Out Too Late
- by Lee Stevens, Friday, October 19th, 2007
Photo by Lindsey Turner
It was after midnight.
Holy shit.
I have an 8:30 a.m. meeting, and a quick look at my surroundings reminds me that I’m still in a bar and I’m still enjoying a tasty beverage. Neither of these activities will in any way help my cause of getting to my 8:30 a.m. meeting, so I bail.
“Goodbye…Goodnite all.”
“Yes, you’re right, I AM out late on this fine evening.”
It was a beautiful night, and my natural inclination to retire early was long ago cast to the wayside. What started out as 2 for 1 steaks at my favored watering hole, ended up 3 bars later watching Rusty, another regular drinking companion, play music down the street from my house. Even though I had a belly full of booze, my predicament was clear: I have a distinct need to be mostly coherent in an early morning meeting on the morrow and fate seems to have found me on an entirely different path, one which will in no way help me achieve my goal of timeliness in the A.M.
Wisdom must intervene.
Unfortunately, it’s not the type of wisdom that was born from some revelation that I’ve seen in the movies a thousand times, where the protagonist is brought to his knees by divine clarity. This particular wisdom is the product of experience. In this case, I have been a slow learning dog who’s master is a firm believer of the “spare the rod” school of thought. And in this particular school of thought, time has truly proven me a slow learner. So anyway, I’m leaving.
Some have already left and yet, many are just arriving. The juxtaposition of the “9 to 5ers” and the “late night crew” is an awkward place. Yet, this is where I find myself more than might be preferred.
Were someone to stand up in their chair and scream out, “Fish out of water!” I would be “it” for sure.
But as of yet, no one is screaming any accusations toward anyone else. Those that drink around me seem to be oblivious of the fact that I will have to perform for the circus in another 6 hours. Their ambivalence allows me an easier than expected getaway.
After much waving and more than a few hugs, I make my way toward my apartment. My car is parked right out front, but the little voice inside my head whispers that the temperature isn’t awful and I’m only a 10-minute walk from my house. I won’t be overly excited to make the return trip in the morning on foot, but the simple fact is that most of my drinking companions on this fine evening won’t stir until about 2 p.m. Exactly 5½ hours after my meeting and about 5 hours after I would be fired for not showing up.
Over the “not too entirely long” trek home, I was able to find safe passage. There might have been a swerve here and there. There might have even been an uncomfortable shuffling of my feet, as my beloved southward extremities tried their best to keep me upright. I arrived to my driveway without incident, a little frustrated with my decision to walk, but confident that my chosen means of transportation was, without question, the safest for me and those around me.
While my journey across the sidewalks of Midtown Memphis occurred without incident, the navigation of my front steps was much less mundane. I have seen the steps up to my apartment victimize many an intoxicated traveler. One of my bestest of friends, Austin, still has a nasty scar from just such an encounter. Fortunately this evening, the brunt of the punishment was felt by my neighbors; while they were not directly responsible for my stumble, as I ascended the stairs, they were subject to the most hateful of profanity laden “constructive criticism” I had given to the architect of my most wondrous palace. I’d like to think that is was the fact that they were not in the near vicinity of my rebuke that caused that elevated volume of said “constructed criticism,” but unfortunately, the truth is that I am a loud drunk. All of my neighbors are already well aware of this fact.
So anyway, as the throbbing of my newly stubbed toe settled into my consciousness, my volume lowered down to a low roar.
This is the point of the story where I am truly able to impart some sage advice. If you ever find yourself in the early a.m. accompanied by an overly intoxicated asshole who equates himself to a lion, make sure you have some form of late nite food available. On this particular evening, I thought ahead and purchased a “sock-it-to- me” cake.
It is well known that there is some limit to the amount of crackers a man can eat within 1 minute (I think 10 or so). No such rule applies to a “sock-it-to-me” cake.
After I had ingested enough “sock-it-to-me” cake to kill a small horse, I turned on the TV. It was more of a token intention, not that I had any desire to actually take in any culture, but sometimes the TV will help a drunken man pass out. On the other hand, sometimes a drunken man can have the entire cast of a local rendition of Cats dance naked upon his head, and sleep will still not elude him.
That was not the case this fine evening.
Even though sleep was not on the forefront of my awareness, I knew that it was what my body needed to prepare for tomorrow’s meeting. Nevertheless, I heard a different calling on this fine evening.
“You know what we could do?” my brain asked me.
“What’s that?” I answered.
“We could fix just one more drink and possibly write down some of the highlights of the evening,” my foggy brain responded.
I stood up, fixed a special drink in my Grandpa’s favorite glass, and walked toward the computer.
Perhaps I should have slept.
Read more of Lee Stevens writing on his myspace blog.
