Saturday night, we went out on the town in celebration of Red Beard’s 30th birthday. Our first stop was to pick up Red Beard’s buddy, whom I shall call Bitter. I’m quite fond of Bitter, but his nickname comes from the way he has this lingering air of sarcasm about him.
We stuffed Bitter into the backseat of the MINI and met up with Julie and Lanky at Fogo de Chão, a churrascaria. We ate a gajillion different types of meat. As Bitter so eloquently put it, “If it was alive at one time, they serve it here.” I topped off my meal with a chocolate martini, while Red Beard enjoyed a Sambuca.
The five of us headed over for Harry’s for beer, where we were eventually joined by the rest of the crew. Toughie bought Red Beard a couple of tequila shots. Red Beard was at that funny drunk stage for a little while where you could tell he was feeling warm and fuzzy all over. He smiled at me through half-mast eyes and said “I love being drunk!” He leaned in for a few smooches on the mouth, much more PDA than he would normally dole out. Then when the song came on the jukebox, he began singing “Dead or Alive” by Bon Jovi. In the year we’ve been dating, I’ve never heard the man sing. I could tell he has a decent voice, even through his drunken, scratchy Bon Jovi imitation.
Then someone bought Red Beard a lemon drop, followed by a shot of Jim Beam. He devolved into an extroverted personality with which I was completely unfamiliar. He began serenading me with Simple Mind’s “Don’t You Forget About Me” from 15 feet away. He approached me, still singing with an ear-to-ear smile plastered to his face. He came up behind me, wrapped his arms around me, mashed his lips to the crown of my head and continued to sing into my hair. The singing into the top of my head continued for the duration of the song. I just smiled and tried not to call attention to the fact that he was crooning with his mouth pressed to my noggin.
Then someone bought him a Grey Goose, straight up with lime. After that shot, Red Beard was overcome by complete and sudden incoherence. Alarm bells went off in my head and I was just starting to formulate an exit strategy when Bitter started screaming at the waitress for another shot of tequila. Red Beard's state was already just short of disaster, and there was no way he could tolerate more booze. I felt panicky. Through clenched teeth, I told Bitter, “Cram it, or we’re going home right now!”
Bitter looked surprised. “Why? What? What did I do?”
I glanced at Red Beard and said, “In fact, forget it. We’re out of here. Now. Let’s go.”
Bitter ducked into the men’s room while I escorted a very wobbly Red Beard outside. As we waited for Bitter, Red Beard made a surprising reversal and punched the metal doorframe as he vehemently exclaimed, “I hate being drunk!”
I grabbed his wrist and laughed, “No punchie. Just a little while ago, you said you love being drunk.”
He pouted, “Yeah, but I wasn’t really, really drunk yet. Now I’m drunk. And I hate it. I HATE it.”
Bitter exited the restaurant and we started our walk back to the car. I restrained Red Beard as he attempted to wander into traffic. Bitter said, “Well, if we can prevent him from getting hit by a car, I think he’ll be alright.”
We stopped at Bitter’s house and got out the car so Red Beard could upchuck. Bitter offered, "You've got the front yard, the backyard, wherever you want. I've got a hose." Ultimately, he allowed Red Beard to empty the contents of his stomach into the toilet in the upstairs bathroom. Red Beard got back into the car feeling better, but with a raucously violent case of the hiccups. We rode the rest of the way home in silence, save for his noisy and frequent hiccupping.
Once inside, he stripped down to his boxers. Then we went into the kitchen and he showed me his trick hiccup cure, which involved drinking a glass of water at the same time that he swirled the point of a knife to the outside bottom of the glass. It worked! No more hiccups.
Red Beard was feeling much better Sunday morning. He apologized for getting so drunk. “You’d think with age would come the wisdom that shots were a bad idea.”
I told him, “Don’t apologize for getting smashed at your 30th birthday party. That’s what milestone birthdays are for.”
Since today is the actual day, we’re going for a low-key dinner, followed by dessert at home. I will serve him his favorite, lemon meringue pie. I’m super excited to give him his present. I hope he loves it!