This story has been a long time coming on ye olde blogg. Some of you might have heard this strange tale in person, while others might have actually dreamed it while tripping on ill-prepared tuna salad. Either way, I trust none of you can relate.
It all began several months ago, in a sleepy little town called Athens. And by sleepy, I mean quite awake and smelling of beer and vomit. Two college chums were in town for the weekend. After a practically delightful first few days, which involved a Braves game, lots of drinking and watching Road House (see previous entry titled “Non Sequitur”), we decided to visit my girlfriend at UGA. One of these college friends of mine, we’ll call him Luigi, had a long-distance belle in Athens whom he’d met abroad in the summer prior. So, Luigi was obviously spending the night at his lady-friend’s abode, where he would proceed to romp her both raw and silly. Which leaves the greater of two evils, whom we’ll call Beelzebub, or “Bub” for short. Bub would be staying at my girlfriend’s house…out on the futon.
The night began innocently enough. A nice sushi dinner. Some pool and drinks at Cutter’s. Shortly afterwards, things became ominous as we left Cutter’s to visit another downtown watering hall called El Centro. Lo and behold, we see that El Centro is right next door to another bar called Road House. Bub is from a town named El Centro, of which is mother is the mayor, and he loves the movie Road House so much that he carries around his own DVD copy when he travels. Though it was April, these ill portents carried the same cosmic consequence and heft as the Ides of March.
At Bub’s “hometown” bar we drank mightily as the Vikings of yore. Though, it’s doubtful that Erik the Red drank many Jager shots in his day. We finished the evening off with a delicious late-night repast and PBR nightcap. With a twinkle in their eyes and a throbbing in their loins, Luigi and his bella departed. That leaves me, my girlfriend and Bub. As we are paying the check for our munchies, Bub is hitting on our waitress. She is a few pounds overweight, though fairly attractive and right up Bub’s ally in her “alternative” look. Rather dismissively, she says to him, “I get off at 5 if you wanna wait around.” This was around 2:30. The three of us take a taxi back to the homestead.
M’lady and I bedded down for the evening, but Bub has different plans. He sets his phone alarm for 4:50 and has taken down the number of our taxi driver. Always on the hunt for skanky poon, Bub plans to make his move on our waitress. The next few hours were later reconstructed piece-meal from Bub’s jumbled brain in the following days.
He woke up, got the cab, and made it down to the restaurant as planned. What he did not plan on was seeing our waitress sharing a bowl of soup with, what one would presume to be, her boyfriend. Now, Bub had been a little depressed leading up to this time…recently unemployed and unhappy in his recent relationships. The scene at the restaurant now cast him into the very pits of self-loathing and despair, and he walked all the way back to my girlfriend’s apartment…some 3-4 miles away. Well, he actually rode the last two blocks, when, as he put it, “I remembered that I was in the fucking South, so I threw out my thumb.” Someone stopped…it was the bouncer from El Centro. Bad tidings, my friends…bad tidings.
When he returned, Bub discovered a handle of Smirnoff in the freezer. Over the next hour or so, all his 5’ 6” and 145 lbs. would consume the entire handle as he sat on the back porch wrapped in a throw blanket.
Beginning at about 6AM, Bub began singing/ranting to himself loudly in the living room. I got out of bed, walked into the living room, yelled at him, then punched him fairly hard in the kidney. This continued every 10 minutes for the next two hours. My girlfriend was getting ready to call the cops.
The piece de resistance was one of the last times I woke up to chide him. He was now in the kitchen. From the bedroom I could hear him saying, “Oh Phil! Yes, yes. Take me there, Phil…yes yes!” As I entered the kitchen/laundry area I discovered that he was standing inside of the washing machine wearing only his boxers. He had his iPod on, was holding a loaf of bread and was weeping. Playing on his iPod: Phil Collins’ “Against All Odds.” Phil was taking Bub on a soulful journey through dark territory, and Bub was connecting/communicating with Phil through a drunken haze. When jarred out of his trance, Bub said, “Don’t fucking touch me. Don’t ever touch me. I’m in the dark place. Don’t ever touch me.” Fair enough.
At around 8:30, shortly after my girlfriend saw Bub naked in the living room, I decided this could not go on any further. We had planned to do breakfast with Luigi and his girl, but now all bets were off. I packed Bub’s belongings and threw them in the car. Then I had to literally body-slam Bub on the living room floor and drag him by his arm into the driveway. He got up from the driveway, walked into the middle of the street and laid down. In the back of my head, I hoped he would be non-fatally injured by a car or competitive bicyclist. Somehow he ended up in my car, and off we sped for Atlanta…the very winds of hate licking at our heels and hieing us onward.
Not much happened from that point forward, although we did get into an altercation of sorts when Bub flipped the bird to a passing motorist, clearly on his way to Church. Said motorist then pulled his SUV in front of my car and slammed on the brakes. Luckily, his exit came up and we missed out on some vigilante Georgian justice. Good thing, for I fear Jesus was not on our side at the moment.
If you had known Bub for the past 5 years, as I have, then perhaps this would not seem so surprising. This weekend didn't really alter our friendship too badly. Those who do not know him, though…seem to find this incident rather interesting. Oh well. I guess your friends say a lot about you. Mine say I’m relatively boring.
