Your body’s ability to absorb alcohol and still function depends on several factors: weight, liver health, past patterns of consumption. Most adults already have this figured out, but just in case you’re one of those who don’t know—I’ll tell you. There are different levels of intoxication.
First, there’s that warm, happy feeling the average person gets after a drink or two. Most could still operate a car safely and, unless you have a low body mass index, would probably pass a Breathalyzer. We’ll call this buzzed.
Then, in the three-to-five-drink range, some people get a little silly. Talkative. Possibly annoying. You’re beyond happy at this point, and even the most mundane events seem hilarious. This is often referred to as tipsy.
Next, there’s actual drunkenness. By now, you’ve lost count of the number of drinks you’ve had. You could bite a hole through your tongue, but you wouldn’t feel it. You’re slurring your words, and swaying on your feet. We’ll call this shitfaced.
The final level of intoxication is completely fucking obliterated. Coherent thought is pretty much gone. Coordination—nonexistent. And your self-awareness equals that of a fruit fly.
About an hour after popping that cork from Pandora’s mouth, I am fucking obliterated. Moving is a bit of a challenge. It’s similar to those nightmares when the ax murderer is chasing you, and no matter how hard you try, you can’t get your legs to move? It feels like a thick, invisible force field of Jell-O is encasing my body—every action is slow and strenuous.
Time has no meaning. Apparently the brain cells are dying off so fucking fast, only short, disjointed moments make it into my actual memory. Like pictures taken with an old Polaroid camera.
As far as I can tell, most of the patrons at Paradise have taken their leave—and my bachelor party has more or less taken over the club.
There’s Jack’s face, just inches from mine, his mouth open, tongue hanging out, yelling, “Waaaassssuuuuuppppppp?!” There are Steven and Matthew, behind the bar, throwing bottles to one another, pretending to be Tom Cruise doing the Hippy Hippy Shake. There’s Warren, getting striptease lessons from a dancer—trying to swing around the pole and falling.
Like that guy needs another blow to the head.
Then there’s all of us—onstage—my arm thrown around Warren’s shoulder as we belt out “Making Love out of Nothing at All” by Air Supply, while Steven, Matthew, and Jack sing backup.
Christ Almighty.
When the fog clears next, I’m at the bar, my cheek resting sloppily on my hand. Sitting next to me is the dark-haired stripper who rode me onstage. I know I should know her name, but I can’t remember it. She’s talking animatedly—her hands moving as fast as her mouth. I only hear every third word or so.
I look at the bottle that’s on the bar next to me. It’s about three-quarters empty. I shrug—bring the bottle to my lips—and just manage to take a drink. A little of the red liquid trickles down my chin and soaks into my shirt. That’s embarrassing—I’ve never been a sloppy drunk.
“. . . so, you’re okay with that, right, Drew?”
Hearing my name gets my attention, and I turn toward the sound. Like a dog. “Huh?”
She smiles. “I don’t usually do this, but you guys are a lot of fun.”
I agree. “Yeps . . . tha’s usss. We’re the GT . . . yeah . . .”
With a compassionate smile, she hops off her barstool. “Take it easy with that stuff, handsome.”
I try to hold up two thumbs—the universal sign for It’s all good—but my fingers don’t cooperate. I hold up all ten instead.
She laughs, gives me a high five, and walks away. I sit for a moment. Then—because that’s the fucking genius I am—I decide I want to play darts. I drag myself off the bar stool in search of a game.
This won’t end well.
Sometime later—could be three hours or thirty minutes—I realize I’m sitting in a chair, at one of the back poker tables. Five cards are in my hand and a stack of chips is next to me.
I can’t feel my face—and for a moment, I fear it might have fallen the fuck off. I slap my cheeks.
Still there. Awesome.
Across the table, Matthew holds his own cards in his hand. Behind him, a statuesque blonde in a black mesh body stocking is rubbing his shoulders, giving him a massage while he plays. Next to Matthew is Steven. He also has cards in his hand . . . and a hot Asian chick on his lap.
Both seem to be at shitfaced level, so . . . that explains a lot.
On the stage, Billy Warren strums a guitar he must have pulled out of his ass, singing “Mandy” by Barry Manilow.
My phone vibrates, but when I try to fish it out of my pocket, it jumps out of my hands and onto the floor. I push my chair back and get on my knees under the table to look for it. I find the slippery bastard, but when I start to stand back up, my eyes land on the bar.
And there is the one of the most glorious sights I have ever seen.
It’s Kate.