We'll skip the exposition in which a drunk Horatio drove a drunk me to help some friends out of Pony Pasture because they stayed in too late and had the gates locked on them. We'll also skip the part where we drove back, listening to one of the girl's sister's rant/bitching about parental dominion. We'll also skip the part where we took one of them, The Italian, to the park after picking up PK(who ditched Hawking after Horatio said he couldn't come along, because he thinks crazy people shouldn't drink or something), because she out drank all of us(even me, the most Irish of the group. My people can drink, okay?) I was stupid enough to think I could keep pace with a European who doesn't exclusively drink cheap shit like Aristocrat. Because, in Italy, when you're over 16, it doesn't matter, and therefore it's not like here where your market for alcohol is limited by a number of interfering things, namely that you're underage. But, whatever, if the stuff gets the job done, who cares if it's cheap?
We won't skip the part, however, where we went to Horatio and I's old elementary school, tried to climb up the building as we've done before, but, realizing we were too intoxicated, we instead sat on the playground to drink and make merry when all of a sudden a white car with markings shows up. We wait a few minutes to confirm that it's a cop, and end up bolting fearfully and mindlessly into the woods behind the school, splitting into two groups.
In all her European wisdom, she put her hand over my mouth and told me I was loud. Her accent seemed amplified on the Ridiculous Scale, and I took her statement as a direct challenge to be louder. Rum, Romanisim, and rebellion, son. I persist in yelling and mimicking her undulating hand motions. She is not pleased. But whatever, I was drunk and therefor Italian tendencies seemed extra fucking foreign, hold the not-foreign.
I continue to make fun of The Italian without provocation-- she is not drunk; perhaps inebriated, but nothing beyond. What she is? Impatient and on the verge of demanding we regroup with the others. Before long, I'm tromping up the hill. I know, I'm a tool sometimes. On my way up, I dodge branches and pitfalls that tend to approach faster than I can react. The next day I would wake up with random scratches and bloodied legs.
After I reconned for a bit, I started wooping. At some point in human evolution, humans bellowed out into the night for two things: safety and fucking. I, however, was wooping the "I'm-drunk-where-are-you-let's-regroup" woop.
Horatio and PK made it out of the woods and met up with The Italian and myself on the playground. We made it back to Horatio's car-- it was strategically placed in a removed-from-school location so as to not draw suspicion. Had we parked in the vacancy of the faculty lot, the cop would have surely waited around. It's a well-documented fact that playgrounds are breeding pits for Stupid. Even the bumblefucks of Arrestafield realize this.
Swerving his way to The Italian's host-home, Horatio claims he hasn't had much to drink, so as to assuage The Italian's fears of imminent, roadside, everyday drunk-teenager-death. An interesting twist--on the local news, you know, that an exchange student died with this particular, unfortunate group of drinking-while-driving teenagers-- but not something she was apparently looking to do. It was okay though, because Horatio, while not the worst driver I've ever met, actually swerves sober. He, sober at the time, myself drunk, and a drug dealer once got pulled over because of said swerving. Thankfuly, the Luck of the City graced us with her beautiful complexity, allowing for the cop to be called away to something more urgent. As he drove off that night, I was suddenly thankful for all the rapists, arsonists, and murderers downtown.
The night winding down, we felt good knowing we wouldn't have to deal with anyone blowing chunks. Oh how preconceived notions will fuck with you. If there's one thing I've learned from my drinking-role-model, Tucker Max, it's that nothing can be planned-- and in regards to throwing up, sometimes its inevitable.
We had dropped The Italian off and were one street
from freedom, about one third of a mile from our respective homes when
we heard it:
PK: *gurgling sounds*
Horatio: "Dude, I know you're not throwing up in my car!"
PK:*gurgle*
Horatio:"I KNOW YOU'RE NOT THROWING UP IN THE BACK OF MY CAR!"
Hunter:"Shit, he's gonna pop"
PK:*Chunky, curdled-milk-hitting-apholstery-and-fles
The car stopped. Well, if by that I mean that Horatio violently slammed the breaks and the vehicle lurched to a wrenching halt.
Horatio's mom is a bit on the obsessive compulsive side when it comes to knowing what Horatio's into. I think this woman took some serious forensics and detective sciences(did I make that up?) in college, because damn, she will see one cushion awkwardly slumped on the couch, or a cup in the sink(when usually they're put into the disher soon after use), or any other out-of-the-ordinary-routine detail and know something's up. Know the game has started, and that she has to play like a cunning warrior, until she finds something hidden somewhere special, and bam, found your stash, BUSTED. Like she knows... but waits for evidence tantamount to "FUCKED." So, with a drunk, vomitting PK in the back of his car and knowledge of possible parental fucking, you can imagine his initial reaction was:
Horatio:"You need to get out of the car, I can't have throw-up in here."
PK:*gurgle* "Awwghg, man, no, no, no, don't leave me, man!"
Horatio and I concoct a plan. I'll help PK out and stay with him while Horatio gets his car back to his house. He'll come back and the three of us will walk. This was the plan. This didn't exactly happen.
Helping PK out of the car, I notice a clean back seat. As I'm noticing this, he bumps into me, staggering a bit before reacquainting himself with gravity. A second later I connect the two, and I'm terrified. PK just threw up, the back seat was pristine, and he just bumped into me. Fuck. I look down and there's a bit of throwup juice on my shirt. I wasn't too worried about it at the time, as it was only a minute amount, but PK had sealed my fate: I was going to throw up.
I go up to Horatio's window:
Hunter: "Good news, he took one for the team and restricted the blast radius to himself.
Horatio: "Good, throw up in the car is unacceptable"
In the background PK is wailing and complaining about being left behind.
PK: "GUYS! PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME!"
It was hard enough convincing him that getting out of the car wasn't a part of some nefarious scheme. He wasn't unreasonable. . . after 10 minutes of talking him down:
PK:"I don't want to be left"
Hunter: "Don't worry, we're not leaving you behind, Horatio's just gonna go park his car while we sit here and wait."
Horatio:"Hunter's right here, I'll be back."
PK:"Don't leave me. . ."
Hunter:"I'm staying, don't worry"
PK:"For good? I mean, will you just leave me behind?"
Horatio:"No, it's cool."
After awhile of this, he began praising us for not leaving him behind. "I really appreciate this, guys" replaced "DON'T LEAVE ME" as his most used phrase, topping the list with "I have to piss like a race-horse" and "I can't feel my face." All classics. But seriously, when you can't feel your face, you have a problem. Your body is telling you something about the condition you are in. PK's body was telling him he drank too much. It was probably telling him that a lot earlier than he realized, but earlier in the night there was some deranged logic pushing him to drink more. I think PK really learned things that night. He learned new limits and The Golden Rule of Drinking: don't leave a man behind.
And now, because I'm lazy, to sum the rest of the night up:
2:41 Sneakers showed up and EVACed PK. Sneakers is the kind of person who looks in people's windows at night and gathers dirt to use against them. It's fair to say that PK was a little uneasy at first.
2:57 Horatio returns, I stand up and suddenly feel sick. I lay back down.
2:58:10 Sneakers returns, I stand up.
2:58:30 I kneel
2:58:32 I throw up all over the road. On my hands and knees, some splatter gets on my glasses that I rarely wear.
2:59 I'm still throwing up, but making a quick segway to the dry-heaves, my favorite kind of bodily revulsion-- worthless, really, but mentally just helps get the bad out.
3:00 I need to pass out.
3:01 I go home and pass out in my bed with a bitter taste in my mouth, but a warm, satisfied little Irish man deep in my heart.
All the times above are added on the basis of approximation, because fuck if I remember exact times. During these times, between 2:41 and 3:00, PK and Sneakers apparently have the following conversation:
PK:"Where are you taking . . . me?"
Sneakers:"Home. . ."
PK:". . ."
Sneakers:"I'm taking you home."
PK:". . . you're not gonna try anything are you?"
Sneakers:"What, like cut you up and leave you in a ditch?"
PK: "You're taking me to your house. . . . . .don't rape me"
Sneakers:"Noo, I'm taking you to your house so you can go to sleep and wake up later with throw-up-crust on your face and shirt."
This went on for awhile and it turns out that Hawking showed up and helped PK inside and up his stairs to his bed. PK kept calling Hawking by my name, and repeatedly asked where he was.
"At your house," Hawking said.
written May 24th, 2006
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