my back. And I think about how you can also use a softball to work out tight spots in muscles, with pinpoint precision: so I roll my hands slowly up and down, firmly. She's silent, and her back after five minutes still feels like a stone.

It's important to note that as this went on it quickly transitioned from "cute way to get to know someone" to "dealing with a stranger with an actual problem."

Is that any better?

"Not really."

I keep at it for a while longer. Not too long a time goes by before she shifts, and lays across my lap. Not too long again after until:

"Can you walk me home?"

Yeah.

So we don't get but twenty paces from the front of the bar before she's on the ground, and she lays down and curls up there, head on her backpack, in the landing of the laundromat, now closed but still with its florescent glow bathing her form, doubled over. I wait, crouched over, standing a few paces away, considering just fucking bolting and leaving her there.

"One too many eh?" Says a passerby headed for the bar. Of course we gotta make comments like that. It's about protecting ourselves from dark things.

It isn't too long before she regains herself.

"God it feels like someone slipped me some E."

I help her back up, and we continue on down the street, she's hanging on to my arm. It isn't too far to get to her place, down a hill then up another. We stop and marvel at a huge, white Victorian-styled home there on the street, surrounded by a verdant garden and wrought-iron fence all around. Who lives there? There's only one mailbox. It's an amazing house. With a yard and all that. There should be four or five people sharing a house like that.

We stop outside her apartment building, sitting in the entranceway to the carport. She's been taking some new medication, you see, and it mixed poorly with beer. She apologizes, that this kind of thing doesn't usually happen to her. She digs through her purse, searching for some kind of way to pay me back for being kind and walking her home like this. I say it's all OK; I'll just take another cigarette in exchange.

I offer the one guarantee that I can always offer anyone: anything about you is probably OK with me, as long as you don't try hurting me personally.

We hug each other for a minute, then she goes inside and I go smoke a second cigarette that evening.

Requiem for a Drunk

Dark and harrowing, Requiem for a Dream is a visceral portrayal of the destructive power of addiction and the damage that it inflicts on not only the users, but also those around them. Though dismissed by many as merely another dark tale of drug abuse, the film presents much more, and forces the viewer to ask not only about the hazards of heroin and amphetamine abuse, but much more about the nature of addiction, and, as Darren Aranofsky the director stated: “we suddenly say, 'Oh, my God, what is a drug?'”

“I’m not an addict, it’s cool, I feel alive. If you don’t have it you’re on the other side.” Though the song was not included in the film, these words from K’s Choice perfectly describe the feeling around the central part of the film. As the characters continue to delude themselves that they are not succumbing to their individual addictions with the persistent dreams of a brighter future, the viewer is afforded the opportunity to watch their lives and sanity crumbling around them with alarming alacrity. Regardless of the drug of choice, this is the reality of any addict, of any addiction, be it heroin and amphetamines as depicted in this movie, or even the socially acceptable and seemingly mundane drug of choice for many: Alcohol.

Alcohol is sold legally across the country, is considered a social lubricant, and is a perfectly acceptable indulgence in modern culture. It is marketed at sporting events, on prime time television, radio, the internet, and in newspapers and magazines nationwide. It is placed in forefront of how Americans view relaxation and pleasurable times. It is enjoyed by Presidents and Senators, actors and athletes, parents and teachers, friends and relatives. It is present in our lives from beginning to end. And though it’s abuses are well documented and warned against, and alcoholism is recognized as a serious disease, it is still not respected as a dangerous drug, but merely a pleasurable indulgence that certain people should probably learn to temper.

An alcoholic can sit down to watch a movie like Requiem for a Dream with alcohol in hand and still look with pity at what the poor characters have done to themselves. We can sit with our friends who agree and never make the connection between the addictions. Perhaps we can maintain our lives as functioning alcoholics which allows others around us to dismiss our self-destruction as minor, incidental, or even non-existent. Perhaps we are not so well controlled and others have noticed the destructive and delusional paths we embark on, yet still will never relate our disease to that of a compulsive gambler, a speed freak, a crackhead, or a smack junkie.

Perhaps the alcoholic will never lose his arm as Jared Leto’s character does, or resort to prostitution, as Jennifer Connelly’s character. Perhaps the alcoholic will never find themselves in jail as Marlon Wayans’ character, and most likely will never be forced into electroshock therapy to attempt to break the delusions of Ellyn Burstyn’s character. This does not mean they are not stuck in a cycle of self-destruction. This does not mean they are safe. They are still an addict, and regardless of the drug of choice, they are still delusional, and are still on just as dangerous a path as if they had chosen ecstasy or opium to be their intoxicant of choice.

As Ellyn Burstyn’s character shows, the socially acceptable drugs we take can be just as damaging, both physically and psychologically, to us as those that are deemed dangerous and illegal by society. Her obsession with television, and one show in particular, leads her to begin taking, then eventually abusing, amphetamines in an attempt to lose weight so she can wear a dress which was a favorite of her late husbands again. She believes that she will be invited to be a contestant on this game show which she enjoys so much, that she can no longer accept the reality that she may never be asked to appear on it. The further into her delusion she sinks, the more she feels the need to medicate herself, and the increased dosage of narcotics only further fuels her delusions, creating the vicious cycle which ultimately leads to her downfall, and a total psychological break. This forces the viewer to ask themselves if the heroin being abused by the other characters is truly the most dangerous drug, or if it is addiction itself which is the most dangerous drug.

If addiction itself is the true hazard, then one has to ask themselves if this could possibly happen to them. Just because a person doesn’t abuse hard narcotics with clearly life ravaging consequences, it does not mean they haven’t planted the seed of self-destruction. Marijuana and alcohol have much weaker immediate effects, but that is exactly what lends them to being equally damaging. People believe that they can control themselves while intoxicated, building up tolerances, and losing awareness of the exact level of intoxication they are achieving through a delusion created by past successes at maintaining dignity and decency. But how many times must one drink and drive before they kill themselves or worse yet, someone else, someone completely innocent of their addiction, completely ignorant of their delusion.

Addiction and delusion take many forms in our society. Requiem for a Dream shows us a brutally vivid and disturbing vision of the depravity of excessive drug abuse, certainly, but also raises many questions as to the nature of addiction, its causes, and its ramifications. Is it the heroin that we really should fear? Is it the amphetamines? Is alcohol truly a safe alternative? Or could it be that any habits we pursue carries with it a great risk? As Brad Paisley said in his song Whiskey Lullaby: “He put the bottle to his head and pulled the trigger ...”

Henry Rollins and the Son of God

I left my roommate at the bar, staring at a double Jesus Christ just before midnight.

We had spent the evening so far watching a Henry Rollins spoken word performance, snacking on nachos and drinking Sierra. Rollins had us in stitches through most of the night regaling the audience with tales of an insane Russian woman on the Trans-Siberian express train and the bizarre intrusions into his (mostly) hermetic life. By the end of the night he had instilled a carpe diem attitude in both of us that had brought us out to our new favorite watering hole to continue the escapades.

The show was incredible, and we were both halfway into the wind. Although I loved that bar, there were no girls there. He was friends with the bartender, so the coke in our Jack and Cokes was more of an afterthought. A few other people had joined us, which was nice, but by this point we comprised the total population of the place. I definitely wanted more for my evening. I made a few phone calls, and finally convinced a girl I knew to come over to our apartment, so I was headed out. He could find his own damn way home.

About two hours later, as I lay in bed debating whether the pleasure a cigarette would bring me was worth the effort to go outside, I heard him come stumbling through the front door. From all the noise he was making, I knew that the drink in front of him when I left wasn’t his last. It’s great to know bartenders with lead wrists, but you better not have any plans for the next day or so if you are going to spend an evening with them. I heard him fall about three or four times while I checked the message that someone had left me nearly ten minutes earlier. It was Chris, slurring about how his key no longer seemed to work and if there was any way possible, would I please open the door for him because he really hopes he’s at the right apartment. I started laughing, and explained the girl that it had just taken Chris almost ten minutes to open the front door to the apartment he’s lived in for five years now.

We lay there laughing about it for a minute, while still debating that cigarette. Suddenly, my door flung wide open, slamming against the wall with a bang, Chris fell in backwards; ass over teakettle. He was holding his phone to his ear and groaning from the sudden end to his descent. He looked around, confused, and then looked up and backwards at me. He started to try to speak, but I cut him off.

“Are you on the fucking phone?” I yelled at him and to got out of bed.

“No.”

“Then why the hell is it in your hand, held to your ear?”

“This isn’t my phone,” was all he could manage to say while flailing about in a sad attempt to stand back up. I helped him to his feet, pushed him out of my room, called him an asshole, and went to the bathroom. When I came back out I found him standing in the door to the kitchen, clearly confused by his own existence. I shook my head and went back into my room, once again laughing.

I lay back down and listened to him stumbling around some more, first in the kitchen, then into the bathroom. I could hear thumping and banging for another minute or two, then a toilet flush, then silence. “I had better go check on him; make sure he hasn’t drowned in the toilet or something.” The girl started laughing and I walked to the door. “I really don’t feel like apartment hunting again.”

I found him in the hallway. He was sitting sideways in the hall, halfway slumped over with his back on the wall directly across from my door. What he did in the bathroom I will never know, because he had apparently waited until he reached the hallway to throw up. It wasn’t just an ordinary regurgitation either. This was… Bright. Fucking. Orange. I knew he needed to eat more than just those damn nachos at the show. If they had helped slow the alcohol at all you couldn’t tell before, and they weren’t going to do a damn thing for him now that they were splayed down his pea-coat, his trousers, and across the carpet.

Grumbling, I stood him up and walked him into his room. I helped him get his coat and shirt off, and then pushed him onto his bed, where he toppled quite easily. I pulled his shoes off, and told him that he was on his own for the rest. I threw his clothes into the hamper, knowing that his room was going to smell like shit, and that it wasn’t my problem. Then I grabbed his towel and walked back into the hallway. With a sigh, I used his towel to wipe up the majority of the vomit off the carpet. The good thing about shitty old apartments like ours is that the carpeting is like burlap stretched across old wood. I decided to let him clean the damn stain out. At least I wouldn’t have to smell the nachos and beer in my room. The towel went on top of the hamper. I went to bed.

The next day was Saturday, and I was hanging out at our usual coffee shop with the same friends we had gone to the show with, trading stories about the many and varied times that Chris has pulled shit like that over the years, and taking bets on what time he would get out of bed. We were all betting between four and nine, except his best friend, who bet on Tuesday. He finally showed up around seven, two hours after the sun was down.

“How do you feel today?”
“What time did you actually get up?”
“How much did you drink last night?”
“Bet your room smells great right now, huh?”

Everyone hit him with a barrage of questions and a chorus of stifled laughter as soon as he walked onto the patio, and before he could answer any, I looked at him and said, “How did you get home last night?”

He stopped in mid-thought and looked at me blankly. “I rode home with you. Didn’t I?” We all started laughing. He clearly didn’t remember a damn thing.

“I left you at the bar around midnight staring at a double Jesus Christ. You didn’t come home until a couple hours later. What the hell happened between then?” I couldn’t help but laugh as he winced and tried so hard to remember the night.

“Oh shit.”