Storytellers

It has to be the my phone making that horrible racket. Anyone who knows that they are going to be drinking in the evening (and the amount) turns off any morning alarm systems before they retire. It’s simple physics: drunks rise as late as physically possible. Someone should write that into collegiate science texts.

It’s my buddy Daren calling me with what he describes as a “great idea.”

“Let’s go to the discount beer place, stock up on some choice brews and watch some college football.”

“I don’t even know who’s playing today.” I reply weakly.

“But you know you like beer don’t you?”

He makes a good point. I do like the fine taste of a hoppy IPA after a long night of drinking hard liquor. Something flavorful to take the edge off the dead subway rat that seems to have made a nest under my tongue. Beer would work. And it’s always exciting to see anything on the fantastic 50 inch HDTV Daren was able to procure last month (through totally legal means I assure you). In the last few weeks, I had witnessed every major televised event on his flat paneled marvel. Football especially was a sight to behold.

“Alright, give me 15 minutes to make myself presentable.” More than enough time to change out of the clothes I passed out in and rub the crap out of my eyes. “Did you call Craig?”

“Yep, he’ll meet us there. See you in fifteen.”

I acknowledge the meeting time and flip my cell shut. Our weekly football triumvirate was meeting a day early. This could be an interesting weekend.

While Daren is more of a quantity over quality alcohol consumer, I am a quality (and then quantity) purest. Not to call my friend undiscerning (and he is), but if I am going to empty copious bottles of booze down my gullet, I want it to be something I don’t mind tasting on the way down.

In contrast to the both of us, Craig is much more sober. He DOES drink, and occasionally to excess, but not often or without reason. Craig is usually the one with his wits about him and always the one surfing the internet or reading a newspaper while the game is going on. He’s a multi-tasker with a limited attention to details. His stories are often disjointed fact followed by disjointed fact and getting drunk only exasperates the situation. Needless to say, Daren and I have been known to pick on him a bit during these weekend get-togethers.

The Thrifty American Beer Distributor is only three blocks from my apartment, but my hangover was impeding my progress. Brooklyn is a vivid, loud and constantly moving burg (even on a Saturday morning) and when your head feels like it’s full of bees then you are going to move rather slowly through the madness.

Craig and Daren are already waiting for me in front of the store by the time I shamble down the block. They are both laughing and making light of my obvious blinding hangover.

“You look like you haven’t even slept.” Daren observes “Where did you go?”

“Just some bar on Bleecker Street. They had this bourbon special that I took extreme advantage of.” Just saying it again is bringing back drunken memories. What was that girls name? We left separately so I guess it isn’t that horrible that I don’t remember.

“You sure you want to drink again so soon?” Craig is using his subtle buzzkill tactics, but it doesn’t matter. I desperately need to top off.

“Yeah, I’ll catch my second wind in no time. Let’s do this.”

Even hung-over, Thrifty is a fun experience: rows of imports, coolers of domestic and even a selection of kegs for the drunk with friends. We split-up and went looking for the specific brew that tickled our fancy. Daren, true to form, grabbed a 12-pack of Pabst and a six of Yingling. Craig got 2 bottles of some English cream stout, a six-pack of Diet Coke and backpack full of grief from the two of us. How do you go to the “Beer Store” and get soda?

Meanwhile, I picked up two 4-packs (weird) of the Dogfish Head 90 Minute Imperial IPA. A smooth, overly hopped beverage I was intensely looking forward to use as a way to drown out my now building headache. As we leave the store, a trucker leans on his horn while passing through the near intersection.

I visibly wince. “Ahh! I feel like Hemingway after the Gin is gone.”

Out of the blue (and without even looking up) Craig springs to life like a muppet with a hand up his ass.

“My dad met Hemingway once. He was in this bar in Spain and there were these chicks with him and they all had drinks and the next day they did the running of the bulls. Him and Hemingway did.” This is all in one breath and every word bleeds into the next. It wasn’t as much spoken by Craig as it was squeezed out of his face.

“What was that?” I say incredulously.

“Yeah,” responds Daren, missing the point “that a true story?”

“Of course it is.” Craig is defensive now. “Well, my dad told me it was.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.” I half yell. “The problem with the story is how he told it.”

“What’s wrong with that story?”

“I JUST said the story is fine. It’s a real strong story. A famous literary figure gets hammered with your father and two senoritas and then they play grab-ass with angry bovine. That’s a fantastic story. I love that story.”

This totally confuses Daren. “So what’s your problem man?”

“My problem is that he told that awesome story like a retard that just realized he could speak! This is an epic poem. It’s got sex and booze and action… and he shoves it out like a freaking turd. You need to learn how to say these things so you don’t look like a moron. Good stories need to be told well, or they are just like any other string of words you manage to cobble together.” I don’t care that I am talking down to him at this point. I am really pissed off he wasted a tale that amazing.

“So what was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know. It’s your story, but it should be something more interesting than the who, what and where.” I am starting to worry that my harsh critique of Craig’s anecdote is starting to bring down the afternoon… until Daren (not realizing this isn’t a contest) gets in one last word.

“Remember when I got my foot stuck in the toilet while doing that chick in the dorm bathroom?”

And suddenly I don’t feel like hearing anymore stories.