Just when I bragged about how all of us got along on the trip so well, my roommate/best friend/more Shari made me just about want to kill her by the time we got to LAX, where our layover was. I didn't have a whole lot of alone time in five days on vacation, and she's high-maintenance in most ways that you would probably imagine, so it was just a matter of time. But how do you get some a little time alone without saying you want it (thus sounding like a bitch)?
Luckily, while sitting at the gate, waiting for our connecting flight to Dallas, I got my chance.
"Attention, passengers of Flight ---, we're looking for volunteers willing to take a later flight to DFW. If interested, please approach the desk."
I was the first volunteer.
"But we've already got the van waiting for us," Shari said, as I waited for the gate agent to process the ticket change.
"I know," I said. "And I'll take a cab instead." She frowned and eventually boarded the plane with the others, leaving me with an extra two-and-one-half hours to kill. Mission accomplished, except for the "alone time" part.
"Hey there," he said. "Are you on the seven o'clock?"
"Excuse me?" I said.
"The flight. To Dallas. You volunteered to re-book for later." Now my creep-alert has activated.
"How do you know that?" I asked. He grinned at me.
"Because you were standing next to me when you did it. I was doing the same thing, three feet to your right, with the other gate agent."
"Ahh..." I said. Okay, creep-alert de-actived. Now I just feel stupid. I sheepishly affirmed that I was, indeed, on the seven o'clock flight.
"Great," he said. "Let's go get a drink."
"Where would we do that?" I asked.
"Every hundred feet or so in either direction, I think we'll find one somewhere," he said, wearing his amusement on his face. It was a good thing, too, because without meaning to, I was being a little bit stand-offish.
I agreed to join him for a cocktail (so much for the de-tox), introducing myself only as we took seats at a generic airport bar, and by the time five-o'clock came around and my fellow travelers were somewhere eastbound over the california desert, I was enjoying my first ever non-Vodka martini- my impromptu drinking partner's suggestion. At six-thirty, three martinis in, we both realized it was time to head toward the gate. Judging by the gate agent's facial expression, we weren't too many minutes from missing the flight. The plane was about half-full, with the back few rows completely empty.
"Go all the way back," he said from behind me as we made our way down the narrow aisle.
"Where's your seat?" I asked.
"In second to last row," he said. "Right next to yours."
With a friendly flight attendant as our co-conspirator, my drinking buddy and I tore through several miniature bottles of Smirnoff. I told him, among god-knows-what-else over the course of the three-hour flight, that I'd just turned 21 a week and a half earlier.
"Something tells me you didn't wait to be legal to be bad," I remember him saying.
"Well then," I said, at this point trying to remain witty, and if possible, not to slur my words too much, "I guess that means you know me at least a little bit by now."
"To not being strangers!" he said, lifting his plastic cup for a toast. I lifted the tiny vodka bottle instead of my cup. That wasn't the last little vodka bottle I had, not was it the last stupid toast offered by either of us. I was pretty smashed by the end of that flight, but I'm pretty sure I was initiating most of the toasts over the last half of the flight.
I didn't realize quite how far gone I was until we finally stood up, having waited for every other passenger de-plane ahead of us. I nearly fell, which my drinking buddy picked up on and stabilized me until I either threw up or caught my balance. Luckily, I chose the latter.
He was nice enough to lock arms with me, wedding aisle escort-style, as we made our way to the baggage claim area, where a battle between my drunken double-vision and the necessity to retrieve the correct luggage from a moving carousel awaited me. Unfortunately, specifics of all kinds escape my memory if they occurred when I was wasted, and so I don't remember what it was that my drinking buddy said that began a vicious giggle-fit on my part, but soon I was cackling like a hyena and barely standing, leaning all my weight on the luggage cart that he'd retrieved. Perhaps sensing that the attention of real grown-ups with legal authority might soon be upon us, he tried to get me to stand upright. Unfortunately, my legs were just as drunk as my brain was, and I immediately collapsed onto my hands and knees, still laughing uncontrollably.
I saw a policeman watching us closely, but as I my giggles subsided, I was much more concerned with retrieving the bag I was still missing. Lucky for me, it was one of only about five that were still circulating at that point. As we passed, no doubt with me carrying my end of conversation at least three times as loud as would normally be appropriate, the policeman stopped us. Again, the details are awash in a vodka and gin soaked stupor, but this a decent general re-enactment:
OFFICER: How much have you had to drink, ma'am?
ME: Uhm...I had a drink on the plane....officer.
OFFICER: Just one? You seem like you had a lot more than that.
DRINKING BUDDY: We did have cocktails on our flight home, officer. (He had just as much to drink as I did, by the way. But, he also has what I would estimate to be eighty or so extra pounds to work with, thus, as I remember, the threat of arrest was never directed toward him)
OFFICER: She can barely stand up. I wonder if she's not too intoxicated to reasonably take transportation from here.
ME: No, I got a ride home.
OFFICER: I'm not sure that's a good idea either. Can I see your ID ma'am?
ME: Uhm okay. I don't know where it is.
OFFICER: Is it in your purse? Your bags?
ME: I think so?
DRINKING BUDDY: Officer, we're taking a taxi home right now. She's just getting over something, and it's probably my fault that she had a strong drink on too little food. Sorry if we caused a disturbance.
(short, but intense silence)
OFFICER: (staring at me with weary disdain) You two got all your stuff?
DRINKING BUDDY: Yes sir, just on our way out now.
OFFICER: (walks away)
whew. I think that was close.
Drinking buddy offered to share a cab, and I'm pretty sure I went on and on about nothing at all for the half-hour ride east. I was the first home, and he was nice enough to get me to the door with all my bags, where Shari was waiting, angrily.
"I've been calling you for the last two hours!" she said. "Your phone is off." Close. It was actually dead. "And who is this?" At that moment, I forgot his name, but luckily he was able to introduce himself just fine.
Blotto as I was, I don't remember him leaving, or how long I hung around before Shari put me into bed. Needless to say, I woke up today feeling well below-average, and just in time for Shari's mom to come over, expecting a detailed account of the week in Cabo. One thing's for sure, I was a lot less loquacious than I was in the bar and on the plane the night before.
As for my drinking buddy. I don't know if he got my number or not. The more I think about it, the less I actually know about him, despite literally hours of conversation. Such as: his last name, or what, exactly, he does for a living. Or maybe he told me, and I forgot. Those two are equally likely.
(sigh) Back to life.
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