B-Day

Life lessons are funny things. As rare as they are, you don’t appreciate them for what they are until they’re over—like a relationship with a girl who is at least halfway sane. I learned a good one this past weekend, when I dove into Responsible Social Drinking River, and was swiftly swept out past WTF Bay and into Drunken Embarrassment Ocean.

In my defense, it was my birthday. For the average person, having your birthday fall on a Saturday is cause for excitement. For an avid drinker, it’s cause for enthusiastic planning—such as having a 64oz bottle of Gatorade on alert in the refrigerator, instead of the 32oz that he (I) normally stashes. For an avid drinker whose circle of friends is composed almost entirely of other avid drinkers (*raises hand*), it’s cause for alarm—an alarm that I heard, but foolishly chose to ignore.

For the celebration, I decided to follow a tried-and-true format, with one interesting twist. I called on all of my friends to gather at one designated drinking hole, where we would enjoy each other’s raucous behavior, embellished claims of greatness, and proclivity for making poor decisions. And we may even fall down. Who wouldn’t want all of that for his birthday? The twist, however, was this: I set up a birthday party for myself at Buckhead Saloon. This “party” meant that cover was free for me, and that from 10 to 12 all of my drinks—whether they be beer, liquor, or lighter fluid—were 25 cents each. And for each person whose name graced the detailed guest list that I submitted to the event manager at Buckhead, similar rules applied: free cover, and $2 “You-Call-Its” from 10 to 12. God save us. I gave them my finalized list on Saturday afternoon, and hung up the phone feeling I had a better understanding of what it was like for Truman to give the go-ahead on Hiroshima.

I began at Haze’s place for some pregaming in the form of cans of Miller Lite and Beast (Milwaukee’s Best, for the unenlightened). I can sense disapproval coming from some of you, but understand this: if you graduate from Washington and Jefferson College, Beast is your roots. It’s a Southern gentleman’s sweet tea, a Houston playa’s sizzurp. It’s your heritage, your mentor, your fate. It’s Trip McNeely.

Around a quarter to 10, Tony and I headed over to Buckhead, where we were greeted with a long line at the door. I tried to get the bouncer to allow us in ahead of the crowd, being a birthday boy and all, but he wasn’t hearing it. No love. We went to the back of the line. As we were standing in line talking, I noticed that the brunette in front of us kept looking back at us, and eventually she stared directly at me, without saying anything. When she turned back around, I looked at Tony and mouthed “What the f***?” He didn’t know who she was, so we shrugged it off and continued with our conversation.

When we got inside, we met up with “Tommy College” and some others. After a couple of minutes, T.C. said “Did you see Juli, Jed’s sister? She’s here.” A.K.A., Juli from my Ocean City story. I suddenly realized that she was the brunette who had stared at me in line. I guess she was testing me to see if I recognized her, and I failed. She was standing near where we were, so I walked over and said “hi.” She seemed a little put off by me not remembering her earlier, though, so our convo lasted all of 30 seconds. I’ve seen you all of twice in the past 4½ years, and you’re upset I don’t immediately recognize you? Bump that nonsense. I went back to hanging with my peoples.

However, that may have directly contributed to my downfall. My boy Hurley had shown up, and made the immediate declaration that it was time for me to start my birthday shots. Before I knew it, I had a Jager Bomb in one hand and a Jack & Coke in the other. This was only the beginning. T.C. ordered me his favorite: “a scotch, a bourbon, and a beer.” Haze arrived, and ordered a shot of tequila. Nick arrived, and handed me a shot of whiskey and a beer. And all of this took place in a space of about 20 minutes. My conscience began yelling, “DISENGAGE! DISENGAGE!”

I heard him, but I wasn’t listening. I took a large swig of beer. “MAYDAY! MAYDAY!!” I lifted yet another shot (either tequila or whiskey; I really can’t remember), looked at some of my friends, and said loud and clear, “You realize that this, right here, is the kill shot, right?” Evil grins and nods came back my way. “EJECT YOU MORON, EJECT! GET OUT OF THERE!” Down the hatch. “NNNOOOOOOOOO!!!” Five minutes or so later, down came the lights.

The next flash of memory that comes to me is my last strides towards the men’s room sink, where a torrent was unleashed from my mouth. Next, I remember Nick instructing me, as we walked through a parking lot, to take off the dress shirt that I was wearing. Then I remember Haze laughing as he placed a garbage can next to the couch that I was laying on, while his brother and his bro’s girlfriend laughed from the sofa bed. And then daylight, and the nagging feeling that, for roughly the next 48 hours, I was going to hear nothing good about the night before.

That notion was both supported and refuted (in my mind, at least, because I am by all means an a**hole) by the first story I heard that morning. It came from Tony, who called to see how I was doing. He had been the first of my friends to arrive on the scene in the bathroom, after seeing me dash over there. When he walked in, I was standing at the sink with vomit all over me and it. And to my left was a random guy standing there in total shock, with vomit on his shirt. He’d been hit by a stray shot.

If that guy happens to be out there reading this: My bad. But if I have to go down, I’m taking others with me.