I've not written for a few days because I have been working more than usual and I've been a bit lazy. So, I've copied this old post from Breaking Free, because it's yet another reminder of how fucked up I was. This is one of only two posts written by somebody other than my mother or myself, and the only thing on Fixing Broken not written by me. But it is bout me, and it's scary and real. Enjoy.
The following story is about me, from the perspective of a friend of mine that has a much better memory than I do. I knew that this story existed, and I knew when I heard it the other day that I was in one of those blackouts where somehow you can still walk and talk or, in my case stumble and mumble. I asked my friend, we’ll call him Kenny, to write it out for me so I could put it on the blog. If I had actually remembered that night, it may have beat out my arson night for my worst 24. So, here goes….
I (Kenny) had just gotten off work and was probably texting everyone to see if there was anything going on that night. Vince, one of our friends, told me they were all out drinking at our mutual acquaintance’s private campground. I grabbed a few beers knowing they would have more there if I ran out, or, god forbid, we’d start on the whiskey. I arrived there shortly after the call and we promptly began drinking and bullshitting.
As the night progressed, all but three of us had gone home or to sleep. Vince, Brad (a coworker at the time) and myself. I had been texting a girl I knew from Rochester, and she invited us to her friend’s house to hang out and drink. Brad’s car was the only one with enough gas, so after convincing him to let me drive us all there, we were on our way.
We were all drinking on the way. Vince would occasionally ask me if one of the girls would have sex with him, and Brad would remind me that he has an open warrant. We finally arrived at this trailer park (which was half of the town) and got to the address. Nobody home. We waited, and I tried to keep Vince “calm.” He would all of a sudden walk around the trailer and pull on the window frames.
We sat in the car and gave the girls ten minutes to get there before we took off. Just in time, they showed up. The two of them brought us inside and we start handing beers out trying to figure out how to have any fun. The one that I didn’t know went into another room and my friend [not Vince] followed. 10-15 minutes went by. Us boys were sitting and staring at each other when I finally wen to see what the girls were doing. I opened the bedroom door and both girls were taking turns inhaling Dusters [the canned air used to clean computer keyboards]. Vince popped up behind me, made a comment on how it had been a while since he had done it. They offered him a can and he took a lung full. I had never seen people do this before so it made me worried and uncomfortable.
One girl passed out and began shaking in the corner of a bathroom. After a while I made an excuse so we could leave soon. Vince was in one of their rooms going in and out of a drunken/duster stupor on her bed. He kept telling me we needed to stay because the girl was going to fuck him, but she was in another room doing more duster.
I managed to get Vince to the door. Before I left though I went into the room with the girls and took the can of Duster. They made a fuss and tried to get it back. Vince pretty aggressively pushed me and took the can. He gave it back to them and tried once more to stay with them and failed.
We left and wound up at Denny’s restaurant in Rochester. I’m sure Vince verbally assaulted the waiter after he brought him multiple shots of syrup. He got up a few times with a steak knife and followed the waiter back to the kitchen. Fortunately, the waiter never saw it. We finally made our way back to Fountain. End of story….
VINCE here. I have no idea why I had shots of syrup. My guess is that I tried aggressively to order booze which they do not have at Denny’s. Also I had never tried Duster before or after that night. I am grateful to Kenny for putting up with me that night. Who knows how many stories are out there that I will never remember. Stories I hope to never have to hear.
