A Bucket Ride Home

Some Saturday in 2012: Upon waking up, the first thing I noticed was the throbbing sensation coming from my right foot, accompanied by the sort of heaviness usually associated with large footwear. Peeling back my double down comforter, I discovered that I had slept with a single shoe on, and it was covered by the bunched trousers that I had failed to remove from around the shoe. I was still wearing an undershirt and there were mysterious purple marks around the left armpit. Further gathering my bearings, I groped at the floor next to my bead where my water bottle typically resided. Instead of the corrugated plastic lid, my fingers fund a spongy and wet carpet. As I rolled to account for the full mess I had created the evening before, my brain retaliates by reverberating each heartbeat like a gong in a linnen closet.

Considering the slurry of alcohol and sugar that preceded this mid morning awakening, I was surprised the room was only slightly rotating. I struggles to get the shoe off, and dawned more comforting clothes. Attending to the spill, I discovered the remains of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich adhered neatly to my spare pillow; each half perfectly affixed with a small ring of the spread adhesive protruding from around the half eaten crust. Abandoning the mess, I reassemble what was left of my midnight snack and head down the hall to my kitchen toward the distinct smell of burning food.

To my surprise, on the counter is an open recipe book, and a round pie dish filled with what appears to be a casserole. The oven is still set to 350 and is giving off a pleasant warm glow in comparison to my chilly apartment. Under further inspection, recipe book is open to a page reading "Mushroom Lasagna," and the dish on the counter is actually quite close in appearance to my book's picture, with the substitution of a round pie pan, and a rather unique plopped layering method.

Between my half eaten sandwich and the lasagna, I opt for the sandwich and head for the living room to locate my belongings. My phone alerts me that it is both buried somewhere in a soft object, and receiving a phone call. Eventually, I bring up records from the night before, and confirm that I had in fact called nearly everyone on my favorites list, created 10 minutes of voice recordings, taken a dozen or so pictures, tweeted, and posted obnoxiously on Facebook. All I needed to see however, was the first picture to confirm that my shabby state was entirely worth the ride I had apparently snagged home. The last picture on my phone was taken from the bucket of a utility truck traveling down a four lane street. From the voice recording, I gathered that my drunken alter ego (Drunk Noah) had been unable to get a cab, and performed a "hop on" at a stop light. He then went on to remind me that the lasagna should be eaten cautiously as cream cheese was substituted for ricotta, and there was perhaps too much salt.

While I hadn't forgotten these facts, I consider myself fortunate to have such a considerate drunken alter ego, leaving me messages and snacks for the inevitable morning. Now if only he would have set the coffee maker, and remembered to put his six cupcakes in a bag before stuffing them in my jacket pockets.