Nicolas Sparks is John Grisham's Retarded Younger Brother

My dear sweet girlfriend, Sugar Booger, told me to have fun. She warned me only to avoid three things: drunk driving, drugs and sex. If the mission was to have fun without driving drunk on my way to a meth orgy, then consider the mission accomplished. However, there may have been one extra rule for her to have laid at my feet -- something that said, "Chris just in case you feel like doing this, you shouldn't." It isn't that I was just drunk or that I wanted to have fun the night before my day off. It's just that I was curious and that's half my damn problem. I woke up this morning thinking I might have to get someone to take me to a doctor. This wasn't a normal hangover. Oh no. I never should have jumped off that train. Read that literally and sit back for the story. The preparation for my night out began casually. A 32oz cup of Coke and bourbon with Lewis Grizzard on my stereo. I sat sipping and smiling, feeling the metronome ticking me into the right time. In a half hour, I'd put the last of my whiskey in the cup and changed my clothes for the evening. It was time to walk downtown. Jazzplex. Poetic Peace. Catching up with good people, getting hugs and questions about what I've been doing, asking some of my own. It's nice to say and mean that some of my favorite people are black. I only know that after the fact, which is a better feeling. I'm getting to wear Will Campbell -- unable to see the color for all the smiling faces and warm embraces. J. Shaun Durham is not only one of the best spoken word artists there, but a co-worker of mine as well. I've seen him once at work -- we're in different departments. Last night, we chatted before his performance, growing closer for all the bitching we can do about our employer. He did a piece I'd never heard before and it was stunningly good: The Broke Brothers Revolution. It was a tongue in cheek diatribe disguised as the didectic rantings of a revolutionary brother. Just when it seemed he was about to denounce whitey and call for an assault on The Man, he launched into the myriad ways in which women claim feminism and still abuse the patriarchial structure. In other words, he spoke heatedly about how women say they are independant then squeeze a lover or potential lover for his money, even leveraging sex as a way to get their friends free drinks. He ranted and raved, then at the very end brought the satire to the most appropriate end. He confessed that they couldn't start the Broke Brothers' Revolution this week because he had to work overtime to make up for the cash he spent trying to score with some chick. I left shortly after that, Shaun asking me where I was heading and if I had to work the next day. "Nope. I'm gettin messed up tonight down at the Hummingbird." "I might see you down there in a minute, then." The bowels of bohemia had been opened in the Bird. All my favorite friendly faces feeding off the community and cold beer. I danced from one group to the other, sharing myself with them. And they with me. Then trouble started. Some of those little girls that had accompanied us on the last leg of the famous haint hunt came up saying they wanted to go on another one and they wanted to go now. "I don't feel like it," I said very frankly. They begged and I pointed to Hank, saying, "Ask him." A moment later, they were back. Hank wanted to go. I said, "Get me drunk and I'll go." They ordered me a shot of something called "Four Horsemen". Jeff poured it and I demanded someone else do a shot with me. They got Hank a shot of Jack. The Four Horsemen was terrible. Nasty. Like bile. "What the hell is in that?" Apparently, four different liquors including whiskey and tequila. Well, it got me drunk and I took to gathering up a posse. Jewel Daddy, the Fish, Hank, four girls and four other guys. We were going to Rose Hill Cemetery and we needed a driver (I'm such a good boy!). Kenny Muthafuckin' Rodgers and his "truck" was enlisted. It wasn't a truck but rather, an SUV. Everyone piled in except me and Jewel Daddy because we decided to walk. "The only way I'm going is by the railroad tracks," he said. "Sure thing, whatever works, bro." Man, that place was far, far away so when Jewels suggested we jump on that passing train, I didn't see a reason not to. It clicked and rolled, going about as fast as we had by foot. Another trained passed in the opposite direction and I took joy in my first hobo experience. Oh, life on the rails! Then it slowed and stopped and Jewel Daddy called up from a couple cars down that he was getting off. I did in kind. But the train started moving again and hell, Rose Hill was still a ways off. This time, we got on the same car, sitting in the front where the ladders are. "Never jumped a train before," I confessed. "Me either." My partner-in-crime got a worried look on his face, said something and jumped off. I realized a second later that he had informed me that the train was speeding up and he was getting off before it got going too fast. I only realized that when I realized that the train was going fast and that I should get off. Thoughts of calling Sugar Booger from Charlotte, North Carolina asking for a ride home. Hm, this doesn't look as easy as the movies make it seem. I eased down the ladder and touched my dangling foot to the ground to gauge the speed. I again weighed calling my lady from another state, grateful that I had a day off. I remembered a story about a man having his legs cut off by a train because he sat on the tracks in protest. I counted to three and leapt. Knees first, then my chest and I bounced into a tumble. My shoe came off in the process. The alcohol had softened the blow but I was still aware that it hurt. After the train was gone, Jewels helped me find my shoe and I limped with him to Duane Allman's grave. Then to the crypt from one of the Allman Brother's album covers and then to a hole in the hill where it was reported Satanists had stolen bones. He told me how in the 80's -- with the advent of heavy metal and its Satanist following -- amateur occultists sawed off all but the thumb and middle finger of angel statues. The Christians came in behind and broke off the heavenward shot birds. The battle between good and evil continued. Hank called my cell phone to coordinate a meeting point between the group and us. My head was killing me. The next couple hours were filled with coming together, getting lost, separating and wandering through around tombstones. At one point, I walked alone through the graveyard praying I could find someone I knew and no one else. A feeling mounted that I wasn't welcome there so I spoke aloud to whomever was listening that I was on my way home. That I meant no harm. Jewels called by the time I made it back to the front gates. He was on his way to meet me. Hank called. He was home, in my jacket loaned to him because he was cold. I was cold when he called. Jewels, Mermaid and I walked down to Krystal's and ordered food, drank water. When we walked back to Cherry Street -- going our separate ways at the intersection with Spring Street -- I couldn't have been happier that the night was done. I flipped on the heater and crawled out of my clothes, then wrapped myself up in the thick down blanket on my bed. I wished I had Sugar to sleep with me but let memories of holding her suffice. I went out like a light. God bless what she means for sleep. At 7am, I woke up -- the alarm of dehydration blaring -- inching towards a glass of water. When my knee felt like it had snapped, I thought about calling someone to take me to the hospital when I got up for the day. The pain subsided and I showered. I bought my Kurt Vonnegut wig and a fake mustache. And drove to my mom's house to use the internet since it moved out of the Center this week. Now, I'm going to rest in peace.