Are my eyes open? They feel like they’re open, but I can’t see a damn thing. Am I dead? Oh my god..I’m dead and this is hell! No, wait…I feel air conditioning. I’m not in hell, I just feel like hell…and like I’m floating. Maybe I’m blind. How did I go blind? Maybe my Sunday school teacher was right. What was that? Oh shit…someone is sleeping next to me…must be a hotel room. Did I..did we?…and who paid for the room? Whew, I’m not blind…there’s a crack of light from under a door. Ok..gotta find my way outta this bed…that seems to be…Jesus!…the size of Guam…without waking up whoever that is farting in their sleep next to me. That’s great…I’m wearing one single sock. Nothing else. Kyle, you fuckin’ idiot! Just because there’s an open bar, doesn’t mean you have to drink yourself stupid. If I ever get married I’m not gonna have an open bar. It’s irresponsible! And, I’m sure, expensive as fuck. Ouch! Is that my iPhone I just kneeled on? Oooh…and it’s not dead yet. It’s 4:44 on Sunday July 13, 2014. Weird. Flashlight on! Looks like my wallet on the bed stand…good, good. There’s a sock under the bed… I’m making progress! What the…? A few empties from the mini-bar I presume. Shhh….I definitely would not have downed Bailey’s after a dozen gin and tonics..that’s just gross. Wait…did I sleep with a chic? I would feel better if I could find my pants. Don’t wanna risk waking the bedmate, but I have to know. Oh, c’mon! You are fucking shitting me! The goddam bartender is sleeping in my new linen shirt and farting through my blue-green chinos. I remember now…he insisted on being called a mixologist. I’ve really got to quit drinking. Dear god…get me out of here and I promise I’ll quit drinking. The mixologist must have some clothes here someplace. The bathroom…there must be a bathroom. Okay…close the door…find light switch. Yikes…that is a bright, fucking light. It appears I got into the jacuzzi last night with my boxers on. Goodbye favorite boxers. And..wasn’t my matching sock under the bed, I see. Must strategize while I piss: I can wake up the mixologist. –Hey! Uhh..good morning! Do you mind taking off my clothes?–Uhh…hey man, I hate to wake you, but I need my clothes back.–Uhh…wake up Ryan or Zeke or Zack or whatever the fuck your name is…gimme my clothes back and I’ll buy you breakfast…unless I already paid for this big-ass room!–Or maybe I could just remove the pants without waking him up..yeah, I’ll try that. I love those pants. Wait! What is that I see in the mirror hanging on the back of the door..?
It is 5:30 on a Sunday morning. A skinny white man in his 30’s sits waiting in the bus shelter wearing a black, 3-piece tuxedo clutching the garment bag it came in. He looks like hell. I bet there is a story behind that.