It was a Friday evening, I had gotten paid the day before, and was in the mood for strong drink. There were murmurs around the office that a few people were headed out for drinks, to blow off some steam after a long week. My brown friend Jasdeep informs me he had been invited out, and upon further solicitation I found myself welcomed as well, 7:30 came and we were both done work and off to the agreed upon watering hole.
Scatterbrained as I am, I neglected to write down any pertinent information regarding its location. It seemed Ben had told me it was on 7th ave and somewhere, maybe 1st street?
"By the train station." he had said.
Even then, is it 1st street S.E. or S.W? Our liquor hunger was growing to a frenzy, and we were getting impatient. I was sure the name started with a P.
Paradox? Paradigm? Jaz suggested something that wasn't even English, and I cursed him, for he is a master of language, but not the one that was important, the one that mattered RIGHT NOW.
"Curse your Punjabi gibberish" I told him, wondering if this night would end early and alone with a bottle of whiskey like so many before it.
To make matters worse, we were in a less than amicable area of downtown. The kind of places with pawn shops that have giant metal doors to keep out undesirables after closing, the kind of place where restaurants display faded signs made from sharpie advertising "hamburgurs".
"I saw I guy shoot up there once." my company advises me.
At this point I would have almost preferred the streets of Karachi. At least I would have had a translator. There was certainly no possibility of dealing with the locals here. They ran the show.
Then I saw it, like a soda machine in the Sahara.
"AH!" I exclaimed, suddenly feeling foolish, "The Palomino!"
Don't get me wrong this was no Ritz, but it was a refuge from the street, with familiar faces, cold alcohol and a steady dose of rockabilly music. I ordered a pitcher straight away and it was gone in no time.
Our company contingent quickly amassed a large presence and the evening was spent debating everything from big tobacco, baseball, how China will soon rule the world, and how rap music is destroying black society, etc. It would seem my drunk debate skills were well honed, as I dispatched many a loudmouth coworker with my sheer confidence, agreed upon facts, and a dash of complete bullshit. Interspersed with the odd dash outside to puff a pipe. It made for quite the evening.
By this time my brown friend had become quite inebriated and had been cut off by the bar. Clearly lacking the moxie I required in a adventure companion, I began searching for a new one. My next minority sidekick was a Filipino coworker named Jomar. Together we pledged to go balls out and if we woke up in Mexico, or in prison, or in a Mexican prison, then that at least we would have a way to get out of work.
In retrospect, our plan was heinously flawed. It was getting late, we were quite trashed, and we both had baggage that would slow us down (I had bought a flower for Chelsea). We decided we would take the bus, get some pizza, drop his satchel off at his house, then walk to mine, drop off the flower and acquire more contraband. It was a good plan it theory, but try telling that to a girlfriend agitated beyond belief that you had the audacity to come home at 1 am, stinking drunk, with some stranger, and you were planning on leaving again. The rose just didn't cut it.
Surprise! I left anyways.
"A conversation bar" was what we needed according to Jomar. So we hit a pub around the corner and got in another round before last call. That said, this wasn't the right type of place. There was a dance floor packed with the most ridiculous types of people. So much in fact that I just walked to the centre of it and openly mocked every male there.
Ravenously craving a hot dog with PB, J and Cap'n Crunch, we were disappointed and had to settle for a Tim Horton's nightcap, after which we parted company.
Eventually, Chelsea pulled me in off the stairwell and I found my way to bed.
Apparently word around the office is that I'm a crazy bastard. Aided perhaps by my heroic heroin beer consumption (at least 8 when 2 is usually enough) at the last team attended Flames game. Honestly I can't really blame 'em, and if anything I wonder how I managed to keep my true self hidden for so long.