Making Frijoles on the Window

Drunk David and Goliath

He No Pisso

by Matt Walker

We’re in Madrid. We spent the afternoon leaning out our hostel window, staring at the prostitutes on the corner five stories below. We must have remained hanging there for some time. We began naming the prostitutes, cataloging them and picking favorites. We watched them disappear with men down narrow allies, and reappear once again, alone and ready. We all wanted to talk to one, just to play with the idea of what was probably the dirtiest thing a nineteen-year-old-boy could do. Logan and Ben left to go buy 40 oz. bottles of San Miguel, Zack took a shower, and I leaned, head fixed, with the afternoon sun on my shoulders.

By nightfall we were ready to begin our drunken American parade down main streets we’ve never heard of, in front of people we aimed to impress with our non-Spanishiness. But it was Tuesday, and Spain had already retired for the evening. The four of us, nevertheless, still managed to find a nice strip of bars and discotheques. As we were walking, a small, dark man approached us on the sidewalk and handed us pieces of paper that read

One Free Shot at La Fiesta! 

or some other cliché Spanish bar name. We couldn’t believe it. We followed the man into the empty bar, where the sound pressure seemed to express the manager’s sentiments about the Tuesday night turn out.  We handed the bored bartender our slips of paper, and, lo and behold, a shot! Since we were already drunk, having over slept and been under-fed that day, we had no desire to actually buy another drink, as the marketing technique would have projected. We exited the empty bar feeling a tinge of guilt, thinking to ourselves, “Hope thing’s pick up, guys!” 

Back on the empty sidewalk, another man of roughly the same stature as the first one approached us and offered us the same deal. We promptly filed into his empty bar, and presented our free-shot documentation.  This process occurred approximately five more times before I realized that Tuesday night’s were on Spain’s tab, and that I had to piss like I have never had to piss before.

As the minutes passed, my agenda of fun transformed into “Piss now, somewhere, before you pee your pants.” As I searched frantically for a dirty ally, a dumpster, an alcove, a big truck, a playground set, my time was running dangerously low. I felt that soon, the brain signals I was sending to my bladder and abdominal region to simply “hold on” would be overpowered with a Niagara Falls-like force. There was nothing in sight except for the glow of an entrance to an underground parking garage about a block away.

“Wait!” I thought, “I have to pee, it’s 1:30 am, I am in Spain, and there is a parking garage about a block away.” This inference led me to the purely logical conclusion that I must piss in the parking garage. In a near sprint, I slurred some signals to my motley crew of Americans that I would be heading to the garage to relieve myself. As I entered the mouth of the yellow glowing concrete beast, I scurried around the curve of the wall where no one could see. In my inebriated state, the solitude nevertheless gave me comfort. As I unzipped my jeans and assumed the stance to release the mounting pressure in my abdomen, I looked up, and there it was, 7 feet in the air and 5 feet in front of me, violating the space I had made mine.: a security camera. Security cameras, I decided, deliver security footage. To what? To a small black and white television. In American movies, those televisions are usually watched by sleepy, overweight security guards. But, I was in Spain, and there was an overweight Spanish security guard barreling toward me as I fastened my pants.

I turned and ran, ran like drunk lightening, with mad, mad Spanish words at my back. I still hadn’t peed. I stopped to turn around and explain. Bad idea. The heavy guard, with all his musk and hair and moisture grabbed my wrist and berated my in a language I finally desired to know. My friends overheard the noise and came to my aide at the mouth of the garage. Logan had taken three years of high school Spanish, but managed only, “Him, no pisso.”  The guard threatened, in broken English, to call the police, and it became clear that he was not going to release me from his grip until the situation was resolved. In some miraculous feet of verbal and non-verbal communication, we explained to the guard that I hadn’t actually peed, that I had taken the initial steps, but saw the camera and ran away. He understood us, but didn’t believe us. Finally, after minutes of broken lines of pleading explanation, I gestured to the guard that I would show him where I no pisso. We eventually came to the agreement that we would walk to the site, and, if there was pee, we all would clean it up, and, if there was no pee, we were free to go.

There we were at the top of the street, four drunk American boys and one large, hairy, sweaty Spanish security guard. Bathed in yellow light, the five of us turned to descend into the beast to see where I didn’t pee. When we reached the spot, around the curve of the wall, we gathered around in a reverent semi-circle before the security camera. It was dry. The guard relinquished his grip around my wrist, and announced. “Go, Go!” gesturing his hands as if he were freeing wild animals from captivity. Hurrying backward up the street, we ran and stubmled together into the night yelling, “Muchas Gracias!”

How Rum and Coke Almost Killed Me

Drunk Cinderella

My Shower Runneth Over

Or, How We Got Banned From the Hampton Inn

by Siri Yardumian-Grubb

The Brannon brothers threw a mean after-party.  We packed fifteen, sometimes twenty, people into an undersized, overpriced hotel room.  The parties were sloppy and bawdy, and, invariably, somebody got drunk to the point of puking.  We had managed to elude hotel management for many such weekends, despite obvious and sometimes very embarrassing occasions when someone would go looking for the ice machine and get lost on the way back. 

This particular night – the last of the hotel parties – the imprudent desk clerk had given us a non-smoking room.  Aside from all of the regular smokers who were too drunk to find their way outside, we had some specialized smokers who required a particular measure of discretion.  After disabling the smoke detector, we carried on as usual, until someone pointed out that the room was going to smell decidedly of smoke if we continued.  So we relegated all smokers to the bathroom.  Of course, the bathroom didn’t have a fan, but someone suggested we turn on the hot water.  I guess steam was supposed to make the smoke disappear. 

With all of us crammed into the bathroom, intrinsically stupid and particularly cognitively impaired, it wasn’t long before somebody suggested a sauna.  We turned on the hot water in the shower, stuffed a towel under the door, and all began shedding layers of clothing.

I find, when the balance of the sexes runs heavy on girls in a hotel bathroom sauna, the few boys make sure everyone gets doused with a good measure of water.  Those girls who were reluctant to voluntarily step into the shower got blasted by the swivel showerhead.  Inevitably, the bathroom flooded.  There was nothing we could do about the saturated carpet outside the bathroom door.  We passed out soaking wet and woke up just in time for check out.

The Brannon brothers received a very cold but polite letter from hotel management shortly thereafter regretfully informing them that they and their guests were no longer welcome at the Hampton Inn.  They cited the waterlogged carpet and the illicit number of occupants.  No mention was made of the smell of smoke, though.

 

 

The Mysterious Case of Matt H and the Drunk Stairs

 

by Anna L. Neiger

Matt H is my friend, this law school student who is unlike any other law school student I’ve ever met. He’s absolutely insane (but the good kind of insane), with this crazy red hair and big, drunk eyes. He occasionally wears footy pajamas and enjoys showing his balls–just his balls–to unsuspecting party-goers. Usually, when we hang out, we drink. We are young, we live in Chicago, and the alcohol flows from the taps and occasionally, we are there to drink it. But the problem with Matt H is that when he’s drunk, he has trouble with stairs. And by trouble, I mean he falls down them. A lot.

The first case involved a ladder. Now, I know what you’re thinking; ladders aren’t exactly stairs. But they’re close enough, right? Anyhow, this ladder was white and made out of wood. It wasn’t very tall, but it lived in my old apartment on Hampden and Diversey, and it led up to this little cubby hole above our coat closet. The cubby hole was the perfect size for a twin mattress and a person or two to fit in, so we liked to call it our extra bedroom. Matt H and I, along with my roommates and his friend Jay (who I wanted so badly to kiss) had been drinking at Galway Bay, a bar that was pretty much spitting distance from the apartment. After the bar closed, we all stumbled back home; my roommates went to bed and Matt H, Jay and I smoked cigarettes on our balcony and slurred drunk philosophy to each other.

I wasn’t yet aware of Matt H’s penchant for falling off things while inebriated, so I didn’t worry about him out on the balcony, the railing of which was barely knee high. I didn’t worry about him climbing into the extra bedroom to pass out, either. Except I should have, because no sooner had he ascended to the top of the ladder, then he came crashing down, slamming to the floor and nearly smacking his head on the bright red toilet one of my roommates had trash picked and placed in our living room to serve as a chair.

Luckily, Matt H survived the experience with nary a scratch. Although I’m sure there was some bruising involved.

Or maybe he wasn’t so lucky, because only a few weeks later, we were at an after party with a band we’d just been to see at the Elbo Room. I’d had way too much to drink; I can’t even remember where the party was, and I’m not entirely convinced I ever knew. But what I do remember is Matt H and I whispering loudly in the hallway at the top of a rather steep set of stairs. I was probably asking him about why Jay hadn’t tried to kiss me yet, and he was probably trying to let me down easy for his friend, and I was probably having none of it. Someone from inside the party stuck his head out the door, warning us to be quiet, and Matt H gestured wildly, announcing with his arms flailing that we were sorry and we promised to be quiet from this second on. But he was drunk and the flamboyant gesturing upset his balance and he went tumbling down the stairs head first, backwards with his eyes wide and slightly panicked. And loudly. Matt H is a very loud faller.

He escaped this tumble relatively unharmed, although he did call me the next morning to complain of his sore back and inform me that he never fell down the stairs drunk unless he was with me, which I didn’t believe, not even for a second. Nevertheless, I’ve learned my lesson; don’t let Matt H near stairs unaided when he’s been drinking.

Thank god that boy lives in a garden apartment and only has to navigate roughly six steps on a regular basis.