A Night to Remember

Everyone has their favorite drunk stories and I'm no exception. However it's not about me and it's about the only one I have. You see I don't drink, which I've always felt kind of creeps people out when they hear it the first time – as though I'm not to be trusted. For those who do know me, well let's just say they'd give their life savings to see me bombed. Their eternal argument is would I be a happy drunk or a surly drunk? My money is on surly. I'm not a recovering alcoholic, just someone who never developed the taste and I can't really explain why. Never one to push the envelope with the folks I suppose I was too afraid to take that leap and risk their ire. Who knows? At least now I can tell the doctor, "At least I don't smoke or drink," when he reads me the riot act.

So here's the story (my set-ups are very long-winded, sorry). I had a great friend who was in every way, shape and form my opposite number. It was like Judd Nelson and Anthony Michael Hall's characters from "The Breakfast Club" were best friends. We grew up together, went to the same school, lived around the block from each other, and when we were young, we fought like cats and dogs. His Dad died when we were 14 and that was a defining moment for us because he seemed to lean on me the most, where his dirtbag friends were kind of useless at a time like that.

For the next three years we were inseparable. We went to different high schools but hung out constantly. He got into ever increasing amounts of trouble and I watched, living vicariously through him. He started smoking, and the only saving grace for me was that his mother smoked and I could use that fact to explain the smell away to my parents. He got into as much mischief as he could but I drew the line when laws were broken. He had plenty of friends for those activities.

He also had a way with the ladies and my only contact with them was through him. Going to an all boys Catholic high school stunted my development in that arena but he managed to make up for it a thousandfold. The girls tolerated me and the vibe I got was they thought I was a quaint curiosity amidst his otherwise terribly cool life. When we were in our junior year he started dating the prettiest girl in his school.

For whatever reason he still always wanted me around (I can already hear the "Brokeback" jokes, relax). He could never stand being alone so I was at his house all the time. One night he and his girlfriend got into a tremendous fight over what I can't remember. He felt slighted about something and he was determined to pay her back – by getting drunk before she showed up at his house.

This was about to turn into the worst night of my life (to that point).

My friend's late father had set up a full bar in their basement and it was stocked to the gills. I was getting nervous – a common occurrence around him. His girlfriend would be over in an hour or so and he hatched his plan. He pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels (a full bottle) and guzzled it in under ten minutes. Soak that in for a minute. Jack Daniels. Full bottle. Ten minutes.

At that time I was 16 years old and didn't know Jack from Bud from Long Island Iced Tea. Hell, He seemed fine to me after he was done. He suggested we rent a movie. We were 16, had no licenses, and the video store was a mile away. His mother was obviously not home and I was not calling my father for a ride. And it was the dead of winter. It was below 30 degrees. The ground was covered in snow and ice. He figured we could make it there and back before she arrived.

We set about our task and the whole walk there he was fine. I was like, "Jack must be a real bitch drink." He started acting a little stupid in the store but we got the video and proceeded back home. On the walk home the alcohol finally worked its magic, almost like a switch had gone off. He started staggering, slurring his speech and rambling about anything and everything.

He was talking about his Dad, his girlfriend, me, life, the universe. I had to help him walk and about halfway home I had a brainstorm. Maybe if I bought him a soda it would fix everything - at least mask his breath in case his Mom showed up. Forget the fact it was 20 degrees out and here I'm buying him a cold soda. Anyway I went into a corner candy store and bought the soda. I came out and he was gone. Vanished.

He was now 100% my responsibility. And I lost him. The level of panic that I reached in that one instant hasn't quite been equaled. I looked up and down the block. I ran across the street. How far could he have gotten? I ran back to the store and up an alley. There he was taking a whiz and laughing his ass off. By this time I knew I was in for a night of pure hell.

He finished up and I had to abandon my brilliant soda idea because I had to help him walk. We were somewhat close to home and I remember bumping into one of his friends. He doesn't. He lost that entire night. 20 years later I remember every last detail. By the time we reached his house he was alternately laughing, crying, and had fallen several times. I reached into his pocket for his keys and when I opened the screen door he fell back and I hit him square in the head with the door. He laughed like a hyena.

I brought him into the house and he kept telling me to call his girlfriend. He kept incessantly repeating her name and phone number, so much so, that to this day it's the only outdated number I can remember besides my parents' old one.

It didn't matter because she showed up shortly after. The cavalry had arrived! He was babbling incoherently by now and she took one look at him, called a cab and left. Thanks. By this point I was terrified. His mother was bound to be home soon. I held on to some pathetic hope he'd sober up by then. I realize my naiveté was staggering.

My main objective was to keep him occupied by talking to him. I didn't want him to pass out. I wish I taped that conversation. What I didn't realize was the real fun was about to begin. His Mom did come home and when her key hit the lock he staggered out to greet her before I could stop him. He told his mother he loved her and then threw up right in the middle of the living room.

She hysterically screamed, "Are you stoned?" Oh God, would that he really was stoned! If he were stoned we'd be eating a 20-pack of White Castle hamburgers instead of this nightmare. He threw up everywhere before we could get him to the bathroom. Linda Blair in "The Exorcist" didn't throw up this much! His mother loved me like a son and knew I was the only decent influence he had. She cut me to the quick with, "How could you let him do this?" In all fairness to me I kept the kid alive, despite losing him in the night and braining him with a screen door.

He threw up about 100 more times and his mother was so distraught she called the neighbors. They came over and soon after his grandparents arrived (they lived there as well). After awhile the furor died down and he passed out. No one was worried he'd choke on his own vomit because there was none left to choke on.

By now it was time to call my Dad. I only lived around the corner but he always insisted on picking me up after dark. The trick here was not to have my Dad come in the house – not easy because our parents were friends. So I waited outside in the cold and when he pulled up I said, "Ed's not feeling well." Hey it was the truth!

I figured he was a dead man. Grounded for life. Dumped by the girlfriend. House Arrest. Maybe military school. I didn't expect to hear from him for a month. He called me the next morning. I went over there and all was right with the world. He was being teased by one of the neighbors and his Mom was already in denial about the whole thing. And the girlfriend? She was back the next night.

Before anyone starts screaming about me writing an embarrassing story about someone else for the world to see, calm yourselves. Our tale's protagonist loves this story. He loves hearing me tell it and he loves the fact that he did this to me. Truth is, aside from him, my life was pretty boring back then and while it got more interesting rather quickly this was something I'll never forget. He moved to Florida eight months later and that sucked all the juice out of my life for a time.

For all the headaches he caused me (and there were many) it was always exciting. This one story is only the tip of the iceberg. Everything else in my life before and since was terribly conventional and I look back on it all with great fondness 20 years later. There's something to be said for having someone like that around. Even so, his leaving forced me to live my own life rather than watch him live his.

Now it's possible that experience put me off drinking. It certainly didn't help. The majority of my friends started drinking within the next two years but I didn't. They keep telling me how much I'm missing, 20 years later. I've had a shot of God knows what here and there at weddings and other events just to give my friends a thrill, but the desire just isn't there.