“Woooooo!”
Like most alcoholics, I blamed everyone else for my loneliness. I whined to my therapist, “I don’t go anywhere! I don’t do anything!”
“Maybe you could try doing something different this weekend,” he said.
“Maybe,” I said.
I thought all week about what I might do. I remembered good times, before I’d discovered that Gregg was a pathological liar, when we’d gone to clubs in Oakland.
I wasn’t sure this is what my therapist had in mind, but Gregg and I headed to The Decade, where a cover band was playing and drinks cost too much. I deemed this to be exactly what I needed.
I wanted to drink something special, too. Tonight would be more than just draft beer! I chose a “slow comfortable screw,” because it was the best drink name I knew. Gregg got Jack and Coke. We ordered two drinks each.
I had no idea how this would help me be less lonely, but I got drunk fast.
I stood in the back of the room and guzzled very strong, very expensive drinks, swaying slightly as the music blared.
Gregg, who never went anywhere unless someone else was buying, walked straight up to the stage and started dancing wildly, holding his drink above his head and screaming “woooooo!” every few minutes. This went on for many songs; it was embarrassing. I stayed away from him.
Eventually Gregg jumped up on stage with the band and gyrated at the musicians, obnoxiously bumping into guitar players. They laughed and shooed him back onto the floor.
A few minutes later, Gregg was back on stage again yelling “woooooo!” and waving his drink.
“Get off the stage, man,” said the singer between lyrics.
But Gregg jumped back up there again. I stood in the back of the room, humiliated.
By the fifth leap onto the stage, no one found it funny. Security pulled Gregg down and walked him through the crowd to the door. They tossed him out into the parking lot.
I went out after him.
“What the fuck!” I screamed at Gregg. “What were you doing?! They told you to get off the fucking stage!”
“Well I’m off the fucking stage now!” Gregg shouted, laughing, completely plastered. “WOOOOOO!”
“What the fuck!” I shouted back. “You got us thrown out of the fucking bar!”
“I was just having a good time!” he yelled. “Wooooo!” He laughed. I screamed at him.
We continued in this manner until the police appeared from nowhere, along with their giant paddy wagon. The cops took one look at Gregg, who was at least sixty pounds and eight inches larger than me, and they stepped between us, facing Gregg.
“Wooooo!” Gregg hooted at them, spinning around. “We’re having fun now!”
The police cuffed Gregg immediately. They started walking with – or rather, pulling – Gregg toward their vehicle.
“Hey!” I yelled at their backs. “He really didn’t do anything!”
One of the policemen spun around sharply, glaring darkly down at me, his eyes glowering, his weapon too obvious at his side.
“Do you want to go with him?” he snapped. “Because we could make that happen!”
I cowered. “No.”
“Then stay quiet and get out of our way.”
“But …!”
“Stay quiet! And GET. OUT. OF. OUR. WAY.”
I blinked and stepped back. “Okay.”
After one last “wooooo!” the paddy wagon doors closed on Gregg.
I watched the vehicle pull away and stood there, stunned. The space was suddenly devoid of all life.
I felt grateful to be standing on solid ground rather than going to jail.
But I wasn’t home yet.