Rave: The Guy on LakeCity Waiting At the Bus Stop.
So it was a long light, and I got to watch you for a while. You were lit. You were stumbling badly and you could barely stay standing. I was wondering why a normal looking mid twenties guy was so hammered a little after noon. Were you still drunk from the night before? I couldn't take my eyes off you. I kept waiting to watch you fall. I wish I’d had some people in the car with me, we could've started a betting pool on how many minutes you would remain upright, it wasn't a matter of if, but a matter of when.
In fact, I ended up making bets with the other people who live inside my head. I had you for 45 seconds. The Evil Genius had you for five minutes. No way, I told him. Evil Genius said he knew better than me, as drunkenness was his domain. The Guy-I-Wish-I-Was-Not-The-Guy-I-Am gave you a minute and a half, which seemed reasonable to me, but then Guy-I-Wish-I-Was-Not-The-Guy-I-Am usually is reasonable. The Voice, who I've come to regard as either God or an alien (no practical difference in the two) said "The Time Shall Be Three Minutes, And Three Minutes Shall It Be." The Voice always speaks each word with a capital letter. It's very dramatic.
Then there was a rare appearance from the She-male that hides deep within every man, well actually in some men she’s right there on the surface, but not me, I only hear a whisper from her every three or four years. It’s been a while, the last time I can remember her saying anything was when Brad Pitt married Jennifer Anniston. Boy, She-Male and I had a long talk that night. But She-male is often mean to men, she’s gotten the idea from the rest of us that she’s not allowed to think of men in a certain way. That makes her angry with men in general for giving her feelings she’s not supposed to have (except with the Brad Pitts and George Clooneys of the world, because really, there’s no defense against that sort of thing). So she only gave you 15 seconds.
As the light turned green and I knew I had to settle this bet, I pulled into one of the many used car lots across the street and pretended to look at a car while watching your amazing performance.
I say amazing, because it was. You had a cup of Starbucks in your hand in what I assume was a vain attempt at sobering yourself up. What a Herculean task for one cup of coffee to undertake. Every time you took a drink of that coffee, you staggered back a step or two, and then stumbled forward attempting to regain your balance. It looked for sure like either I, or Guy-I-Wish-I-Was-Not-The-Guy-I-Am would win. An outside chance for The Voice, but no way was Evil Genius going to win.
One minute goes by and I’m out, but I had a very close call at 40 seconds when you stumbled backwards from a drink of coffee, you stepped off the sidewalk onto that juniper bush, but somehow righted yourself with the aid of the bus stop pole you had clonked your head on earlier. A few more sips, and a few more stumbles, and two minutes have elapsed. It’s up to The Voice to beat Evil Genius.
At two minutes forty-five seconds, it looks like a sure thing. Three people are coming up the sidewalk. Granted if you weren’t so hammered, there would be no problem with people passing by on the sidewalk. But since you are using the entire sidewalk in an unpredictable pattern, this looked like a calamity. Especially when you timed a drink of coffee to coincide your maximum stumbling with their attempt at walking past you. Sure enough, you bumped into one and rebounded back to the juniper area and you were going down for sure.
But husky guy caught your arm and steadied you. “Curses On You Husky Guy, May You be Damned For All Eternity!” said The Voice. The Voice isn’t very charitable or understanding.
Then it happens. At four minutes fifty-two seconds on the official timekeepers clock. It was finally the coffee that did you in. Looked like you were trying to get the last drop out of the cup, and you tilted your head back too far, stumbled backwards, and fell on your ass in the juniper area.
So rant about you drunk guy, I had to listen to Evil Genius gloat for hours about how he’s always right, and nothing exists without him telling me it’s there. Fuck you Evil Genius, and fuck you DesCartes for putting him in my head in the first place.