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Though the details of his own arrest were blurry, from what he could gather and from what the police told him, it was an ugly sight. Legend says that he had left his friends inside the bar while he ran outside to puke after taking his umpteenth shot of the night. Unfortunately, he ran right past two police officers standing at the entrance of the alleyway he chose as his vomit-destination, and they had seen the entire thing. He had spewed a disturbing concoction of alcohol and happy hour sushi onto the brick wall, begged the cops for a lighter and one last smoke, and wound up in the drunk tank for 7 hours.
The disappointment on his mother’s face when she came to pick him up the next morning would forever remain etched into his memory. He wasn’t completely dried out yet, and smelled like a bar bathroom. His shirt was wrinkled and his eyes squinted in the bright sunlight, temporarily blinding him as he stumbled over to her sparkling Range Rover parked out front. She barely spoke to him as she drove him home and dropped him off outside his apartment building.
He had crawled into bed without showering or charging his phone, falling flat on his face and passing out until 6 p.m. When he woke up with a hangover and a mouth that tasted like Satan’s asshole, he decided to finally check in with his friends. He plugged his phone in and went into the bathroom to take a shower. He left the lights off, and stepped into the dark shower. He stood under the scalding water, closing his eyes as it ran off the front of his head. Jesus. Why did he keep getting himself into situations like this? He sat down in the shower, letting the water run over his back as he pondered his life. His head rested in his hands. He finally stood and half-heartedly scrubbed his hair and his body with soap, trying not to dry-heave.
He dragged himself back to bed, crawling into the sheets with just a towel on. He rolled onto his side and propped his phone up sideways with the portrait mode locked so he could stay lying down. His head surged with pain and his hands were shaking just enough to be noticeable to the trained eye. He had 73 unread messages.
Most of them were from his group chat with the guys. Apparently, they had come outside looking for him and found him in the throes of his arrest. But had one text from an unknown number that puzzled him.
“Baaaaaabe! Where did you goooooo?!?!”
He squinted his eyes and rubbed his face as he tried to force his brain to remember. Who could this number possibly be? He didn’t remember trying to hook up with anyone at the bar. He tried not to think about the horrific sins that he may have committed while in his auto-pilot-blackout stage. Just as he was coming to terms with his own mortality, his phone buzzed in his hand.
“Honestly, canNOT believe you would fucking call me and leave me some drunk-ass voicemail like you did last night. What is wrong with you?”
It was Macy.
His stomach lurched, and he quickly sat up, thinking he was going to puke.
That’s it, he thought. I’m never drinking again. .