Well, this is my first post. I simply can’t let a topic of this sort slip me by.
Without further ado, I give you my tale of the Drunk Tank.
'Twas a night two summers ago, and I had recently made a big purchase which left me broke for beer (new mountain bike). Ah, but salvation was at hand! For every year, Portland has an event known as the “Grape Stomp”. It’s put on by a hotel here, though I can’t remember which one at the moment. Nevermind, that’s not important. The important thing here is that they serve free alcohol.
Upon my arrival, I began to consume frosty, alcoholic beverages with several of my co-workers. I drank so fast, I was blindsided when the fermentation train pulled in. Before I know it, I’m complimenting a girl on her dead sexy hips, and touching them.
She is slowly backing away.
Affronted, I return to the company of my friends, and to my dismay, I find they are not drinking quickly enough. I demonstrate the proper chugging technique to everyone, and insist they follow my example. Satisfied that their alcoholic consumption is gaining on mine, I return to the keg to get more beer.
Alas! They are out of beer! But wait, wine is readily available! Would I care for a glass?
Why, yes I would.
Now I am drinking wine, which I’m none too fond of. The solution is simple: The faster I drink it, the less I have to taste. So down go a few more glasses of wine. By this point, the event is shutting down. It’s almost ten. Luckily, I know a bar close by, and I insist my friends come along. It didn’t take much argument before we head off to the bus stop together.
Our party was made up of five intrepid travellers. Myself, Phoebe, Matt, Leanne and Faith. Together, we board the bus.
It is at this point that my memory begins to fade. I’m not sure what possessed me to get off several miles from our intended destination, but I’m told I was quite adamant about getting off at that point.
Here, all is forgotten, until the nice lady police officer starts to ask me questions. What is my name? Where do I live? Can anyone come and pick me up? I try to answer her, but it is as if my mouth is filled with peanut butter. “Maaaaaaaaahhhhh naaahhhhmmmme isssshhhhh Daaaaaahhhhveeee”
“Where do you live again, dave?”
“Aiiiiiihhhhh Lihhhhhhvve ahhhht woooohhhhnn…”
Soon after my interrogation, handcuffs are placed upon me. This action suits me fine, as it’s much more comfortable to sit in the back seat of the cruiser this way. So there I sit, awaiting who-knows-what, when a small nuclear weapon detonates inside my stomach.
Vomit begins to violently froth forth, and the inside of the police cruiser, along with my shirt & pants, are given a shower of putrid beer & wine. Lucky for me, I’m too drunk to care.
I cannot recall what happened after that. My next memory is waking up on a concrete floor around 4 in the morning. The first thing I wonder is where, exactly, I am. My very next thought is “Where are my shoes?”
I slowly (oh, ever so slowly) sit up, and take stock of my surroundings. There are several other men in my company. All are malnourished, and not keeping to the traditional standards of hygiene. I look around some more. Everything in the room is immoble. The chairs & table are made of cement. Everyone is missing their shoes. Everyone smells horribly.
Then it hits me. I’m in the fucking drunk tank.
I stand up and stagger over to the nice man behind the plexiglass window, charged with ensuring our safety. I decide it’s time to ask for my freedom.
“Sir, where am I?”
“You are in the hooper detox facility.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s 4:17 AM”
“May I leave now?”
“No.”
(a 30 second pause ensues)
"May I leave now?
“No.”
“When can I leave, then?”
“Everyone will be released at 5:30.”
“Okay, thank you.”
And back to my lonely corner in the concrete room goeth I.
It was about this time that a man began to snore violently. It was the type of snoring you hear in a cartoon, and I couldn’t help but smile. Unfortunately, not all of my present company felt the same about it.
“GODDAMN IT! HE’S SNORING AND I’M LOSING MY MIND!”
The nice officer behind the plexiglass reminded my angry friend that he wasn’t allowed to shout, and that he needed to sit down & be quiet for the remainder of his stay. So down he sits, and we wait out the lonely minutes together, made all the longer due to the horrible snoring.
Finally, it is time. I can taste my freedom. I fill out some paperwork, collect the personal effects taken from me, and happily step outside. It is as if I have been released from the gulags. The air is sweet, the birds are chirping, I have the contents of my stomach all over my shirt and pants.
Right about this time, I realize that I have no clue as to where I am. I have 2 and a half hours to get home, get changed, and get to work (Did I mention this took place on a weeknight? No? Well, it did.) Lucky for me, a police officer told me where I was at, and I determined I only had a few miles to go.
Unfortunately, as I previously mentioned, I was broke. I had no money on me, and I couldn’t get a bus. So what did our intrepid hero do? He ran about four miles, that’s what he did. All the while getting stares from all I passed. I looked like a psychotic PT freak. Running about at 6 in the morning covered in dried vomit.
At long last, I make it home. I throw my clothes into a garbage bag, take a vigorous shower, and head to work. Everyone wants to know where the hell I disappeared to last night. I waffle for a bit, and finally confess what happened.
For those of you unfamiliar with office gossip, let me inform you just how quickly it spreads. Surely you are familiar with wildfires? Something like that. But faster. Less than an hour after I confess the tale, the market manager for our Oregon and Washington offices swings by my desk.
“Soooo, rough night, eh?”
“Um…whatever do you mean?”
“You got balls, man. No way I could have come in after spending the night in the tank.”
“Thanks, I admit though, I feel horri- Blaaaaaaaarrrrrrgh”
The circle of humiliation is complete. I am vomiting into my trashcan in front of the big boss. At this point, I begin to seriously consider hara-kiri with my letter opener.
“Wow, uh…you need some water or something?”
“Blaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrggghhhhhhhh”
“Okay, um…hang in there…”
“I’m trying, man.”
I learned a very important lesson about myself, work nights, and personal limits that evening. I’ve never been that drunk, before or since. But I’ve got one helluva great story for icebreaking.
Hope you folks liked it.
