Don’t Drink and Walk, Especially When Your Shorts Keep Falling Down
By: G Correia
Tags: Walkabout, Journey, Remembering, Drunk Walking, Determination

The walking dead

At some point, I remember waking up on the basement floor with nothing on but the vulnerability of exposure. My eyes, still fighting with my lids, could only make out the crudest of shapes. It was dark and the silence was deafening. I managed to get upright, miraculously — a feat of epic proportions. With little strength in my legs, I found the stairs and made my way up to the kitchen. I think it was the kitchen.

Littered about as far as a glossy eye could see were the bodies of once lively brothers in arms who, hours prior, engaged in celebration. At that moment, after surveillance of the cemetery grounds, I was immediately hit with the realization… “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

My concern for my cohorts was nonexistent, as was announcing my departure. Imprudent as it was, my ill-conceived plan was to make my way home across town by foot. First, I needed to find the door.

Without waking the dead, I braved the night air for my walkabout.

In my drunken stupor, I was in no condition to make such a trek but as incoherent as I was, all I could think about was the warmth of my own bed and not that of a hard, cold cement subfloor.

My destination was to the north at the other end of town.

By car — six minutes.

By foot — a conservative hour and a half.

Stumbling along, drunk and without the benefit of sight or a sober head… a day, maybe four.

The light was starting to crack the night sky, and in my still comatose state, my mission was set — I will make this pilgrimage. More than half in the bag, I started out — with one hand holding up the shorts I split earlier acting out a gymnast trying to stick a landing.

It didn’t take long into my trip before the broken and unsuccessful jerry-rigged zipper began to break again. Half the time I wasn’t aware of my shorts making a b-line for my knees and I surely wasn’t aware I was providing a show for the many street creatures that watched me wobble along.

Every so often, I would take breaks, sit upon a curb, and slowly nod off while still trying to keep my shorts from giving way and exposing my unmentionables. The early hours masked my presence from being on full display. However, anyone who happened to pass by would be well within their right to question the slump on the sidewalk resting with his shorts around his shins.

The journey was not without fruitful nostalgia. In between naps, I did pass the house where I spent my beginning years — the house where I discovered I am not a fan of Brussels sprouts, and where I once informed the neighborhood kids, I was the king of Glaxmora, ruler of the Galaxy. Maybe I remembered that wrong, it’s clothing designers not committed to their work I am not a fan of.

Street after street, house after house, hallucination after hallucination. After what seemed like days, everything melted into one. Surprisingly, I was not worried at all about making it back. The haze that occupied my brain was on autopilot and kept me from succumbing to panic.

Image by Fathromi Ramdlon from Pixabay.

A town in the early morning hours does paint a picture of serenity, almost ghost-like. There is a sense of peace that can overwhelm if not prepared for the calmness. The feeling of being the last person on earth roaming deserted streets looking for solace is all there is. Without a soul to keep you company, and your abandoned thoughts nowhere to be found, the quiet of the present is all you have. That, and the occasional draft down the crack of your exposed backside.

Oh look, isn’t that where I made out with Lisa D.? Eh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s where I found that old ABBA cassette I used to prop up the desk in my room. I can’t remember.

Left foot. Then right foot. Yea, that’s it.

Home is where the aspirin is

Ahead I could faintly see the outline of the house that hosted my youth. Though surrounded by trees and tall shrubs protecting the yard, I knew I had finally made it — unless this was the house of a neighbor. Been there, done that.

Without an elixir of recall, somehow I got to the front stairs — whether I crawled with reckless abandon, reaching for salvation or hovered above brick to the landing, I’m just not sure. What I do remember was enough to ignite a synaptic charge and jolt a sudden realization.

With a tear in my eye, I leaned on the railing to anchor myself, head swirling in a twister of fog, careful not to repeat the many blackouts from sitting down on the sidewalk. I was finally “somewhere” and moments away from the comfort of my bed. I was triumphant, yet humbled, by the trek that saw me leave part of my dignity in its wake and my shorts around my ankles. No matter, it was time to exhale and cross the threshold.

The perilous journey home must have jostled the cobwebs loose as the colors in my mind became vibrant, crystallizing a vision of clarity. For an instant, I lifted my head, not with confidence or bravado from a journey conquered, but from shock.

Shit, where are my keys?

Anyway, I think that’s what happened.