untitled

I hate going into meetings blind but then I assume that most people are too fond of it either. I get to go to lot of surprise meetings. “Come with me where going to Elm Street to meet some people,” I’ll hear and then ask what the meeting is about and then be told that we’ll find out when we get there. Great.
But folks know I will not make any hasty decisions and if an answer is required on the spot most likely it will be a good one. But I still hate it. I don’t understand why folks can’t ask: So what’s this meeting about?
When I take a phone message, I always ask what the message is about.
…
I turned on the computer to compose an ad but I ended up browsing the internet.
…

I hadn’t seen her since last Friday when she was helped out the back door to a cab. I had been worried about how she was going to get home even though her house was in walking distance. The manager decided a taxi was the best solution.

There were parts of that night that I can’t remember and there are some parts that I wish I couldn’t remember. She knew she had a few more shots than I had, I remember five for me and four additional ones for her. I standing with the manager towards the end of the night concerned over her as she sat on the stairs down to the kitchen.
I was drinking beers and maybe had five which may have brought the amount of alcohol we consume to about equal but I definitely out weigh her at the very least by ninety-five pounds. She’s fit; I’m not.

The next morning I took some blame for her state because it was I that suggested we do shots. I took some blame for the last time someone got to a state where they couldn’t stand because they were doing shots with me too.

She mentioned last week before anything else and told me what had happened after she left. There’s a puking fee involved with some taxi rides, so her trip of five city blocks cost her sixty bucks. I was glad to hear that one of her friends went to her house to check on her when he couldn’t get her on her cell phone. She was on the kitchen floor when he found her but got her to the shower and then to bed before he left and when he returned to check on her at 4:40AM she was up and about and fine.

My worse was that I could remember sitting eating those chicken strips from some McDonalds but I couldn’t remember walking there or leaving there or taking the subway home. When I got home I kicked off my shoes and laid on my bed and passed out for a couple hours. When I came to at about 2:30AM, I took off my street clothes and my contact lens and tried to sleep.

She couldn’t remember when I had left the week before but she knew I saw her not able to stand because she asked the manager about it. He told her that I had been quite concerned.

I think she was worried that my opinion of her might have changed which I thought might have been the case so after I settled my bill I handed her a gift card to Starbucks.

“What’s this for?”

“Because I think I’d overheard you say that you love Starbucks, once.”

The regular seated next to me asked what I had given her because she had came out from behind that bar to give me a hug and tell me that I’m the best.

The same regular then goes on to tell me of all the nice things he does for bartenders. One of which is giving them gift card to Victoria Secrets. I didn’t bother to tell him that bartenders find gift cards for lingerie from patrons a bit creepy. I don’t give the bartenders anything that I wouldn’t give to one of my sisters but that’s just some private rule I have.

I stayed for four beers; I had calculated that four beers couldn’t be considered a short stay but it also wasn’t going to tie up my night. All in all I think we both survived and are even slightly better friends now.