I remember waking up on Dec. 20, 2012. It was a Thursday. I was sorely in need of doing my Christmas shopping. I had played with my band the night before at a local bowling ally. Waking up isn’t always easy when you’re on the tail end of a bender. I was hoping that the other members of the band were not angry with me. I don’t really remember a whole lot after I fell off the stage, except pinching some chick’s nipple rings through her shirt. I hoped they were my girlfriends.
When she came in to the bedroom she didn’t look mad. When she took off her towel I noticed that she was indeed wearing the nipple rings that had gotten for her on her 30th birthday. She still didn’t look thirty to me, especially naked. I breathed a sigh of relief, and tried to get out of bed, but she wouldn’t let me. The lump on my head was throbbing and my mouth tasted like our cat had taken a shit in it, so I was reluctant to kiss her. When I told her that, she understood it as, “O.K. I’ll turn around and straddle you.” There is just something about a woman who can turn you on during the worst hang over of your life.
While we were shopping that day I couldn’t help noticing that she had a certain confidence about her. She seemed to walk a little taller, and people all around noticed. Men, women especially teenaged guys couldn’t keep their eyes off her. With her long wavy red hair, flat stomach, and long legs she usually got looked at anyway. I hadn’t figured out what it was about that day, but she was really working it.
I was still under the weather, and it seemed like every coffee stand was an oasis after a long trot out of the desert. While in the desert we came upon a jewelry store. She stopped and started looking at the engagement rings. This had happened many times in the past, but it hadn't happened in a couple months because I told her that I wasn’t ready to get married. So, still a little grouchy from the hang over, I went up to her and said with a sarcastic tone, “You see anything you like?”
She turned around with her lips pouty, and asked, “Are we still in a bad mood?” like she was speaking to a little baby. Then, her face turned in to a huge smile and her tone changed to that of glee, “That one right there, a full karat and it comes with a wedding band.”
She had never been that forward before. I sighed with annoyance and said, “Here we go.”
She then gave me a love tap, wrapped her arm around mine and said, “You make me so happy.” I was expecting to get walloped. I guess it didn’t come out right.
The rest of the Christmas shopping was uneventful (except that she looked intensely at the bridal shop every time we passed it). My dad was getting an up to date sport coat, shirt and tie. My aunt Judy was getting a power drill. My younger sisters were getting gift certificates to Abercrombie and Fitch. My younger brother was getting a new Ice Bong from the glass blowers. And finally my older brother was getting a card that said he doesn’t have to pay me for the bail money I posted for him.
After shopping, I still had the hang over. I told my girlfriend that I had to go back to the bar to get rid of it. I never would have expected her to go for that line of Bullshit, but much to my surprise the answer was, “O.K. honey,” accompanied with a pleasant grin. Something was wrong. I went anyway, but I couldn’t help looking over my shoulder on the way out of the apartment. Nothing but smiles from her – weird.
My favorite bartender was there; T.K. He was an India Indian. He didn’t talk with an accent and he hated ABBA. As far as I was concerned that made him a God.
“Hello, my drunk bass playing friend.” He said with a grind so wide it made him look like a caricature of himself.
“Oh… don’t go there man. You kept feeding them to me asshole.” I said while shaking my head.
He had a Bloody Mary – hold the Tabasco – made for me before I could sit down. It is what I always had after a night of Jagermeister shots, or after a night of any kind of shots for that matter. It is the best hang over helper money can buy.
“Ancient Indian recipe,” he said, like he always did, when he put it down.
“What the fuck happened last night Kay?” I asked right after the ice chill of the drink started to make the head ache fade.
Sensing that it was an honest question, and not one intended to get a laugh he said, “If you don’t remember and you’re still alive, you must be one lucky sonofabitch,” he took a second to set the glass he was cleaning down next to the other clean ones, and then he continued, “Dude, you’re getting Married.”
I felt bad for making him change his shirt. The Bloody Marry I spit on him didn’t go well with the white shirt decor he was trying to accomplish that day. But, he must have been a boy scout when he was younger, because he had a clean one in the back room.
After a lot of swearing in his native tongue and mixing me a new Bloody Mary he told me the story of the night before. I guess I had sung the song Angel Eyes, by the Jeff Healy Band as a dedication to Jocelyn. I then pulled a cigar out of Old Man Eddy’s shirt pocket, pulled the ring off of the base of it and proposed to her in front of everybody. After she said yes, I tried to climb back on the stage and fell backwards only to smack my head on a chair. She knew that I was out of it because I didn’t speak - I just played with her nipples through her shirt and chewed my tongue. Dr. Hirokotchi said I would snap out of it and that I didn’t have a concussion, but he was a little tipsy himself.
I had been thinking about marriage seriously ever since I told her I wasn’t ready. It is funny how that happens. Everybody thought I was crazy for not wanting to marry her sooner. I guess it just all came out - alcohol can do that. It was a surprise to everyone that was there, and it is even more of a surprise to me now.
The shock wore off after another three adult V-8s, and I left there happy with my decision to go get that ring. Three months salary is the guideline for engagement rings. I was getting off pretty cheep with only two months salary. Why can’t the chicks get something for us guys when they get engaged? I was going to get a new Harley, but that was out of the question after this pretty penny.
On the way back from the mall, the Police stopped me. Yes, I was over the legal limit, and yes I got arrested. The dick-head cop that busted me was none other than, Bart Simpson. I felt bad for him because of his name, but that’s where it stopped. He was Jocelyn’s Ex. and the asshole line backer from high school.
When I got to the station, I was strip searched; not S.O.P for a D.U.I. He found the engagement ring and had to leave someone else to finish up the search. But before he left, he made sure to make fun of my shriveled member. I had no insecurities about my manhood so it didn’t bother me for any other reason besides the fact that my girl friend was once stupid enough to be married to that thug.
As it turns out, Bart’s field tester was wrong. My Blood alcohol level was only at 0.08. But guess what… that is still enough of level to prosecute if the arresting cop thinks you were intoxicated. Even though he knows I wasn’t - he was going to anyway. Bye Bye license for three months.
I called my whole family, one at a time, but only my older brother was home. He came and bailed me out. And I couldn’t help thinking how much I hate to re-shop for Christmas presents. That card about his bail wouldn’t cut it anymore.
What do you do after you just got arrested for D.U.I? Well if you’re me you go back to the bar. This time the drinks were on my brother. He had some money left over from selling his arsenal and was actually going to pay me back until I called him. He was pretty cool that way. When he had money he was generous, and when he didn’t, he couldn’t understand why people weren’t as generous back.
He had to get rid of his guns, because he was arrested for domestic violence. My father bought them. Which was, at the time, a good deal because if my father were to die, he would get the guns back, and he still could shoot them whenever he wanted to. Plus, if that domestic violence thing got cleared up, he can slowly buy them back from dad.
The authorities were starting to figure out that most of the domestic violence calls/arrests were a result of a woman beating on a man, until she gets slapped, or shoved. Then, of course she fears for her life and subsequently calls the cops. Why were they arresting the guys if they were just defending themselves? Pamphlets educating men on what to do if a woman touches them in a violent manner started showing up in places guys hung out – bars – hockey games – strip clubs –cigar stores, you get the picture.
One very popular pamphlet stated that if you were to get hit, you are supposed to walk out of the house (unless you think the children may be in danger), and go to the nearest Pay phone and dial 9-1-1.
My brother did just that, but when he walked out of the house, the door he slammed behind him caught his wife right over the foot. It locked her foot in place and because the door had so much momentum, it broke her nose and knocked her out. When she fell backwards with her foot still under the door it tore all sorts of stuff in the ankle joint. When the cops showed up at his house after he called them, they found her and picked him up at his telephone booth. My brother knew nothing of what happened until one of the cops told him. That’s when I got his phone call.
My older brother is only older than me by thirteen days. It is one of the freak fraternal twin births where one of the babies wants out earlier than the other one. Despite the fact that we are fraternal twins, we look almost exactly alike. He gained a little more weight than I had; married life I guess.
We have always been close, and most of the time we were on the same wavelength. Before my mother died she told me that my brother and I used to speak to each other in our own version of baby talk. She only remembered one of our words, “profdsss.” When she said it rang a bell. I used to say that whenever I was mad, my brother did too.
My mother, what a trooper. When I was 15, she said that she was going to play basketball with her grandchildren. She was pregnant at the time. She was going to have another set of twins – at 45 years old.
Giving birth to the twins gave her a stroke. The Doc said it was the most amazing thing he has ever seen. She shouldn’t have been aware of what was happening. The whole left hand side of her body was limp, but she pushed out the last twin, before the rest of her body gave out. A fucking stroke shouldn’t have killed my mother. How can a blood clot stop the unstoppable?
My father felt the same way. He had a hard time accepting the blow, and curled up into a bottle for the next two months, while our aunt Judy, who had never been married but loved kids, took the babies.
My brother and I couldn’t stand seeing our father like that, so we emptied all the alcohol bottles in the house, and stole his keys. He even tried to hot-wire his car once, but we didn’t worry about that, he couldn’t think strait because he was detoxing. It was nice having our own car for a while and we didn’t feel the need to check in with Dad, because we were taking care of him. We decided that if he gets better we’re moving out – freedom was nice.
One morning, he woke up a new man. He called work to take some more vacation and then went over to pick up his daughters. Judy decided to move in with my father, and the only objection was from Scott, our younger brother. But that was only because he wasn’t the baby anymore. He was won over in fierce one battle war - one cheeseburger bomb and an Ice cream cone missile from Judy was all it took to break the seemingly impenetrable defenses of my younger brother.
Judy was great. We all suspected her a lesbian, but we never saw her with anyone – male or female, so the suspicion was unfounded. She did wear her hair in a mullet though. It wasn’t very attractive, but I couldn’t imagine her any other way. She ended-up quitting her job as a short-hall truck driver so that could take care of the girls. She also did all of the home improvements and housework. She didn’t have to, but she felt she needed to pay her way. The girls had grown in to their teen years and didn’t spend too much time at home. She didn’t have all that much to do to keep her busy except the house – hence the power drill for Christmas.
Back at the bar my brother had been giving me shit. You see, my brother – Herman – got the short end of the stick on the name department and he had never gotten over it. My parents were going to name me George, but when I was born thirteen days after Herman on a Friday, they couldn’t resist – Jason. I was named after a movie slasher, from the famous Friday the Thirteenth franchise. He was named after Herman Munster. I never heard the end of it from him.
He was getting kind of drunk, and he started to talk about his wife. I never liked that bitch. Nancy had gotten pregnant because she went off the pill and didn’t tell him. She should have been a rodeo star because she can rope just about anyone in to anything. My brother realized this afterwards, but he wasn’t going to be a dead beat Dad, and she knew it – Bitch.
I knew it was time to go home when I heard, “Profdsss!” come out of his mouth. I called a cab this time, and he came home with me. My couch was the most comfortable thing on the planet when you are drunk. That’s why I put him on the futon. The couch is always mine. Besides, I didn’t want to wake up Jocelyn.
My brother doesn’t like to wake-up even when he hasn’t been drinking, can you imagine what it must be like to get him up with a hangover? During monumental task of waking him I noticed that he had been so drunk that he pissed him self. This made my decision on how to wake him very easy. I could save him some embarrassment at the same time that I piss him off. Sounded like fun to me. I liked having brothers to fuck with.
Herm didn’t think that an entire five gallons was necessary to wake him. By the look on his face he didn’t think it was as funny as I did either. He should have known what was coming; I did drag him into the bathtub.
Five gallons did seem a bit on the extreme after looking at the mess I made. Good thing Jocelyn was a bad little catholic girl; she had gotten up early to go to confessional. I still had an hour or so to get this cleaned up.
The sea food restaurant down stairs was amused to no end with my request for five gallons of used lobster cooking water – and they were all to happy to give it to me. I was actually surprised they had it at ten in the morning. I remember pondering whether I’d eat there again after finding out that they did.
