My anterior apprehension arrived when I received a text message from one of them saying, "On way," followed by another forty-eight minutes later declaring, "He's getting me as drunk as possible. We'll be there soon." My mom and I swallowed the succulent cuisine, leaving ourselves wistful for more. However, we refrained with the thought that two men were arriving shortly whose food consumption abilities challenged King Kong.
Sitting in the kitchen, tranquilly sipping on glasses of Chardonnay, we detected my friends before we saw them. My mom and I gazed at each other, our faces mirroring as if we had just heard that Dog the Bounty Hunter was homosexual.
"She's a fucking whore!" Wasted wailed.
"She's a fucking whore!" Drunkard repeated.
Drunkard stumbled into the kitchen, a grin garnishing his face. "Hello hello!" he jubilantly jawed, wrapping his arms around me in a hug.
"You're a fucking whore!" Wasted screamed from the other room, followed by the sound of the front door dashing shut. I glanced out the front window to view my friend holding the phone in front of him like a rock star's microphone, yelling into it. I shrugged and my mom reheated the food. A female friend slipped into the kitchen and explained that she had seen Wasted and Drunkard careening downtown, screaming, felling small trees and smacking cars with them. When they disclosed they were driving to my house she had driven Drunkard's car instead.
My mom set the plate of deliciousness in front of Drunkard. He garbled words, regaling us with reports of the alcohol they had absorbed. It was 7:45pm. Wasted reentered with a door blast and then a smash. I walked into the entryway to detect him, head in hands, saying quietly, "Who does something like that? Why did she have to be a slut? Who does something like that? What a slut."
I installed myself next to him on the step and rubbed his back. Wasted went through the logical stages of despondent to enraged within three minutes.
"What the hell?" he bellowed, standing up with the force of a mama bear and hammering his phone into the wood floor. It lay like a battered wife. He kicked it into the front door.
"Okay," I soothed, "Come eat! We saved you some really good food."
I negotiated him into the kitchen and presented him with his plate of food. He seized the fillet mignon with his hands and gnawed on it as if he were a Tyrannosaurus Rex and it was a savory slight omnivore. Drunkard hadn't devoured one bite of his plate. Garlic mashed potatoes reign as one of his top three foods. I reminded him of the plate's existence. He expressed ecstasy at the potatoes and ate three bites before again forgetting. I presented Sober Driver with a glass of wine while Wasted again called the ex-girlfriend. The phone worked and I was as impressed with its indestructible attribute as I was with Susan Boyle's vocal cords.
"Here, tell her she's a whore," Wasted requested and passed the phone to Drunkard.
"Of course I will," he obliged. "You're a whore!" "What, your friend? Well, he's a Spic!" "A whore and a Spic, a whore and a Spic!" he sang as if it was a rendition of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.
"You are such a good friend!" my mom said. "You are so loyal. Such a loyal friend," she continued as she exited the room. I found her in her bedroom fifteen minutes later and apologized.
"It's okay. They're good boys. They're just very drunk. I'd stay out there, they certainly are entertaining... they are just using the word whore too much for me. So I'm going to hide in here," she said softly.
It was 8:40pm.
Over the following three hours Drunkard invited over a friend, Wasted berated the ex before passing out on the entryway's wood floor and then the living room's carpeted floor, and I monopolized myself with wine. At midnight Wasted raised himself from the floor and disappeared. When I called, questioning his whereabouts, he informed me he was wandering down the middle of a very major, very dangerous street down the hill from the house.
I vaulted to the car as if I was running in an Olympic race, and drove around the street trying to locate Wasted. On my fifth call he answered. He was in a taxi.
The next morning Drunkard, who had stayed the night, crept into my room fox-style, and awoke me at 6:35am asking what had happened the night before and why he woke up in my brother's bed. I received a call from Wasted at 8:23am wondering what had happened.
Neither remembered even being at my house. They recalled nothing. Wasted remembered being at the bar and then in a taxi. The hours at my house were as existent as Casper.
Drunkard sent me this text message that afternoon: "We've been talking. Last night makes perfect sense. One of the last drinks we remember was pounding a Mind Eraser."