There it was. My respite. My peace.
My complete exodus from the difficulties of attending two classes a day and
waking up in the afternoon. Cheers.
Cheers was the local watering hole
in my rural college town. The popularity of it with the underclassmen derived
from the general philosophy of “school ID is good enough for me.”
I looked forward to Thursday nights
the whole week. On a college budget, who could possibly say no to quarter-beer
nights? Two dollar cab ride, two dollar entrance fee, and two dollars for
horrible, skunky beer (of course, my tastes have refined as have the wrinkles
on my eyes, but ignorance is bliss). For six dollars, I was having a blast.
Having way too much of a blast.
Now to preface the evening, and to
also indicate that my idiocy was countered by some rationale in a proper state
of mind, I will explain that my two best girl-friends (known as Pam and Diane
from here-on-in) and I had a solid method to keep us away from creepers during
these particularly festive evenings. We called it the “should I stay, or should
I go” that consisted of awkward signaling hand gestures.
On this one fine evening at Cheers,
I decided to use my whole two bucks on liquid courage. Diane was chatting-it-up
with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome (or at least that’s how I remember it), so I
decided it was a perfect opportunity to force Pam into dancing on the stage
with me. As I was dancing like a true rock-star on stage (also how I
particularly remember it), suddenly I notice Diane flailing her arms. Now, I
love the girl with all of my heart, but she is no Fred Astaire and that was no
funky-chicken she was performing – it was a down-right distress call directed
at us.
Liquid courage sometimes
metastasizes into a tragic fall. Literally. You see, I needed to save my
friend, and I was on the stage. Before I made my cunning move into heroism, I
verbalized the idea to Pam, to which she responded with wise caution (I know it
was wise caution now, but I am translating it from the vulgar). Of course, a
true hero is brave against all odds, even numerous, cheap beers. So, I made my
way to Diane.
Problem is, I never made it to
Diane; whether it was the fog in my eyes, in my mind, or maybe both, I could
not see the stairs that would lead me off the stage. Ladies and gentleman, I
can say from personal experience, a fall-from-grace is never pretty. Oh no, it
leads you directly to the floor of a bar full of sweat, tears, spilt beer, and
who knows what else. I opened my eyes from the floor to see a crowd surrounding
me, peering over me as if I was a dead corpse, and at that exact moment, I
almost wished I was. One fine gentleman, whose name I will never know, but for
whom I am eternally grateful, bent down to help me rise and ask me if I was
okay. Brushing off the shame and crumbs, I acted coolly, and walked over to my
friends who were gaping in horror at the excruciating scene.
The next morning, when I had
finally recovered my wits, and my pride, I headed over to the dining hall for
breakfast. As I waited in line for Belgian-waffle Fridays, the guys in front of
me started talking about their evening and how they witnessed a “stupid [insert
expletive here]” fall off the stage at Cheers the previous night. I calmly
placed my tray down, my hoodie up, and made my escape.
I guess they didn’t have the
faculties to understand that I was, in fact, a hero. You see, my tragic fall
got Mr. Tall-Dark-and-actually-a-major-Creeper to refocus his attention from
her, to me, so she was able to make a fast get-away. So, as I see it – winning.
