It's still Saturday night for me, so disregard the date stamp on this post.
I have a couple of learned behaviors left over from my college days. The first is an unconscious awareness of the nearing approach of two in the morning - the time when stores stop selling alcohol (this has been true in every county I've lived in). I often catch myself looking in the refrigerator, usually after one in the morning and even if I'm about ready for bed, to make sure we have beer. When I used to work as pizza delivery I would get off very close to the spirts-witching-hour and sometimes barely make it to the store in time. Not coming home to the house with beer, for a young working man of twenty-two, would've been a cardinal sin.
There always seemed to be a rush on the all-night market right around two. My favorite anecdote happened while I was waiting in a long line watching the minute hand of the clock hit 1:59. I only had groceries in my cart, so I wasn't stressing the approaching deadline, but plenty of others in front of me had their money already out and were tapping their feet anxiously (this particular checker had a reputation as a stickler). There must have been less than ten seconds to go when a man came flying through the door, ran to the checkstand, threw a bill at the clerk and yelled over his shoulder - as the clock struck two - something like, "I'm getting a 40 of Bud. Keep the change." Everyone kind of stared at each other in awestruck silence - the checker included - while he grabbed a 40, wheeled around, and walked out the door. I think we were all impressed and I'm sure the guys who didn't make the cut that night were kicking themselves for not thinking outside the line.
There was an added bonus, at least for the hardcore drinkers, to living in that particular town. We were six miles from the border of Oregon and the neighboring county stopped selling alcohol at 2:30. As I was mopping up at work I would often see people walk out the door of a bar as it closed, get in their car and make a beeline for the highway south. Since not a lot of people lived in that direction I always assumed they were going to a liquor store to stock up for a continuation of the night.
The second learned behavior I have is drinking with my left hand. Whenever I drink with my right hand, it feels wrong (unless it's wine since I never drank that when I was younger). This trait stems from a drinking club that me and my friends were a part of. It was called the Buffalo Club and it only cost a penny to join. The only way to get out of the club was if you could find the exact same penny you used to pay your admission and return it to your sponsor. Most pennies were flushed down toilets or thrown out the window of a car on the freeway. My sponsor got creative on my ass - I later found out he dropped it right behind me as we drank in a ballroom at an Orange County hotel. A Buffalo only had to worry about two rules: you must always drink alcohol with your non-dominant hand and, if a fellow Buffalo asks you if you are a Buffalo you must respond with the following six words, "Once a Buffalo, always a Buffalo." The best bust was when one of the guys got popped drinking Nyquil with the wrong hand - that's how anal some of my friends were. The penalty seemed minor but it induced a cascading effect where one tiny mistake could very easily lead to worshipful adoration of the porcelin god.
Speaking of cascading effects, I'm reminded of a drinking game that my friend H. loved to introduce people to. Sadly, he died of meningitis in his mid-twenties but he was one of those energetic laughing persuasive people who others have a hard time saying no to. He used to always have a pack of cards in his pocket and cruise around parties looking for a target. The game sounded simple: place ten (It think it was ten, could've been a few more) cards face down in a line; turn cards over one at a time until you clear the pile. It was anything but simple. Every time you turned over a face card you added to the line (four cards for an ace down to one for a jack) and took a corresponding number of drinks (swallows for beer, sips for harder stuff). I once saw a game go through more than five shuffles of the discard pile. Nine times out of ten you were drunk by the time the game was over.
It seems like this post just won't die. Everytime I end a segment the closing sentence sparks another anecdote. I'm reminded of one of the few times I was drunk before noon - and not on purpose. I was fishing and managed to put a hook deep into my finger. It became a comedy of errors. People ransacking cars looking for pliers. Me forgetting to cut the line and having my finger jerked painfully as someone knocked my fishing pole over. Various wannabe doctors stepping up to the plate to remove the hook and then backing out at the last minute. Finally, I ended up grabbing the pliers myself, pushing the hook through enough so that I could cut it, and then extracting both pieces. In retrospect, the solution was simple - it's just that none of us had any experience and were lost - just a bunch of city folk playing at fishing. While I was waiting for this whole drama to play itself out people had been passing me beers. When the hook went in I was stone-cold sober. By the time it came out I was buzzing quite nicely.
Hmmmmm. I'm waiting a bit to see if any other stories pop into my head... Nope. Looks like this will have to do as an ending.
