Sitting Hammered In Your Automobile

Some names in this article have been changed to protect the innocent.

We planned a fun weekend of good company, drinking and talking but mostly drinking in a cabin on Lake Arrowhead. To this end, unfortunately, we got overzealous and peaked too soon. We peaked in the car.

Lake Arrowhead is an hour and a half away with no traffic. It took us closer to two and a half. That's also how long it took us to get wasted.

Now, I'm not a proponent in any way of drunk driving. I do not condone getting pulled over for open containers in a car. However, I am perfectly fine with having them and not getting caught.

It started out sensibly, as it always does: pick up a few beers, let's say two six-packs, because when we get there it'll probably be harder and more expensive to find decent booze. Then we decided to drink a few as soon as we got past downtown and its requisite police force. There were three of us drinking, one driving. The conversation went from DUI's to other heavy drinking episodes to the people we would theoretically be sharing the weekend with (this would not come to fruition). We repeatedly informed one another that each had repeated what she said.

Somewhere along the end of the first twelve, I passed out, very much asleep, on the road. I am admittedly a lightweight, and sitting still on an empty stomach downing four bottles was... well, and then there were two.

And then I was back! A short nap later I woke up at a gas station, feeling completely sober (this was a lie), and about to run in to use the bathroom. Dave, who was in front of me, knocked down a 'wet floor' sign in his drunken rage. Jack proved unable to process the cashier's directions, and first went to the storage before he found the bathroom. I subsequently beat him to the ladies room. No regrets.

When Dave walked out he bought another 12-pack.

Stella Artois this time. We had already gone through the Red Stripe, and I forget what the other six were. Not that it mattered at this point. And somewhere from the gas station to the cabin (the GPS predicted a 53-minute trip) someone decided that we had to finish ALL the beer we had.

Now that I think of it, it was probably Dave who said: "we're gonna be cleaner-uppers today, right?" Which means we're gonna drink everything, although usually not referring to everything in the car.

And what did we do? We drank. I was getting sick. Thankfully this paralleled a degrading ability to worry about personal health. I could tell Jack was getting sick, because he wise-cracked "after we get there, both of us should just open the door and throw up on each side of the car, on the front lawn." "That would be cool," I replied. Still, twelve beers after twelve in this short a time is nearly impossible. If it were not for the heavy fog that settled in somewhere along our ascent to glory, we would have not stood a chance. As it stood, visibility cut down to nil, you could not see brake lights fifteen feet in front of you, and the pace slowed. The fog was heavy, just like the fog in our minds. Fear and screaming were in good supply It was looking good.

I love college,
I love drinking,
I love women,
And I love college...

Blasted on the stereo a total of four times consecutively, each time bought on by loud, angry requests for 'that song again.' We decided that if one of us had been driving (and therefore driving drunk) in this fog, we would immediately pull over and go to sleep on the side of the road. ("I'm sorry officer, but the driver just ran into these bushes there--no, I'm not the driver, can you see how drunk I am?") The snow built up. We were getting closer. In desperation, we double-fisted the Stellas. Just when we thought there were three left, one for each of us,

"Jack, I found another one in the box!"
"Shit!"
"I'm gonna throw it out the window! No one needs to know, Jack!"
"Ok. Wait, no!"

Jack ripped it out of my hand, then ripped the bottle cap off using the seatbelt. We had lost both can-openers long ago. Bottle caps littered the back seat. Then we got there, and when we did, we were finished. Drunk, sick, angry, a little sadder, and finished, but we were beer-less. Jack tripped on a chain and fell in the snow. I threw up near some trees, and in the process of doing so, dropped my wallet in the snow (this was found several hours later) (we never did get our dignity back). We went inside, and our driver, the great Joseph Stieglitz, along with Jack went to sleep instantly. I spent the rest of the night recovering, feeling angry, and talking very little.