TheBanyanTree: Ashes to Ashes

[Monique Colver]

Well, look, I can't really talk about this now. Not that I CAN'T, but who
wants to read another story about ashes? No, I must time my stories for a
time when everyone is not overwhelmed with ashes, or no one will read my
stories, and if no one will read my stories, I shall be sad. I'm sure you
don't want me to be sad, do you? So no story about ashes for you!

Let's talk about last night. I'd had a difficult week. By difficult, I mean,
of course, that I had to get up and go to work every day, among other
things, which means I'm like most people (i.e., we have to earn a living
somehow.) By the time we were finished with our Sound expedition yesterday
(and a beautiful day it was for it too, with wonderful blue skies, calm
weather, no episodes of sea sickness . . . ) I was emotionally
exhausted. Perhaps the best way to deal with emotional exhaustion such as
this is to rest and reflect calmly. This is a nice idea, is it not? So
instead I texted my friend R (names not fully spelled out in order to
provide the poor girl some anonymity), and said, "I need a drink. Or many."

R responded in the affirmative that she would be happy to take care of that
for me. Andrew, the workaholic, had to study for a big test, so he dropped
me off at R's store before heading back to our hotel, where he would
sequester himself for the evening as he studied personality psych. For those
of you thinking that this is height of irony, you would be correct. I keep
telling people that someday I will have my very own in-house psychologist,
and people nod wisely and say, "A very good idea. You will save a fortune on
therapy costs."

R left work early, after much confusion about everyone's schedule. As the
sole female in charge of organizing a bunch of guys, and computer guys at
that, it is her responsibility to ensure there's coverage in the store six
days a week. This it not as easy as it sounds, since even R's own husband
can't seem to recall which days he's off, and which days he's not. She got
them straightened out, further impressing me with her ability to Make People
Cooperate, and we left for The Rock, which is neither a movie about Alcatraz
nor a second rate actor, but a place that claims to have the best wood fired
pizza. I wouldn't know, since I'd eaten just recently and didn't intend to
have any.

One of The Rock's other charms, and one R wanted to share with me, was their
bucket. Bucket of grog I think it was. We sat down and we ordered a bucket
for me, and a water for R. Later she would go all out and order a Coke too.

My bucket showed up. It actually IS a bucket, the kind you get your child
when they want to play in the sand at the beach, and it comes with a little
plastic shovel too. It also comes with rum and fruit punch and ice. It's
like a complete package. Fortunately I got a red bucket, so I squealed like
a girl (I AM a girl, so it's okay) -- you see, I get to keep the bucket as a
souvenir.

DISCLAIMER: I am attempting to be a serious and well known literary presence
in the literary world. Therefore, I must undertake a rigorous process of
making myself an obnoxious sort of drunkard with the understanding that it's
all for my art. True artists are, after all, troubled angst ridden sots, and
my so far idyllic existence in the suburbs as an accountant does not provide
much fodder for a literary memoir. In my quest, I shall disdain the use of
illegal substances because 1) I wouldn't have any idea of how to obtain such
things, and 2) my husband wouldn't allow it.

DISCLAIMER 2: I'm not much of a drinker these days. I hit my peak of drunken
embarrassments when I was 19 and discovered that the military was so pleased
to have me as a member that they didn't mind at all that I spent every night
in their clubs in a drunken stupor, and that they didn't even mind that I'd
wander around base with a bottle of rum or whiskey in a brown paper bag,
taking slugs from it as I wandered like a drunken homeless guy on skid row.
By the time I reached legal drinking age the novelty had started to wear
off, and while I do have a drink from time to time, I've also been known to
go for six months or more having nothing stronger than a lemonade because I
just don't feel like it. I TALK about drinking a lot as I build my persona
of a drunken literary sot, but it's all show.

Sometimes there's nothing like a bucket of grog to make one feel better. I
knew that one bucket would be enough for me, given my limited capacity for
drink, but alas, I reached the bottom of my bucket and knew I must have
another. It helps that R was my designated driver, and it also helped that R
doesn't seem to mind when I get really weird. I think R kinda likes it. It
also helps that she ordered some food for me to snack on. She's very
thoughtful that way. It also helps that she finds me amusing and doesn't
object to my endless stories. I let her tell stories too, every now and
then, just to keep her interested.

I made a trip to the restroom, and R told me to look for the Beatles and the
purple flames. This confused me a great deal, since I'd never been to The
Rock, at least not this one, but I looked. I never did see the Beatles,
though I later learned, on a subsequent trip, that I walked right past them.
The purple flames were on the stalls in the restrooms, and I must admit,
they were some of the prettiest stalls I've ever seen, if one likes purple
flames on black. Fortunately I do, though not as much as R. Last time she
was at The Rock she asked an artist acquaintance if she could do the same
sort of artwork in R's bedroom. The acquaintance said yes, of course she
could, though after her recovery from the alcohol R is thinking that it
might not be such a good idea after all.

I knew I was reaching my limit when I started talking like Yoda.
Unintentionally.

So I drank two buckets of grog. The second came in an orange bucket, which
delighted me immensely, though at that point everything was delighting me
immensely, and after the second The Rock will serve you no more buckets.
Only two, and that is their limit, for then they suspect you will fall over
and sue them, I'm guessing. Instead, when one is getting close to finishing
the second bucket, they suggest an alternative drink -- one that isn't like
5 drinks in one, one that, in my case, was raspberry-ish and vodka-like, and
was like a dessert. This is to, I'm guessing, keep me from ordering another
bucket so they don't have to tell me no. ("No more buckets for you!")

After the drinks the evening was still young, and R asked if I'd like to go
back to my hotel, or if I wanted to do something else. She suggested a few
things, so of course I jumped at the one option that makes perfect sense
when one has been imbibing heavily -- we went book shopping! Barnes and
Noble on a Friday night is a happening place, and they don't mind if I
stumble just a bit when perusing the books. I picked out four books -- not
entirely my fault, since three of them were in the "buy 2, get the 3rd free
category" and the other one was a discount book, and made my way to the
checkout. R was somewhere, but I thought if I didn't check out I'd buy a
half dozen more books. At the register I handed over my membership card and
my credit card, and then the clerk asked for my ID.

Oh. My ID. Seems there's a problem with my ID. I HAVE ID, but last week my
husband scanned it for me so I could send it somewhere important. Ever
since, my ID has been residing happily in the scanner, and I forgot to
collect it before we left town. I tried to explain this to the clerk, and
I'm fairly certain that my drunken explanation made absolutely no sense to
her. I was also, while explaining, looking around for R, thinking that
perhaps she could rescue me before they had me arrested for impersonating
myself. This is where the story should get interesting enough to be included
in my memoir: the clerk, let's say, decides I'm up to no good and calls the
cops, who show up with five cop cars and then attempt to find out what's
going on. I say the wrong thing or pull a weapon on them (I may have had
nail clippers in my purse, I'm not sure), and they haul me off to jail.
Three weeks or three years later I'm still trying to get released, and the
Innocence Project takes on my case since it's obviously a gross miscarriage
of justice.

Alas, the clerk takes a second look at me and decides that with a purchase
of thirty dollars it's not likely I'm a master criminal, especially given my
slurred speech, and she whispers something about, "It's only thirty dollars,
so you wouldn't be liable anyway," and she gives me my books. I am elated! I
have gone through an ID process without showing an ID! It's as if I AM a
master criminal! Of course, the money still comes out of my checking
account, so it's not as if I've gotten away with anything.

After Barnes and Noble we head over to Half Price Books, and I discover they
have first and collector's editions! I am enthralled, but the wording on the
books is difficult to read in my altered state, as well as my judgment being
severely impaired, so I opt for a fairly recent mid-list book instead. They
don't even ask for my ID, so I'm not able to test out my criminal skills
again.

Since I found myself starting to drift off in Half Price Books R then takes
me back to my hotel. She comes in with me, and we regale Andrew with stories
of our wild adventure. And here is yet another reason why I love this man:
When I tell him I'm still without my ID he says, "It's a good thing they
didn't card you then!"

Isn't that for people who don't look old enough to be drinking? Not people
who look like they could have grandchildren? Technically, I COULD have
grandchildren, though first I would have had to have had a child, right?

R and Andrew make me drink several glasses of water. Rather bossy they are.

It occurred to me today what a wonderful tribute to Stew the night was. Not
the overdrinking part, though I myself found it much fun and had an
excellent time, and that he would approve of, but going to bookstores. He
would have been right there with me, propping me up and showing me a few
good books. All in all, a very successful ending to the day.

M