Feeling somewhat obligated to help him out (he did buy me 4 beers), I go into the bathroom and find Matt standing against the sink, staring across the room. There is no vomit anywhere, which is good.
Not that I would have cleaned it up or anything, but it’s always a good sign when there ISN’T vomit on the floor…that goes for any situation I think.
I tell Matt the he should head home, and he agrees. Really, he just haphazardly nodded his head. Same thing.
Right when we are about to leave, some guy walks into the bathroom. I’m not sure if Matt knew this guy or not, but evidently both of them were drunk enough to have the need to engage in conversation. Matt bums some chew off the guy and shoves it in his mouth, with most of it getting trapped around his beard.
We head out of the place, and Matt decides he needs to go to the gas station on the corner for some smokes. Fine with me, so we walk over to the Valero. He buys a tallboy of Budweiser, a pack of Marlboro Lights, and a bottle of Advil. He may be drunk, but he is thinking ahead.
For some reason, he feels the need to go around the back of the gas station in order to get to the sidewalk. It’s sort of a roundabout way, but I’d rather not argue with the guy, just get him home so I can get back to the bar.
He is trying to open his Marlboro’s, but can’t because he is holding the paper bag with beer and Advil. He stops, slams the bag and its contents against the wall, and proceeds to open his cigarette’s.
He takes a smoke, hands me one (he owed me about 3 at this point…6 if you take into account that he was bumming my American Spirit Perique Blends and trying to pay me back with Marlboro Lights), and starts to walk off towards his apartment. I grab his bag of dented beer and potentially broken Advil, catch up to him, and make sure he doesn’t stumble off the sidewalk onto Sierra Avenue.
He lives, of course, at the absolute back end of the apartment complex. He knocks on his door, waits, then knocks again. His wife comes to the door but won’t open it. He convinces his wife that he is, in fact, him, and she opens the door. He thanks me for something, mumbles something else, and falls inside (not literally, but almost).
On the walk back, Corinne calls me and asks me to come home. I agree, pay my tab, and go home. It was about 12:30am when I got back to my house.
So it took at least an hour (maybe more if this all started at 10pm) to walk this guy out of the bathroom, across the street to the gas station, down 1/8th of a block to the apartment complex, and back to his home.
Was I so drunk that time was flying? Or was Matt so drunk that he was speeding up time?
No, because I wasn’t drunk. I don’t get drunk. Drunk gets me.