21. THANK GOD.

God, it is good to have Chrissy home. LOVE that girl. She arrived with bountiful presents and a particularly intriguing card - a simple white piece of homemade paper, with a black and white photo on the front of a photo of a sleeping baby... and a bottle of beer.


Inside: "My childhood was a blur." Appropriate, huh? But better still was her note: "Don't worry, I'll be there to pick your drunken ass off the streets of Boston." The foreshadowing - though slightly off - is immensely ironic.


After a delightful dinner with the fam outdoors in the Back Bay, the “youngins” returned to my Mass Ave apartment for the real festivities. My friend Dianne came, with her friend, and her friend’s friends. The more the merrier.



At this point, I can’t quite recall what we were drinking… but we drank. Heavily. Dane Cook was on Saturday Night Live. And that’s about the time I realized it was midnight – so off to the bars we went.

The Temple is a nice bar lost in the no-man’s-land between Harvard and Porter Square. Love the ambiance, but in my quasi-drunken state, the service sucked. 20 seconds at the table and I was already abound for the bar (with Chrissy at my side, like the incredible friend she is) – where, as usual, they didn’t card me.

“Guess what?”

Like the bartender cared. But he responded with a polite, “What?”

“It’s my birthday.”

“Ooooo, how old?”

I smiled wickedly, ran my fingers along the mahogany bar. “Guess?”

He finished the cocktail he was mixing, leaned his hands on the bar and took a few seconds to gaze at me. “Twenty three.”

“WRONG!”

And Chrissy whipped out the passport, perfectly on Q.

“Oh my God, 21?!” He was genuinely surprise – then laughed quietly. “And I suppose this is the first time you’ve ever been in a bar?”

Needless to say, he gave Chrissy and I some shots for free… before charging us for the cocktail we brought back to the table.

We sat as a group in that bar for God knows how long. Shots, martinis, a blur of laughter in a haze of great times. That about sums up the night.

I decided one more drink at the bar was appropriate. My friend the bartender asked what we were looking for and, though I don’t remember it, Chrissy said I demanded wine. Not just any wine, though. “I only drink French wine.”

So he poured me a glass of Chilean red. Once finished, the group decided it was time to leave – to go to some place “livelier.” (I think the girls had dancing on the bar in mind.)

And this is where Chrissy’s card comes in.

We were walking towards - as people know tell me – Davis Square, strung out along the sidewalk like a parade. Chrissy was up front with one of the guys, leading the way. Behind him was Dianne’s friend Mala and the other guy. Then me, and Dianne and Alex brought up the rear. I stopped to take in the evening.

It was about then that I noticed the world was a little blurry. Lights streamed across the dark sky - like car lamps in still photography. I turned around to face Dianne and announced with disturbing accuracy, clarity and poise: "I may or may not be sober right now."

And then I fell.

But it wasn't just any fall - it was a drunken fall that would never of happened to one who had not consumed martinis, shots, bottles of wines and possibly some beers.
I lost my balance. A sober person would have found their feet. Mine gave way.
I feel to one knee. A sober person would have risen. I was still thinking about my feet.
I feel to an elbow. A sober person would have put the other hand down, but my hand failed me.
And that’s when I gave up, and - while still staring Dianne in the eyes - I fell flat on my face.

Oops?

I rolled onto my back and looked up from the dirty streets of Cambridge, thinking of Chrissy's card, and met the laughing faces of both my brother - who refused to help me up it was so funny - and Dianne - who quickly came to the rescue.

"That made my night," she said through tears of laughter. "Because now I definitely know that you're fall-down-drunk on your 21st birthday."

: )