On the last night of my long weekend home, my friends and I decided to hit the old hometown bar. For one reason or another, my best friend from high school and I decided that we were going to split a fifth of Bacardi. Maybe we were feeling confident. Maybe we thought we hadn’t changed much since college. The fact remains that, much like Icarus, we flew too close to the sun. I know I did, at least.
I’m sure there were a number of factors that went into me getting kicked out of the bar. Maybe it was that I drank roughly 9 shots in half an hour. Maybe it’s because the cover band that was playing opened with “What’s My Age Again” and led straight into “The Middle” by Jimmy Eat World and I couldn’t contain myself. Maybe it was the subsequent Vegas bombs (yes, that’s plural) that I took right after I celebrated hearing my high school jams back to back. Maybe it was that I tried to make out with one of the girls in our crew that only wants to be friends. The one the bouncer went with was, “Hey asshole, stop puking on the side of the bar, you need to leave.”
Am I mad about it? It’s pretty hard to be. After working in risk mitigation, I recognize that they were just trying to cover their ass. Plus it’s pretty hard to make an argument to let the guy puking his guts out stay and party. No matter how hard I tried to explain that I was going to rally right after that, it wasn’t very convincing with regurgitated pieces of sushi stuck in my beard.
And so I left. I texted my friends to let them know that I was “politely asked by the bouncer to exit the premises” and that I was on my way to another bar down the street. For some reason or another, I was expecting them to have my back and say something to the effect of, “Oh shit! We’ll be right there!” You know, because they’re my friends. Instead, I was met with a series of LMAOs and “Sucks to suck.” Only one friend came to meet up with me, and even then I found out it was just because he wanted to drive me home really quick so he could make it back to the venue for the band’s closer.
The next day, I woke up with two bottles of water and a few Advil next to my bed. Even as I’m writing this, I’m not sure if that was Drunk Charlie or my parents who decided to help me out. Either way, there was no shortage of judgment from them when I came downstairs.
“You certainly have an aroma coming off of you,” said Dad.
“Bow down to the porcelain throne last night?” asked Mom.
Sipping water and closing my eyes, I painfully told them that I was “aggressively over-served” the night before. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I got kicked out. Although, maybe I already had and just don’t remember it. Whatever. All I know is the next time I get invited to Durty Nellie’s, I may have to be the one driving. .