I went to a Mardi Gras dance at the local bar last Saturday and that was a first for me. I don't know what Mardi Gras is all about really. I live a sheltered life but what I found out was that Mardi Gras is about drinking, and honestly, I've never considered that. I don't want to say I'm a teetotaler because I'm not, but then, I'm not a big drinker either. Usually, when I go for an evening of dancing at this bar that doesn't even have a cover charge, I have a beer or two so I can feel like I've paid my dues. I'm just not a dedicated boozer so I don't really know what getting drunk is all about. Mardi Gras was going to be a lesson for me.
The whole scene was pretty sloppy and maybe that's just because it had been going on since two in the afternoon. I got there just before midnight because I heard that there was going to be some really hot jams at the end of the usual rock 'n' roll play list. The truth is that I'm just not enough of a party animal to spend twelve hours of crazy crowds and dancing. I'd like to think I'm still thirty-something and I can boogie until the sun comes up, but I'm also realistic about just how much fun I can stand in one day.
But as I said, the place was sloppy with beer being served in plastic cups that have been spilling everywhere because they kind of squish in your hand if you're laughing and dancing and drinking all at the same time. I was lucky enough to finish my one beer without collapsing the cup but a girl lost it completely (her beer cup, I mean) when she tried to get into some dude's lap. I just reached down and picked up the dumped cup and added it to my own. As far as the spilled beer goes, well, it's a carpeted floor and I'm not barefoot so who cares. As I say, the place was sloppy and on top of that, someone had dumped a whole box of condoms in their foil pouches on the floor. I guess this is Mardi Gras confetti?
Not only was the floor sloshed, but one big guy at the bar just slumped over and ended up flat on his back, but I live a sheltered life so I've never seen that happen before. My one beer that didn't spill was enough for my entire night. The guy on the floor either couldn't or wouldn't stand up even after three dudes tried to get him back upright against the bar. It looked like they were trying to get a giant, overcooked rigatoni to stand on end. Eventually the three dudes got this totally overdone party animal upright again and carried him out by the armpits while one person pulled his jeans up over his crack. And despite all this, I think this little tavern is an upstanding place, even though its named the Pink Elephant.
But my turn to help out with the mop up was coming. The final music jam started at 1:00 AM and it was a very cool and danceable new sound. The place was starting to empty out so there was plenty of floor space to dance on, carpeted stale beer, condoms and all. I managed to stay stoked until 2:00 AM when the places closes and I was feeling pretty good as I ran through the rain to my car that I had been lucky enough to park almost in front of the joint. I jumped into the car, a fifteen year old pickup from the days of tiny trucks, not the flashy, jacked up gas guzzlers of current times, and tossed my stuff on the bench seat next to me. The dome light in the cab is out so the only light in the car was from the flickering, half burned out Pink Elephant neon sign.
It was at that point that the bench seat next to me gave out a sigh and snuggled it's head against my shoulder. Now I want to assure you, dear reader, that this isn't fiction and, in fact, I needed to assure myself of that too. A shiver went through my body as I tried to hold on to the imagination that the seat next to me would just naturally curl up against my shoulder. But that little attempt at self delusion wasn't working out for me so I immediately assumed that because it was so late and the place was so rowdy that my very concerned wife had walked down to the bar, didn't want to go in to that debacle, and decided she would just wait for me in the truck.
Unfortunately, that fantasy wasn't working out for me either and my shiver collapsed into a "Yuck!" as I realized that it wasn't my wife and the car seat had not become animate and there was a drunk male in my car that was happy to have a warm shoulder to rest his head against. I wasn't sure which of the two of us was going to puke first.
"You have to get out of here," I said in a loud, disgusted tone.
No luck. He just got himself more settled in against my shoulder, just like a cat that has no motivation to leave a warm lap no matter what the lap has to say about it. He was a stranger to me and probably young enough to be my grandson. I considered my alternatives. He was certainly docile, maybe harmless, and I suspected he couldn't stand up either, just like the guy that was carried out of the bar with his crack hanging out.
I didn't know exactly what to do, it being Mardi Gras and all, but I knew for sure that this drunk had to get out of my car. I wasn't taking him home and I didn't consider just driving him to the sheriff's office or doing anything else that would make both of our plights worse, so I reached over and opened the door next to him.
"You've got to get the f--- out of my car," I said, spitting out the f--- this time as if that would mean something to him but it didn't. So here I am about 40 pounds lighter and nearly that many years older than this party-hardy trying to figure out how to make good on my faux tough talk. Even if I got out of the truck, went around to his side and could yank him out, what good would that do? I can't make him sober and I can't make him stand if he can't stand up by himself, so any attempt to be gentle and considerate just seemed worthless.
I had no choice. I was danced up and worked out and was completely full of myself. Now nothing about being a refined 'golden-ager' with unflappable dignity or any other compassion for my fellow human sufferer made any difference so I just shoved him out of the open door into the rainy gutter. He landed like limp spaghetti, rolled over with his legs up and I ended up banging the open door against his knees until he got out of the way so I could slam the door and lock it.
And that was enough Mardi Gras for me for one night.
Back home, as I told my wife all about my Mardi Gras adventures I decided that I now know that it's all about drinking. I may never figure out anything about how to down serious booze but I'm learning that it must be okay for people to do that, if they can still stand up, and at Mardi Gras, how could it be any different.
"So what else can you say about Mardi Gras?" my wife asked. She is always so patient with me, no matter how idiotic I am.
"Well, I guess I learned that maybe I still have a tad of an issue about drunks curling up in my car. I guess I should lighten up on that negativity, like, chill, y' know." Okay. I was just winging this conversation and I didn't know what the right answer was, but maybe I could get off easy?
"And did you learn anything about locking your car?" she asked.
