The ride home after a night of drinking two dozen beers is always a wonderful experience. Music sounds better. Your speeding sense is more acute, which allows for greater acceleration and maxing out your car’s top speed. Plus, you’re in an all around great mood. The downside of drunk driving is that sometimes the rest of the world is filled with lame assholes who don’t understand that from 3am-5am the road is reserved for people who want to get home from the bars/house parties/dumpster bonfires. These morons drive slow with their windows rolled up and NOT blaring Freebird. Assholes come in forms other than old people and sober dipshits; they can also be birds that fly in stupid directions, animals that run around, curbs that were nonsensically installed on the side of roads, speedbumps in parking lots, guardrails that prevent you from “Catching Air” or any other distraction, animate or inanimate, that impedes your ability to rock the fuck out, drink, pour beer on your head, speed and drive!
If you drunk drive a thousand times, everybody knows approximately thirty-three of those occasions will end up in an accident that is TOTALLY someone (/something) else’s fault, resulting in a destroyed car. Because police officers are chosen for the ability to 24/7 spaz and kill fun, these crash nights almost inevitably end up with you in jail. Unless, you are an Urban Life Hacker. So, you’re crashed in the ditch because some bullshit happened that is no fault of your own. WHAT DO YOU DO?
I studied the airport terminal map for any place serving alcohol. Unfamiliar with most of the chains listed under the restaurants category, I settled on some place in Terminal A that had the word Brewery in its name. I weaved through the other miserable travelers until I found it and took a seat on an empty bar stool. The dinner rush had just ended. The bartender said hello with an exaggerated flamboyant lisp. I scanned the beer taps until I found one I recognized.
“I’ll start with a pint of Blue Moon, and when that’s about three quarters finished, I’d like you to pour me a double gin and seven.”
“Absolutely,” he said before walking off to fill up my beer.
I opened my laptop and hammered away revising a short story. The internet wasn’t free in the terminal, which pissed me off. I sent Lifeat160 (aka Shane) a text saying where I was. Typical in my inability to prepare, I hadn’t recorded when Shane’s flight was touching down. I knew it was within an hour of mine. I was in the process of texting the lone female attending the drinking contest (as our baby-sitter) for Shane’s contact information when a text flashed across the screen.
Shane: I’m in fucking Terminal D.
Griffin: You want to walk over and have a drink or should I head down that way? Doesn’t matter to me. It’s a three minute walk.
Shane: Fucking on my way. Have white hat on.
I pictured an angry Texan in a white cowboy hat stomping his boots in frustration of having to walk four hundred feet. A short time later, a mid-twenties looking guy walked toward the bar wearing a white ball cap. I hesitated for a second until I was sure it was Shane. The self-promoted Lifeat160 Logo on his hat made it obvious. We shook hands. I was pleased to see he wore a hoodie, which was also my choice of travel attire, and not some eight thousand dollar custom tailored designer suit.
The actual drinking contest commences on Saturday at 1pm. But we’re hanging out the few days before to get to know one another. Lifeat160 said he wanted to ball hard. I wasn’t quite sure what that meant in regards to drinking, so I drank a lot to be safe. Tremblethedevil came out too. I’m not sure but I think, even without trying, I balled hard the first night.