The Downside of Friday Night

To continue with the horror that was Friday night, we will pick up the story with the arrival of my sober friend.

I distinctly remember hearing my name called and for a brief moment, I thought it was the voice of God. It doesn't seem to matter how much alcohol is consumed because for me, there is always that itsy bitsy corner of the brain which behaves like Ms. Nickelainen, my second grade teacher. She was tall with sharp, pointy features, streaked black hair and halitosis that would strip paint from the walls. Severe in her clothing choice and her mannerisms, she tsk tsked like a hen with Turrettes. I hated her. Strangely, it is her reproachful, nasal voice that barks at me from the cobwebbed crannies of my conscience when I knowingly step outside the boundaries of common sense. By the time my friend got there, she was positively hissing her disapproval.

So I was awestruck, perhaps a little frightened and probably in need of an antipsychotic when I heard an impossibly deep voice call my name. I immediately looked skyward, anticipating an angel or at the very least, a trumpet.

Nothing.

I glanced around, somewhat expecting the fake twin ficus trees at the entrance to burst into flame and then I saw him. My friend was standing over by the bar, with a less than amused expression on his face. Shit. It was as bad as I thought. Ashley wasn't helping things. He was on the dance floor but he still somehow managed to look like he was on a motorcycle equipped with ape hanger handle bars. His arms were raised and as he shuffled to the music, he picked imaginary apples from imaginary trees.

I remember watching my parents dance when I was younger and feeling sorry for them because their moves clearly dated back to a different era. Then, the quiet realization hit me. Even though the roof, the roof, the roof WASN'T on fire, Ash and I were still dancing like it was. Oh dear God. Phones were now equipped with cameras. We needed to be going. Soon.

My friend gave us each a cup of water but it really was too little, too late. And having the attention span of two gnats, we promptly forgot our condition, bummed a cigarette (what was I thinking?!!)and stood there like two idiots. Of course, everything was hysterically funny. Then, we were told that it was time to go.

The ride home was punctuated with several stops. I will not elaborate except to say that I proved the veracity of Newton's Law of Motion. If one takes the action of consuming vast and varied quantities of intoxicants, one can expect the body to respond with an equal and opposite action.

Ashley was asleep in the back and his come to Jesus moment didn't happen until early afternoon on Saturday when his flight was touching down in Buffalo. As the plane was landing, Ashley stood up to make his way to the bathroom. The flight attendants freaked and once they understood the urgency of his situation, they threw napkins and air sick bags in his general direction and told him to buckle in. He was THAT person. You know the one. He was the guy that gets onto a sold out flight with his pores weeping noxious fumes from the night before. He was clammy, fitful and it is very likely that he snored. Loudly. With his mouth wide open. Yes,THAT guy. I am convinced that if he could have held his head up at the baggage claim, he would have seen naked disgust in the eyes of the other passengers. As it was, his father (who picked him up)had to give him several moments of silence. I think that might be South African code for yak.

In any case, Ashley and I talked Saturday afternoon. We were remorseful and subdued. We made a solemn pact that our night on the town would forever be referred to as that-which-must-never-be-spoken-about-again.

Amen.