I live in a city in which most people claim there "isn't anything fun to do," which could not be further from the truth. Imagine my delight when I met a guy who thought spending a day at the art museum would be fun.
I picked him up around 9:00 a.m. He lived a little ways out of town. I am not particularly interested in art, but breezing through the museum looking at cool things I would otherwise probably never see is a great way to spend the day, like going to a zoo with exhibits of other people's imaginations instead of animals. I'm adding this because he seemed very nervous about the museum. Like he had been studying all night. As I was reassuring him that we were just going to go walk around, it dawned on me: he was drunk.
I get drunk. I like drinking. I confess that I have woken up a little tipsy -- and it WAS Sunday morning. But he proceeded to finish his (previously unseen) beer before we hit the road.
Unlike many of the drunks on this website, he was reasonably coherent and reasonably friendly. Since he was particularly cute, I am making up excuses for him ("Hair of the dog! Who hasn't been there?"). So, the dumbass count of people on this date is now officially two.
As we are on our way to the museum, he insists we stop his car by his friend's house that he hasn't seen in awhile because he wants to introduce me to him. I am now a deer in headlights. Drunk headlights.
We spend twenty minutes while he alternately calls his friend and rings on their apartment bell. "Maybe we should just get going" doesn't seem to be working, so I give up. After wasting all of this time he remarks that his friend is probably asleep because "he works until, like, 3 in the morning." Ya think?
We are now halfway to the museum. He wants to stop at a gas station. Since we both smoke, I think nothing of this. He walks out with a six pack. Not your average six pack, no. He gets a six pack of Guinness draught pints that are expressly created to be poured into a glass. You've probably already guessed that it didn't stop him from cracking one open in the car. I eject the beer from the car and explain to him that I don't drive around with open containers. He apologizes. How sweet!
We are now almost to the museum. He remembers that an old professor of his lives just around the corner. At this point, I am thinking about ways to get rid of him, and this seems perfect. So, he cracks a beer and gets out of the car. I know what you are thinking (DRIVE DRIVE DRIVE) but he has been really nice about being a total drunk so far, and he is really cute, and me being lonely, I decide to check out this professor.
We walk for a few blocks. Wait, correction: I walked. He stumbled around and nearly fell. Mind you, he is still very much able to carry on a conversation. No motor skills though. And he is denying he is drunk. Whatever, I'm locked and loaded, although I'm pretty sure I could have outran him at this point, the revenge wheels in my brain were already starting to turn.
We finally find his professor's house. He tries the front door. Tries the back door. Looks in their mailbox. There are no curtains on this house. I ask him, "So, they, don't really care for furniture, do they?" Silly him! He forgot his professor sold that house and that he no longer lives there.
I tell him that is okay, and that there is still plenty of time to go to the museum. I tell him I think he is kinda drunk and that it would probably just be faster if I walked the three blocks to my car and picked him up. He says "No, no, no." And then I hit him with an offer he can't refuse: "If I go get my car it will be way faster -- plus your beer will be cold so you can have another before we go to the museum." His eyes light up. Sold.
I half jog to my car. I open the door -- long enough to remove his beer -- and carefully lay it down in front of my driver's side tire. I turn the car on, and ease over the cans. Pop. Fizz. Smush. I missed one, so I manually dumped it. I was so angry, I wanted to drive by the house and flip him off. Instead I turned around in a drive way, and went in the other direction, wondering how long it took him to figure out what had happened.
Too bad he lived way out in the suburbs. Hope he got home okay. I wasn't worried -- he probably knew someone that lived close by, right?