...and Dang, I Wish I'd Had A Video Recorder
Monday was the Boy's 24th birthday, and after allowing us to take him out to dinner and then getting his presents, he went out with his friends to really celebrate. Because, truly, it's not Happy Birthday until someone pours the first beer. Or Long Island Tea.
I went to bed around 12:30, but tossed and turned for over an hour and just couldn't fall asleep; right about the time I was going to give up and get up, I heard a car door outside, followed a minute or two later by what I thought was the door opening.
Good. He's home.
But then something didn't feel right. I slid out of bed and padded down the hall, where I could look over the banister and peek downstairs. I didn't hear any footsteps, no sound coming from the bathroom, so I looked at the door--
--and there he was, outside, his forehead pressed to the glass window. Now, our front door sticks sometimes, so I assumed he just couldn't get the latch to spring, and went downstairs to open the door for him.
By the time I got there, he was bent over, trying to pick his keys up from the ground. I opened the door and there he was, weaving slightly as he stood there, keys in hand.
"Are ya drunk?" I asked, knowing the answer.
"How'd you get home?"
"So your car's not here?"
I then asked if he needed help getting into his room, and as he stumbled over the 2 stairs that lead into the hallway he said, "I'm fine." He went into his room, and I went upstairs, where I told the Spouse Thingy the Boy was home and very, very, very drunk; I went into my office and turned my computer back on because I really was awake by then. And yes, I was laughing at the Boy. He was not just three sheets to the wind; he was toasted, $hit-faced, and wasted.
A few minutes later, something again didn't seem right. It was too quiet downstairs. I went down; the Boy was not in his room. Nor in the bathroom. A shadow moved past the front door...I went back upstairs and told the Spouse Thingy I thought the Boy was wandering around outside.
And he was. He still had his house keys in hand, and was over by the convertible, which is parked on the side street. I called out his name and he stepped onto the grass, looking very confused and not quite sure what the problem was.
"Why are you out here?"
"Sorry." He stood there with keys clenched between fingers, leaning a bit to the left.
"Get inside," the Spouse Thingy said, to which the Boy replied, "Sorry."
The Spouse Thingy took him by the arm and guided him in, where in Rainman-clipped-tones said "Sorry" as they went over the two stairs, "Sorry," as the Spouse Thingy asked if he needed help, "Sorry" as he turned around. I watched, laughing behind a hand held to my mouth.
Then he either tried to sit on the edge of his bed or was just turning around; either way he missed and wound up on the floor. "I'm fine," he said as he was helped up.
"How much did you drink?"
"Mmmmorrre than I should have..." His longest sentence of the moment.
"Do you need help getting into bed?"
"I'm fine." A bucket was brought to his room. "I'm fine." Spouse Thingy went back a few minutes later to get his keys (while his car was not home, we wanted to see if he'd dropped his house keys outside.) "I'm fine." A few minutes later he was seated in a chair in his room... "I'm fine."
We were so sure Rainman was fine that we barricaded the front door and hid all the keys to our car and the motorcycles, and I sat in the living room until 4:30 in the morning, just to be sure he didn't decide to wander around the neighborhood some more.
I crawled back in bed, laid there and listened for another hour, and finally drifted off. The cats graciously allowed me to stay in bed until 10 a.m., after only getting 3 hours sleep, and none of those hours were in a row.
Did he have a hangover?
Ever so slightly.
Did he remember?
LOL Hell no. He was surprised he woke up in his own bed, relieved to find he'd had a ride home (though not from Drew, apparently...), and somewhat amused that the front door was blocked. He has no recollection of what he was doing after 11:30 on the night of his birthday, though today he was informed that he and his friends were at the same bar at 1 a.m. they'd been in at 11:30, he'd worn a balloon-crown and had a balloon-sword (which he popped), and when his friend Nestor dropped him off at home, he got out of the car and walked up to the tree in the front yard, where he tentatively held out a finger to touch it.
I think it's safe to say he had a very good birthday, though he wishes he could remember more of it.
I bet he doesn't drink that much again.
And you can bet we'll give him chit about this for years to come.