A friend of mine, who will remain anonymous,, is somewhat famous for his antics while under the influence of intoxicating beverage. He has entertained me on several evenings with his seemingly endless tales of misadventure while partying it up. Recently however, I was informed of his latest, and perhaps greatest, escapade second hand. I can't wait to see "Bob" and give him shit over this one.
I'm told that, about 11 days ago, "Bob" and a group of revelrous friends hit the Fan for some bar hopping and fun on a Friday afternoon. With Bob at the wheel of his Volvo wagon, they found a parking place within easy walking distance of their final waterhole of the evening before returning home to their spouses and children. I guess that "one for the road" multiplied and by the time Bob was ready to head home, he had a full fledged pisser of a buzz on. Well, when the group rounded the corner of the block they left the car in, Bob was sobered a bit to find his Volvo was gone…vanished. Realizing that Volvo station wagons are a hot commodity among the chop shop set, Bob knew immediately what had occurred. Some sonovabitch had gone and stole his damn car! Old Bob, being the ever resourceful one, knew exactly what to do. He did what any self respecting drunk man would do in that same situation. He called his wife and asked her what to do. Needless to say, she arranged to get the boys safely home while making all the requisite phone calls to the police and insurance company to report the crime, allowing Bob to do the only thing he could in this situation, remain drunk until further notice.
If you have ever been the victim of a car theft, you know what a pain in the ass it is. There's all the red tape and reports to be filed while you are suffering the emotional toil of feeling simultaneously boiling mad and sadly violated. The cops offer little or no reassurance that your car will ever be found in one piece again and the insurance company won't budge until completing the process of making sure your car is actually stolen and won't be found. Bob and his wife spent a week of ritualistic phone tag with the police and the insurance company, hoping in vain for some break in the case. Everyday it was more of the same: no leads yet and not enough time had elapsed to process a claim. After a week of this frustration, Bob had had enough. It was Friday, a week since the theft, and the next course of action became amazingly clear... go drinking down in the fan. With a buddy volunteering his chauffer service for the evening, the group of merry pranksters hit the saloons again, with a vengeance.
Well, the next part of the saga reminds me of a story an old drunk man once related to me. It appears that, in the recesses of the human brain, there is a secret memory compartment to which admittance is permitted by only one key. And that key is copious amounts of, you guessed it, alcohol. When Bob and his friends exited the bar last Friday evening, Bob decided to ask the group's indulgence as he mosied up the street to the scene of the crime one week earlier. As he approached the corner and peered down the side street, he sadly noted that there was still no car sitting where he had happily left it. But instead of turning to make the trudge back to his friends, that last swill of beverage, from moments earlier, kick started the magical process the old drunk man described to me. That secret memory compartment opened just a crack. Without realizing exactly why, Bob kept walking until he reached the corner of the next block. That side street looked much the same as the previous one with one notable exception. His Volvo station wagon was sitting among the rows of parked automobiles, exactly where he had left it approximately 168 hours earlier.
Well, feelings of relief at this discovery were instantly tempered with a sinking dread as Bob did what any self respecting drunk man would do in this situation. Bracing himself for the avalanche of shit preparing to hit him, he called his wife with the good news.
From what I hear, Bob is still in the early phases of living this one down. While I feel for him and don't want to pour any salt in this gaping wound of embarrassment, I'm secretly plotting how and when to bring this one up the next time we're together. I do hope it's not too long before his wife lets him back in the house so we can plan a little party.