It happens to us all, eventually. That momentary, but nonetheless monumental act of stupidity that haunts us for years. This is one of those acts...
Suffering through a bout of the flu that I equated to a mild form of SARS, I soldiered on to work. The misery of the next several hours was astounding. The coughing, the watery eyes, the aching muscles, the production of absurd amounts of snot would have brought a lesser man to his knees...I was well on my way to that position.
I finally drew my remaining energy forth, and trudged the normally short block to the drug store for relief. It was during this hazy shopping spree that I concocted the ultimate flu remedy/horse tranquilizer. After purchasing my goods, I returned to the bar.
Spilling the contests of my bag onto the bar, the bartender looked on with great confusion and fear for what was about to happen. She was kind enough to heat three fingers of Jameson, which was used to dissolve a packet of Thera-flu. A double-shot of Nyquil was introduced to the cocktail. After the mixture was complete, it chased down a dosage of Tylenol PM. Whoooo-ooaaaaa, that's good squishy!!!
With an hour til closing, I was almost instantly feeling the embrace of sweet slumber. Little did I know that the Sandman was about to lure me into a dark alley and make me his prison bitch.
At closing, I shouldered my laundry bag (which I had picked up on the way to work that afternoon) and began the journey home. That single avenue was the longest 750 feet of my life. By the time I arrived at my building, I was swimming in my own sweat. Unlocking the front door was the closest thing to a Rubik's Cube I had encountered in two decades. Resting at the bottom of the stairs, I came to the king of rationalizations. "Just leave the laundry here and get it in the morning". It made perfect sense.
Now, obviously, there are many flaws in the thought processes I used that evening. Not the least of which was that I would be functional "in the morning". I virtually crawled up the four flights, leaving my bag by the foot of the stairs. Upon entering the apartment I began a slumber that legends are built around. 12 hours of uninterrupted "sweat out". I emerged from my hibernation feeling almost, though not quite, my normal self (I had no idea you could get a hangover from cold meds, but believe me when I say it...oh yeah, you can).
I traipsed downstairs to retrieve my bag before work, and lo and behold, the bag was not to be found. Only mildly concerned, I assumed the super had found it and stashed it in a closet. With nothing else to do about it that night, I headed to work.
Upon arrival, one of the regulars checked to make sure I was OK, as she was sure I was on death's door the previous evening (that walking SARS is tough). I assured her that I was fine, and the only problem was not being able to find my laundry. At this point, my friend Lew (Jewish Lew, not Dominican Lou) smirked and chuckled.
Me - (closing my eyes) "What?"
Lew - I'm pretty sure I saw a bum wearing your Motorhead t-shirt. It was way too big for him. So now that I think about it, it was probably yours."
Me - (sigh) "Maybe not, there's gotta be plenty of Motorhead shirts in the city, right?"
Lew - "Absolutely. They hand out 4xl Motorhead shirts at the DMV with your new license." (laughing out loud)
Me - (ugh)
One of the regulars approached at this point. "Are you guys talking about the bum fight?" (what?) "I saw two bums fighting over the biggest pair of jeans I ever saw. It was hilarious!!!!"
Lew clued him in that they were, in fact, mine. It took earnest threats of neck punches for both of them to stop the laughter and get the pertinent information I needed to try to find any remnants of my clothes. Checking the streets around my apartment, and the block of the bum fight proved fruitless.
I learned many valuable lessons from this. Don't over medicate. When they say don't mix things, they fucking mean it. And when they say don't operate heavy machinery, that includes washing machines.
And I never got any of my clothes back. To this day, I have to suppress the urge to attack any fat kid in a Motorhead shirt and take the shirt. sigh
Suffering through a bout of the flu that I equated to a mild form of SARS, I soldiered on to work. The misery of the next several hours was astounding. The coughing, the watery eyes, the aching muscles, the production of absurd amounts of snot would have brought a lesser man to his knees...I was well on my way to that position.
I finally drew my remaining energy forth, and trudged the normally short block to the drug store for relief. It was during this hazy shopping spree that I concocted the ultimate flu remedy/horse tranquilizer. After purchasing my goods, I returned to the bar.
Spilling the contests of my bag onto the bar, the bartender looked on with great confusion and fear for what was about to happen. She was kind enough to heat three fingers of Jameson, which was used to dissolve a packet of Thera-flu. A double-shot of Nyquil was introduced to the cocktail. After the mixture was complete, it chased down a dosage of Tylenol PM. Whoooo-ooaaaaa, that's good squishy!!!
With an hour til closing, I was almost instantly feeling the embrace of sweet slumber. Little did I know that the Sandman was about to lure me into a dark alley and make me his prison bitch.
At closing, I shouldered my laundry bag (which I had picked up on the way to work that afternoon) and began the journey home. That single avenue was the longest 750 feet of my life. By the time I arrived at my building, I was swimming in my own sweat. Unlocking the front door was the closest thing to a Rubik's Cube I had encountered in two decades. Resting at the bottom of the stairs, I came to the king of rationalizations. "Just leave the laundry here and get it in the morning". It made perfect sense.
Now, obviously, there are many flaws in the thought processes I used that evening. Not the least of which was that I would be functional "in the morning". I virtually crawled up the four flights, leaving my bag by the foot of the stairs. Upon entering the apartment I began a slumber that legends are built around. 12 hours of uninterrupted "sweat out". I emerged from my hibernation feeling almost, though not quite, my normal self (I had no idea you could get a hangover from cold meds, but believe me when I say it...oh yeah, you can).
I traipsed downstairs to retrieve my bag before work, and lo and behold, the bag was not to be found. Only mildly concerned, I assumed the super had found it and stashed it in a closet. With nothing else to do about it that night, I headed to work.
Upon arrival, one of the regulars checked to make sure I was OK, as she was sure I was on death's door the previous evening (that walking SARS is tough). I assured her that I was fine, and the only problem was not being able to find my laundry. At this point, my friend Lew (Jewish Lew, not Dominican Lou) smirked and chuckled.
Me - (closing my eyes) "What?"
Lew - I'm pretty sure I saw a bum wearing your Motorhead t-shirt. It was way too big for him. So now that I think about it, it was probably yours."
Me - (sigh) "Maybe not, there's gotta be plenty of Motorhead shirts in the city, right?"
Lew - "Absolutely. They hand out 4xl Motorhead shirts at the DMV with your new license." (laughing out loud)
Me - (ugh)
One of the regulars approached at this point. "Are you guys talking about the bum fight?" (what?) "I saw two bums fighting over the biggest pair of jeans I ever saw. It was hilarious!!!!"
Lew clued him in that they were, in fact, mine. It took earnest threats of neck punches for both of them to stop the laughter and get the pertinent information I needed to try to find any remnants of my clothes. Checking the streets around my apartment, and the block of the bum fight proved fruitless.
I learned many valuable lessons from this. Don't over medicate. When they say don't mix things, they fucking mean it. And when they say don't operate heavy machinery, that includes washing machines.
And I never got any of my clothes back. To this day, I have to suppress the urge to attack any fat kid in a Motorhead shirt and take the shirt. sigh
