Day Two: Nightswimming

Forget home. Fuck Dorothy and all her imaginary friends with their absent vital organs; there’s no place like the Atlanta International Airport. No place like airports in general. Lord, should you bless me with copious amounts of superfluous cash, I'd take trips all over Your massive chocolate creation giving an undue portion of my attention to those grand places where planes land. And such being the case, it should be no secret why I volunteered to join Big Hands in the Courtney Reclamation Project.

It had nothing to do with my affection for the Prodigal Babe, nothing to do with wanting to be among the first to see her again. Shit, I just like airports.

Man, I did the driving. Big Hands in the passenger's side, faint memories of B'bjork in the backseat and the promise of a tiny, freckled and ebon-haired rascal soon to join us, I did the motherfucking driving.

Signs, signs, everywhere were signs but I still parked sixteen years from the South Terminal, which was mostly threatening to the high-heeled J'Doh who in her urge to be as sexually appealing to our old chum as possible had forgotten the missing practicality of sensual fashion. And though I offered, no piggy back rides were given. I do believe she finally figured out how much I enjoy giving them.

The plane landed late and somehow had disappeared from the screens before I could make heads or tails of the situation. Scratching my head and stomping my angry feet, I studied the little TV's hoping for some answer. When a soprano squeal and the crash of colliding happy bodies echoed through the mostly empty waiting area, I turned to discover that the education of a flight schedule at this point would be obsolete. Courtney was flung around the welcoming wagon of Jessica's arms, so I marched silently to join -- noticing how unimportant I really was since they were already making a B-line for baggage claim by the time I got even half way to them.

Faux joy filled the air as Old Faithful saw me stalking behind them, and soon my purpose became to be the mule I was always raised to be. But it took hard work and dedication to get there. The luggage had slipped under our noses and wasn't to be claimed until we were guided to a baffling night club called "the Atlanta Room".

Zoom, zoom, zoom -- after J'Doh spent time empathizing with the handicapped, wheel-chair bound, we were on our way to get fucked up. Oh and not your regular fucked up, but rather, your "let's see old flabby women naked" fucked-up. The Clermont, internationally renown and made public by Dave Atell on Insomniac, this home for aging strippers and bastion of the ‘slumming it’ crowd would be our destination. Maybe even our demise.

To get there meant meeting up with Little Five Points favorite pirate, Cap'n Carrol. Along with her beau, Rich Responsible, and some miscellaneous friends of theirs, we skipped off gaily into the night: never to return to the sweet innocence of not having seen someone's grandmother in her birthday suit. If you can't tell, this was not a trip made at my behest.

We were gathered in a corner near crack machines under the glow of neon beer signs -- the glare of pasty white nudity illuminating all the formerly dark regions. What better way to start getting drunk than to hope it'll alleviate some of the good eyesight I have when I'm sober?

Jager for all! Yee-haw!

Grape-flavored shots for all! Weeee!

Whiskey for me! Oh boy, oh boy!

A tube shot of Jager gently nestled between the leather bound tits of one of the dancers for J'Doh! Har, har, YES!

More Jager, a Tom Collins and whiskey and beer and then you lose count.

Old Faithful had her share of alcohol courtesy of kind strangers who only wanted sex in return. She rewarded their generosity – to their chagrin, I’m sure – with deep, long tongue kissing -- a prize she inadvertently shared with J'Doh and myself in what I can only assume was overzealous appreciation. A couple days removed, she confessed great sorrow for those egregious crimes of passion citing specifically that she shouldn't be kissing people when she's that drunk because she obviously couldn't be that good a kisser when so inebriated. I disagree, but then again, I have latent homosexual tendencies, so what do I know?

Then there was that time when the bartender was an unqualified cunt of a whore. A nice lady, but a cunt of a whore just the same.

When Big Hands required what she called "cherry juice" for her Tom Collins, ol' Grouchy McGee responded, "We don't have no 'cherry juice." She did then suggest grenadine, which she poured liberally while holding an angst ridden face. It was a posture of such grand disgust that one could only assume she believed it to be on par with topping her favorite cereal with sun ripened diarrhea. And after this display of affection, she proceeded to complain about the 75 cent tip I left, telling the guy next to me, “And people wonder why I’m such a cunt.” See, those were her words, not mine so back off.

Truly though, the barkeep's real transgressions came in regards to her ill treatment of our star, Courtney. What exactly transpired remains a mystery but this much is certain, after she did and said what she felt obliged to do and say, C-Money went street thug on her and now she'll be serving drinks three fingers and one eyeball short.

Last call and dammed if the strippers didn't get more attractive. Thankfully, I met up with some chick named Gertrude who let me fondle and makeout so's my sexual urges didn't go hungry. I would have introduced her to all four and a half inches of the manly pleasure I pack, but she got a little too kinky for me, saying shit about wanting me to cover her in cockroaches and butterscotch. I did like the way she emphasized "cock".

We had a problem. The party and the inevitable mass orgy would have to follow someplace else as we were no longer comfortable staying there without alcohol. The Cap'n and Rich Responsible were compassionate enough about the needs of the group to offer their abode as an acceptable and highly attractive next stop.

But first, to Buddy's and with wings, my man.

Buddy's: a gas station, a bathroom stop, an all-night get your beer oasis in the dying breeze of a Southern town. And how. C-Money and I entered. We were on a gravy train with biscuit wheels. I took Cap'n Carrol's money and purchased an 18-pack of Budweiser for her. With my receding funds, I splurged on Warstiner, a 12-pack import. In one of my nicer moods, I threw in a pack of Camel Menthols for my lady companions. It was set, ready, go. Phase two, begin! Let's rock. So psyched was I.

Back in the car, my aforementioned lady friends had undergone a transformation of startling impact. They'd gotten sick in the waiting.

Without eyes to see or good sense to say no, I drove us forward to Casa de Cap'n, but the party was over before it began. I hardly had time to get the Budweiser to Carrol along with incorrect change before cries to return "home" bellowed out of the backseat. Being the older, wiser brain geniuses that we are, the Cap'n and I subtly reminded our honored guest that she now lives in Colorado. Home was far, far away. She answered only in screams, changing things up to inform us that "Lakewood" was her choice. Where the fuck that is, I'll never know.

"Sorry, Charlie, we's gots to split." And we were off.

Two blocks in the wrong direction on North Highland, Courtney demanded I bring the rolling Corolla to a dead stop. No sooner had I shifted to park than both back doors where flung wide and the once adorable heads of two 20-year-olds popped out facing the pavement – mouths agape. Not puking, not puking, not puking... okay, and puking.

With little patience for sitting in the road waiting on them to vomit, I rolled down both windows and gave the okay to dirty the sides of my car should the need arise. Courtney was back in place, but J'Doh hadn't given up the ghost. So I played sweet and low, standing by holding her hair back and watching carefully that the splatter colored only my tires, not my shoes.

Those big, green doe eyes peered up at the end, she said she felt better and I fell in love, adoring what I thought was a true rally like a father languishing blissfully in the first words of his child. It was a false and probably implied hope on my part so I fell out of love and took off.

But where, Chris, where? Yes, it is true it took us two hours to get back to Big Hand's apartment. See what had happened was... well, I got lost. Let's not forget I was drunk and already conceded that I went the wrong way on Highland.

It was all fine and dandy because I had a great time. Too bad the girls weren't awake to see what happened next. (Author's Note: None of this I condone except for the purposes of storytelling. Drunks, do not try this near my home.)

Finally, magically and misguidedly in downtown Atlanta, I searched high and low for the existence of a creature I knew as "the Interstate". Should I find it, we're free and clear. A sign pointed me, I thought, down a three lane road, but as I continued, I noticed cars coming at me without the presence of that crucial yellow double line. It didn't so much dawn on me that I was dedicated to the wrong way on a one-way as it was yelled at me from within a passing car. One hard right and curb-jumping later, we were somewhere near GSU.

Again, I was commanded to bring all current movement to a halt, and again, both doors and both heads became active. The only difference was a serious lack of any progress whereas vomiting was concerned. So I shut them back up in the vehicle and proceeded to make way for home even as all hope for it was fading. My mistake had been to overestimate my driving prowess and underestimate the cop car sitting half a block ahead.

As we crawled past him, a siren squawked and he pulled into traffic. To no one in particular (since my friends were comatose), I said, "I guess this is where I get my first DUI." Just as he closed the gap, I noticed my headlights were off, flipped them on and two little seconds later, he was turning right.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.

The best part, I once was lost but now am found. Still blind, I couldn't see. But the point is, I found 75 North and in two shakes I was unloading a limp but still belligerent Courtney from the backseat.

J'Doh bounced back like nothing ever happened, unlocked and opened the door so once returned to the ground, Courtney could take off for the toilet. I bowed gracefully and made my exit but remembered all the luggage and whatnot that remained. Armfuls of clothing and whatnot, I went back, returned the gear and requested room in the inn. Far better than the nasty ass barn where Mary and Joey had to sleep, I was not terribly enchanted by the chaise lounge offered me. Nor was I thrilled at the prospects of watching them puke, pass out and snore. Not when I still had so much life in me.

When I got back to my sister's apartment, I fancied a swim but thought better of it and soon sacked out on the love seat. The next morning, I shared turkey bacon with my sis and procrastinated until there was nothing left of the daylight.

So ended Day One. Amen.