The Wiz Kid

I was recently reminded of an event in my life that the folds of my brain had chosen to compartmentalize and file under the heading of “Repress”.  I tell this story merely as a cautionary tale to the youngsters out there that may be tempted by the sweet nectar of the Vodka tree.  Drink not of its delicious fruit, ye carefree young innocents!  Vodka is the demon bitch that will love you and cradle you when you are faithful to her and her alone; but should you attempt a sordid ménage-a-trois by introducing that filthy whore Madam Beer to your partnership, Lady Vodka will lash out at you with vicious and unexpected horror. 

My tale is gruesome.  Be warned.

Years and years ago, in the grimly animated Age of Grunge, I was a college boy with idyllic dreams and a World-Be-Damned outlook.  Heady times.  I had a close group of friends that enjoyed frequent journeys into intoxication together.  Endless laughter accompanied, along with discussions of the improbable but never impossible future that lay in front of us like a virgin prostitute.  We counted on little except one another and the promise of another drink. 

Most nights would blur together in the formulaic pattern of Boast, Drink, Boast, Drink, Ogle, Drink, Prattle, Drink, Deeply-Discuss-The-Nature-Of-Man-And-Our-Place-In-The-Universe, Drink, Pass Out.  It was a consistently superlative plan and to veer from it often resulted in some negative backlash.

Imagine my shock when I was diligent in The Plan and it turned on me.  Lady Vodka is vengeful.  She cares not of plans.

I was well into my comfort zone on the evening in question.  I had executed The Plan to perfection, starting the evening with declarations of my sexual prowess while simultaneously belittling the inferior genitalia of my brethren.  I poured thick, luscious, lusty Vodka from her oversized jug into my plastic chalice, letting her slowly interweave with the fizzy 7-Up and hunks of ice.  As she crackled the ice and wound her way through her carbonated lover, I cackled like a barmy scientist.  The whirlwind spiral had begun.  The Plan took us next to myriad taverns, so that we could inform others of the tales of our engorgement and conquest.  There was awe.  In an effort to entice and woo the women in the area, we stared slack-jawed at their chests and spoke under our breath of the obvious longing that they could barely contain.  Their yearning was masked with a thin veil of disgust.  Clever, the female.

After a time, we departed en masse from the taverns, romance be damned.  It was late and the women were, apparently, far too tired to endure our virility. So, it was back to our magical abode, where reality was always best viewed through the distorted bottom of a shot glass.  Lady Vodka had been with me throughout the evening, steadfast in her conquest of my senses.  We all stayed up to talk about what might have been.  More enthusiastically, we talked of what would never be for those in the group with withered, tiny, flaccid, useless penises.  Shaming was a glorious by-product of The Plan. 

We were all hanging out in my twelve-by-twelve room as the evening began to wane into the latter stages of The Plan.  One by one, they left to stagger to their own rooms within the house:  Buzz, Skeeter, Fanto, Corm, Butterfield, Krull.  Most managed to get a shirt halfway off and pants wadded inexorably at the ankles before the pull of the bed became an overwhelming force of nature.  Another Plan, for them, completed.

The only one left remaining in my room was Animal.  He was primarily known for his ability to drink more than any other while still being able to be the Last Man Standing at any event.  Also, he played the drums.  Like the Muppet.  Except crazier.  He cracked two beers and handed one to me. 

“No. No, I’m done.  I’ve had Vodka all night.  I’m not switchin’ now.  I just know it’ll come back to get me,” I slurred.

“Dude, liquor to beer, never fear!” he reasoned.

I could not argue with his air-tight logic.

Lady Vodka, of course, hates logic. 

I grabbed the beer and drank half in a single tip of the can.  I was lying on the couch and Animal was on the floor, leaning against a table.  We engaged in some Deep Discussion.  I remember thinking, as I always did, how fantastic it was to have friends that you could talk to about anything.  The conversation faded.  Drunkenness had a hold.

“Hey man, get up and go to bed.  I wanna sleep on the couch tonight,” Animal stated.

“What?!?” I laughed.  “Your room is right across the hall.  Go sleep in your own bed, ya drunk.”

“Yeah, but your couch is right here.  Plus, it’s so comfortable.  Just get the hell up.  You’ve got a bed right there,” he pointed.  My bed was three feet from the couch, maximum. 

Again, his argument was fool-proof.  The couch was there.  It was comfortable.  My bed was close.  Case closed, your honor.

“Okay,” I said.  “But I swear to God, you are the laziest sack of shit ever.”

I hoisted myself gently from the couch and crawled to my bed.  I felt good.  Buzzed, but not sickly so.  I was a professional drinker.  We do not make mistakes.

Or so I thought.

As I hit the mattress, still clad in my shorts and polo shirt, I turned to see Animal had already passed out in a curled ball on the couch.  I lay flat on my back to test for room spinning.  Everything was rock-steady. 

The Plan had worked as designed. 

I passed out.

In the dream I am having, there is crisp, cool beach air and the sun beats down upon my reclining body.  I am lying up on a dune, surveying the scene.  I can hear the surf crashing the shoreline.  So calming.  Gulls in the air overhead.  Salt air.  The water lapping at my feet.  It's like I’m there.  All details are so vivid that…wait.  Why is the water lapping at my feet?  I’m on a dune.

I am instantly awake.  In the darkness, I see Animal at the foot of my bed.  He is pissing all over my feet in the most happy-go-lucky manner.  Great.  Now I’m a fetishist.

“ANIMAL!! Man, you aren’t in the bathroom!! THIS IS MY BED!!  KNOCK IT OFF!!!”

“Dude, I’m almost done,” he says by way of justification.

His superior logic has once again stumped me.  I have no response, with the exception of the internal shrieking:

A denial.  A denial.  A denial.  A denial.

Lady Vodka has her revenge. 

I roll over and go back to sleep. Damp, but wiser.

Comments

[Heather]

The same thing has happened to me! Well, not actually getting peed on, but in the same room. Long story short, I was crashing at a friends house after my friend, A's 21st birthday. She was already out cold, and since I was was the designated driver, I was going where she was. So, I resigned myself to sleeping in one of the roommates' rooms with him. I had only met him a few hours previous, but I figured, all was fine, we're only just sleeping together, nothing more. I awoke to him fumbling out of bed, and hearing him pee, right on the floor of his bedroom, completely unabashed and in full glory! Well, needless to say,I was a little horrified and wide awake. And then, he did it again, got up, peed, and returned to sleep next to me. I finally slipped out of bed, went into the next-door, empty bedroom, and slept for an hour before birthday girl awoke and we went home. I asked his roommates if that happens a lot, and they certainly got on him for it, and I do feel bad for the guy... but beer can be evil to men who are sleeping. And I haven't seen him since, although, I don't know what I'd say if I ever did see him again.