Thursday at the Park

Thursday at the Park

    The last few notes of the guitar ring in our ears as we stand up and begin to stumble down the hill to mesh with all the people, each of us headed across the concrete pad to get to the stairs that lead up to the bridge.  As we walk I can see two toe-headed youngsters running hand in hand together, still doing the occasional dance move.  In the corner of the grassy area, you know, the one beneath the bridge, there stand the couple that is there every Thursday.  They dance in jerky motions.  Their eyes shimmer with the nostalgia of Woodstock and the years in between.  The good Woodstock, the one with Jimi and Bob.
    Colby, Ben and I have finally made it to the stairs and we proceed to shuffle our way up with short, jaunty steps.  We each have a liter bottle of Coca-Cola that has been filled half-way with Black Velvet.  I would like to think that Ben is the most sober because he’s going to be the one who drives us to wherever it is that he’s got in mind.  Colby and I speak to each other in garish voices, we throw out obscenities and don’t care who may hear them.  
    As we get into Ben’s car I can’t help but notice that the half gallon of whiskey lay on it’s side and that it’s more than half gone.  It’s almost a sick pride that overcomes one in a situation such as this.  The thought that the three of us, but really just Colby and I, had managed to kill a quarter of a gallon of whiskey seemed like a feat, especially since we weren’t even ready to end our drinking for the night.
    We arrived at the house, luckily only three blocks away, a few minutes later and we were greeted by the roommate of the house that nobody really liked.  He greeted us in warmly enough and proceeded to seat each of us and pull out some beers.
    So, uh, where’s Jeremy?
    Ben sat and discussed the whereabouts of our friend while Colby and I wandered off and checked the place out.  We took turns passing the bottle back and forth as we looked at the different posters on the wall and stared at the fish in their tank.
    An hour later we all sat around the empty handle of whiskey and an assortment of empty beers and roared conversation at each other.  Jeremy had never arrived home, even though he was at the same outdoor concert as us.  I quickly found that nobody in the house smoked cigarettes and decided that I would go pick myself up a pack from the gas station that was only a few blocks away.
    As I staggered out of the front door I noticed that the world around me had developed a distinct waver and that each of the lights carried a trail behind it as it passed by my vision.  There seemed to be far too many lights.
    It’s only a few blocks.
    The next morning I woke up four hours late for work laying naked on my floor in a puddle of urine.  My bed sheets, the bed is raised off of the ground so it requires a ladder to get into it, were scattered about the floor and I couldn’t find my cell phone or my wallet. 
    A smashed pack of cigarettes lay where I normally kept my wallet.