Gather round my friends and let me tell you a tale of woe and wonderment.
As you all know, Wes has recently taken the title for palest man on Maui. While this may be new news, the real story is how he got there.
It all started Thursday, September 12th at 5:29 as Wes made his way to visit his Bay Area friends before retiring to the islands at the ripe age of however old he is.
Wes landed in Oakland slightly before 5:29 and let me know that he was heading to the exit to get a cab. Little did he know that this would be the first fateful mistake in a long line of mistakes made that day.
10 minutes later I receive the following text:
“My cab just got rear ended.”
I immediately call him to make sure the dude is fine. He is. A little annoyed, but mostly impressed with the exemplary examples of Berkeley 20 somethings that managed to hit the cab. Apparently their crunchiness was only bested by the fact that their weed inhalation most likely had everything to do with this accident. After exchanging information, Wes is on the road again.
A few minutes later, I receive the following:
“Fucking a. Fatal motorcycle crash up the fwy too.”
“That was fucking gross.”
“They were just scooping him up.”
“His bike was lodged in he wheel well of a big rig.”
With that unsettling image in mind I welcomed him to San Francisco. Fastforward 25 minutes and we are at my house eating a little pizza before heading out. Little do I realize that Wes made a fateful decision and barely ate anything for dinner.
We head down to Rosaumnde were fellow morons Thomas and Xander awaited us. Xander had a free pass so was ready for imbibing. We past time drinking and chatting and received an awesome text from Greg ordering me to buy a round for the group on Greg. Sobriety was waning.
As we leave Rosamunde, Wes mentions that he only wants to go to a bar where we can watch the Dodgers v Giants. So we head over to Mission Bar on Mission (kinda shady bar). Xander proceeds to buy a bunch of High Lifes and then Wes says the line of the night.
“I thought you guys could drink beer. I feel like I am the only one drinking.”
Of course, we had matched him beer for beer all night and it was obvious that he was the most intoxicated. So Xander buys another round of High Life’s as we enjoy the game. Wes and I go outside for a smoke and this is where I noticed the deadness of Wes’ eyes and the glorious gait of a hobbled drunkard. While smoking, he sees the bouncer wearing a college shirt from somewhere (I was also drunk). Wes walks up to him pokes him in the chest, slightly rubbing the school’s logo, and asks “What is this all about?”
The bouncer gives him a death stare and slowly explains he went to school there. Wes disagrees.
Wes starts asking all about him and rubs the dude’s shirt again.
I decide to swoop in and take him away. We re-enter the bar to watch the last inning of the game and get another round of the Champagne of Shit Beer. At this point, the bottom of the 9th is in full swing, our sobriety is gone, and all that is left is for Wes to insult the entire bar.
Walkoff hit. Dodgers win. Wes raises his LAD hat in the air and yells Dodgers as Xander, Thomas, and I decide that maybe another bar is in order. As we march him past angry eyes, we are bid farwell with a “FUCK LA.”
Xander is drunk, and wants to drink more. In case no one knows this, but Xander is a bad influence when drinking. Especially sans kid and wife.
Xander wants to play shuffleboard. So we go to Doc’s Clock after leaving Thomas at Bart. Xander and I patiently wait for the table while Wes continues to drink. I don’t know how much during this time as I was not paying attention to him. It appears to be during this time that inebriation escalates.
After a really crappy shuffle board game, I call it quits. “I have work tomorrow” I explained. Xander calls me a pussy. Wes says something but it was hardly coherent. Xander wants tall boys and if you havent figured it out during this story, Xander gets what he wants.
He runs to the store and comes back with three 24oz Modelos for the walk home, which comprised of about 8 blocks with interspersed hills to make our out of shape drunken bodies sad with lethargy. Heading up the hill, I hear Wes say “Wait up.” I turn to see Wes try to tie his shoes, fall on his ass and spill the entire Modelo all over the ground and a bit on himself.
Xander and I break ribs laughing and realize that tomorrow is going to hurt like a mother fucker. I finally get Wes home where we smoke and talk. Wes goes to the bathroom and quietly vomits and returns. He promptly falls asleep. At 7 AM when going out the door, I give Wes one of our keys for our house and leave for work.
I receive the following text:
“You roofied me or something. Where am I? What’s going in?”
“Dude, for just drinking beer, I’m fuckin tilted today. Did I go do shots that I don’t remember?”
Thus began a weekend that would end with Wes losing the key to my house, locking himself out twice, contemplating sleeping on the stoop of my friends house while calling me 11 times at 1 AM.
It was the best of times and it was the worse of times. Actually, it was the Wes-est of times. Drunken, sloppy, and a barrel of fun.