Too Much

Two late nights.  Liquor included.  I'm done.  I'm out.  I'm ready to do a Dry March.  I'm hurting this morning.  It feels I'm on the verge of coming down with something.  Probably.  I was out with the gymroids last night.  Should have been an easy, early night, but people kept showing up.  Not gymroids.  Friends and friends of friends.  I've gained some reputation among these people.  I don't know why or how, but the exaggerations and storybook tales keep growing.  The film prof sitting next to me kept saying, "You're a legend."  He was contributing to it.  He saw me on The Boulevard one day with "the most beautiful woman, and he looked like. . . I don't know. . . European royalty or something."  

"You mean she made me look good?"

"Yea, but you know, you were looking all confident."

"Well, she is a true beauty." 

Maybe it is just that I have lived here for so long and am intertwined with some very juicy gossipy stuff.  Tales grow like wildflowers when fertilized.  There is a lot of fertilizer in this town.  There was plenty of it right there at the table. 

I should have gone home.  When people showed up, so did more drinks.  Someone ordered me a double scotch that I didn't need.  Later, more people.  The wayward son of the giant restaurant chain and his buddy showed up.  They ordered some rum that, I was told, is impossible to get.  Rare, expensive shit.  The investment banker brought his glass over.  

"Taste it."

I did. 

"Nice," I said.  

In a minute, I had one in front of me.  I knew I shouldn't drink it, but there was nothing else to do.  The bar and beer garden were closed now but for us.  The server told us to stay as long as we liked.  The bartender came out with a drink and handed it to me.  

It's nice to see you again," he told me.  

"Yea, brother. . . ."  I had no idea where I had ever seen him before, but he acted as if we were familiars.  

The banter, though. . . it kept me in place.  The best storytellers are often louts.  Good stories rarely come from careful living.  And so the night went.  

Home at midnight.  We'd started at five.  Fuck me.  Not again.  I'm looking forward to locking the doors, making some tea, and turning on the television.  I need some hippie stuff, charms, amulets, healing herbs. . . . 

I didn't get out of bed until 8:30.  I have an appointment with my very pregnant beautician at eleven.  I need to walk myself out of this fog before I leave on the long journey to the other side of town.  She is seeing me in her home.  I need to move my bones and shower very quickly now.  

Oh, shit. . . the garbage truck.  I hear it.  I have to get my can to the curb.  

Man. . . I need to quit hanging out with dudes.  Where's the one to save me?  Where is. . . .