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A True Tattle Tale by Mikey Vyce
Sometimes when I party, I drink to excess.
I'm not talking about needing a cup of joe before I can drive. Or something so subtle as getting the spins at bedtime. I'm talking excess. The following story should help illuminate:
I was in Scottsdale on a business trip. My co-workers were all really cool guys, mid to late 20's like me. We all liked to drink and smoke dope and business trips tended to resemble Fraternity road trips.
Well, my first night in town, we went out and got hammered.
I went well beyond my tolerance level, and the latter part of the evening is really fuzzy.
At some point I went/was taken back to a buddy's house and crashed.
Now, I have a problem when I get too drunk. I pass out really hard and I sleep too soundly. When I'm out like that, sometimes I wet the bed. I don't know if it is a regression toward childhood, or a warning from God. But, it happens, regularly. And sadly it happened that night.
I burst awake as soon as the sun rose. My embarrassment was damp in my underwear and jeans. There were other physical reminders of my over indulgence including a taste like something had died in my mouth. I had definitely puked tequila at some point in the night. A closer inspection found wretched remnants on my clothes…
I was a reeking wreck.
And, suddenly I was a reeking wreck standing in the Scottsdale sunrise with no cash, no car, and only a very shaky recollection of where I was staying in town.
I was in a residential neighborhood with an ATM card in my pocket, so I headed off in what looked like the direction of a major street in search of a bank and a cab. At some point in the very fuzzy morning I spotted a 7-11.
Oh, Thank Heaven!
I stumbled through the door, still intoxicated and smelling like road kill. I asked the clerk behind the counter, "Where is your ATM?" He looked at me funny and told me there was not one and that the nearest one was some blocks away.
I was not pleased.
So, after my trek to the ATM and back, I went back to the 7-11 and grabbed a chocolate milk, some M&M's and used the change to call a cab.
After I had made my call and was finishing my well-balanced breakfast, a cop car pulled up. I threw away my trash and tried to blend in with the brick wall I was leaning on.
The two officers got out of their car and stood right in front of me. There was a moment of silence as they stared me down.
I tried to force a smile and look as innocent as is possible when your jeans are piss-stained.
The lead cop asked, "Rough night?"
Looking around to make sure he was talking to me I answered, "uh…Yeah, why?"
"You have the word 'DICK' written across your forehead in. . ." at this point he turned to his mustached partner, "…what do you think, red magic marker?"
"Yup, Magic Marker"
Both of them nodded in agreement.
Flecks of vomit on my clothes, smelling of stale urine, M&M's stuck in my teeth, unshaved and disheveled, head-pounding, expected at work in an hour, and the word DICK emblazoned in non-water soluble ink across my head.
I just stood there silent. Staring back at the cops, picturing the scene as if I was an outsider. Imagining the red scrawl across my brow.
There's a kind of serene purity in moments like that.
I should really get into meditation.
Antarctica
Hallucinogens
and the Porn Industry
Do you have A Tattle Tale to tell?
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