Took a few planes. Arrived. Went out. Brought shame on everyone in Ireland. After slaying all the drinks that dared to look at me, I found myself in another bar. I didn’t know how I got there, who I was out with, but I knew I had to drink more. There are certain points in the night that can easily be identified as bad decisions. Switching from pints to shots of Jameson whiskey is the hiding naked in your friend’s mother’s wardrobe of bad decisions. I was just a witness inside my head at this point. My body had set its own course for the night.
One girl, sitting down with her goat eating friend, felt the wrath of the Jameson more than any other that night. I approached her table and asked her did she want a drink. She firmly refused my gracious offer. I raised my voice a bit more and asked her again. She again said no. I went up to the bar and bought four shots of Jameson for me and my new girlfriend. In the meantime, the slayer of souls had left her seat and gone to the bathroom. I saw this as the best friend giving me the green light to move in for the kill. Planting myself and the shots down on the table I demanded she drink her presents.
Unable to understand my request she ushered to her two fee-fi-fo-fum friends to come over and help her resolve the situation. Before they could reach me, I relieved the shot glasses of their liquid furnishings and ran for the door, effortlessly battering myself into the table next to me. I quickly found myself floating horizontally in the air heading towards the exit. Thankfully, I was able to land a few hawk like grabs on half empty pints as I sailed out the door.
Unfortunately, my brain experienced a power cut after I landed on the footpath outside the bar. The next thing I can remember, is pleading with an irritated driver to bring me to the shop for a snickers. He refused to bring me to the shop and broke my heart. Driving in an unknown direction he asked me where I lived. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the information he requested. The taxi man was very patient and helpful though. He immediately stopped the car, man handled me out of the taxi and drove off. I had no idea where I was. I wasn’t even sure if I was in Boston anymore. But then I saw him. My hero of the night. Reggie Bossa of the Medford Police Force.
I’m lost! I’m lost! I’m so drunk and I’m lost! Find my house please! YOU HAVE TO FIND MY HOUSE!
exclaimed the drunk Irish man running towards the confused police man.
I explained my night to the police man and he shepherded me into his police car. Since the back seat was for criminals I sat in the front seat. Now thinking back once again, this probably wasn’t the brightest idea. Never get into a car with a strange man. Never get into a car with a man armed with a gun, a taser, handcuffs and an alibi. But at this point in my drunken night I would have got into a car with a greased up, dildo salesman if he promised to drive me home.
Thankfully, Reggie Bozza was a nice man. He radioed his superiors and told them he had to drive a “lost Irish guy” home and we set off on our adventure. I gave him some clues about where my living quarters might be. I also checked my Facebook on his car laptop to see if anyone had liked any of my witty and hilarious comments from the previous day. I may have also sent him a friend request which might have been accepted a few minutes ago.
Miraculously, Reggie found the house. I told him I loved him and said my goodbyes. Sadly, I did not exit the vehicle gracefully. The top half of my body angled itself out of the car but my legs refused to leave. Reggie watched from behind the wheel as the road rose up to hammer itself into my face. And that’s the face of the man who greeted his 84-year-old aunt at 5.00a.m. in the morning. A broken man, crying, bleeding and violently telling her about the prick of a taxi driver who wouldn’t bring him to the shop to get a snickers.