Intoxicating Sobriety, Part the Third

R.B., with J.T. as wingman, does later try to hit on a girl playing Silver Strike Bowling with her friend. However, E.B. breaks down the action with his own commentary.

"See, this isn't going to work. J.T.'s doing the worst job I've ever seen him do running interference. R.B. is talking to the blonde. J.T. should be on the right talking to the brunette. Instead, J.T. is on the left also talking to the blonde. It's like he didn't even know which girl R.B. wanted."

Astute [Yes, V.P., ass-toot. -K] commentary, as R.B. just grabbed J.T. and walked on over without a word.

The night follows this pattern. I can feel the frustration ebb after yet another week at L.M. Too relaxing for some, as R.B. is attempting to solve the bartender's annoying alcohol surplus problem. By himself. Understand that R.B. is shorter than I am, but still quite thick, due to years of Tae Kwon Do.

R.B. convinces E.B. to hit on the bowling girls, but E.B. doesn't give a crap. E.B. halfasses it to shut R.B. up. R.B. tries to get me to talk to them, but I cry off.

Throughout the night, R.B. has been busting out random dance moves at random intervals in time with the music. As the evening wears on, his sense of balance fades. It's still there, but has shifted from keeping him upright to keeping him every which way but upright. It is a minor miracle he did not collapse into others.

R.B. is also the slowest drinker known to man. Ice melts faster than he drinks. Epochs elapse faster than he drinks. Toddlers with sippy cups can drink faster than he drinks. Three-toed sloths drink faster than he drinks.

We walk over to the other bar on the floor, adjoining the dance floor. The only clue that this is the dance floor is the disc jockey waving his hands in the air like he just don't care (Side note: Good gravy I need more timely cultural references. Is it time for me to watch the MTV again?). Taking a cue from everyone else, R.B. is up and dancing and off-balance, yet the drink does not spill for once. A bouncer places a hand on R.B. to get past. This is necessary when there is at best a foot of space between people, and your leg's circumference far exceeds the circumference of my torso. R.B. places a hand on the bouncer's back as he walks past and shoves. The bouncer turns back, and they stare each other down, before the bouncer heads away.

Right now, I want to get R.B. out, before he starts something, or someone else starts something, and he gets involve, necessitating getting me involved. I've had enough bar fights (one) for a lifetime. He's already bumped several other people while getting down, and he may have even thrown a kick or two. We finally get outside, and the man starts frowning. "Was that bouncer trying to fuck with me?" No, R.B., no one was trying to fuck with you. "Are you sure?" Yes, I'm sure. "Because I will fuck him up." No one was fucking with you.

I have to support him on our journey to the metro stop, both physically and to assure him no one was trying to fuck with him. For once, being "the third wheel" comes in handy. Without me, he is a tripod with two legs, ready to tilt over at any second. I juke and twirl and manage to keep him relatively upright, though it's like dragging a potato sack with a body ensconced inside.

We have to pass a hospital, and several police automobiles are parked outside, their lights flashing. No doubt we are screwed if R.B. continues yelling about people fucking with him. He manages to keep quiet until we round the corner, at which point he yells out "Fucking cops."

Though I'm not having trouble keeping my eyes open, though I'm still on my feet and all my mental faculties are operating at near full capacity, I feel... tired.

On the metro, R.B. descends into full-bore belligerence. "No one wants to fuck with me. You know why? Because I'm the best. I am the champ. I am an olympic champion. That's right. I will fuck anyone [sic]." The last statement contains more truthfulness than R.B. realized.

He starts kicking at the metro train poles, and almost kicked me on several tries. Repeating the above mantra, centering himself for the oncoming day, he eventually starts asking for someone to punch him in the face. I tell him that I'll do it later, and that I'm afraid I'll knock him out right now. "Oh, that's OK, uh..., that's OK, you won't knock me out." He was having trouble remembering names by this point. Would that I could forget his.

When he falls out of his seat, is lying spread-eagled and splayed on the ground, and starts kicking at the air, several metro riders take pictures with their cell phones. "No one wants to fuck with me. I will fuck anyone [sic]." It's almost like a turtle having a seizure.

After a protracted exit that took thirty minutes, because R.B. felt that each and every woman was ready to spread her legs just for him right then and there, we manage to get R.B. to the parking garage, and his car. Throughout, E.B. tells me he would not blame me if I "accidentally" left R.B. behind.

E.B. convinces R.B. to sleep in his car. Meanwhile, I go to my car, and hear a wet, splattery noise from above. Sure enough, there are small puddles of vomit, no doubt still warm, next to R.B.'s car. He's done.

And so am I. E.B. and I give him water and make sure he's sleeping. We go our separate ways. Now [at the time I wrote this -K], I'm so tired I can't sleep, can't stay asleep. I'll probably wake up in four hours. If I was the most sober person, why am I also the most wrecked?

***

A family with at least one small child moved in upstairs this weekend. Judging by the ceiling creaking when they step around, the average weight of each member borders on a metric ton, or 2,200 pounds for the uninitiated. On the bright side, they seem to follow my early bird schedule. On the dark side, they follow it every day. To be fair, it is Easter Sunday, when many people are attending daybreak masses. To be unfair, I may have to start pounding the ceiling with my poking stick.