"whoa," chuck says. "i'm scared of you right now."
i haven't even said anything yet. but apparently my aura is readable in the way i opened his screen door. he's like a canine, this one.
"me, too," i say, because i'm cranky and i want a beer the size of my gas tank and a rubber hose to suck it through and an emt to pump my stomach when i'm full so that i can start again.
for convenience sake, we walk to burrito union and along the way i say: "you know, if burrito union is closed, it just means jesus doesn't want me to drink."
and when chuck tugs on the front door, peers inside and we notice that they close at midnight on monday nights, i decide that jesus just needs me to be more creative.
we are on our way to quinlan's when i say: "screw it, chuck. let's just pick up some 40s at the ghetto spur and sit on your deck."
we walk into duluth's preeminant 40s dealership with four minutes to spare before they can no longer sell off-sale, watered-down, biggie-sized beers. i yank two 3.2 bud lights from the shelf, and a strawberry-flavored gatorade as preventative medicine. this sets me back roughly $4. this also means i can no longer judge people who buy their liquor by the 40-ounce at the ghetto spur. it's a trade off that, given the circumstances, i can live with.
we never make it to the deck. i spoon my first 40 on chuck's couch and watch my mood go from homicidal, to pensive, to weepy, to giggly, to ushy gushy little miss romance. and that is the one that sticks through the second 40.
i never actually get drunk. it takes me approximately 4 1/2 hours to put away the swill. mostly i just get full and the beer gets warm and i start cringing my way to the bottom. about 20 ounces in, it starts to taste like my backwash. but that cannot be scientifically possible. ... is it?
i wake myself moaning with stomach pain. its like i'm hung over, but more like i poisoned myself by drinking warm mayonaise topped with mushrooms. i wake at noon. read the last three paragraphs of "endless love"* and go back to sleep until 2 p.m. feeling like i'm going to give birth to something so impatient that it will just tear through my skin like a quarterback before the homecoming gamee.
"you can't drink anymore," chuck needles me.
and he seems to have a point.
2 40 ouncers in four hours and i feel like i died three days ago and have been attacked by ravanous buzzards.
2 40 ouncers of 3.2 bud light, at that.
who am i if i can't negotiate that seamlessly?
i need a new identity.
* "reading 'endless love'" is my new euphamism for going to the bathroom.