Stories from the Bar: Origins

By AlCantHang © 2004

The first thing I remember after coming out of the coma was the image of my parents looking down at me. It was obvious that I was in a hospital room and that my parents were very concerned. My mind started working quickly to backtrack through my recent memories.

Ok, ok. You were at the bar. What next? Car wreck? Did I get in a fight? Sucker punched? Fuck, I can't really feel anything. Is that good or bad?

I had to ask. "What happened to me?"

My mother recalled "They found you in an unused bathroom passed out." Then very quietly, "But it was the blood that really scared everyone. Not the vomit."

Shit, that's really not good. I'm never drinking Southern again.

Another memory.

I was looking up at two men in strange outfits. I knew the uniforms but couldn't place them. They were asking for my name, address, and if I was hurt anywhere.

Ah, now I got it. Paramedics. Two things went through my head in that split second. Man, this can't be good. And I could hear the shrilling voice of a shrew harpy I knew. As I was fading back to darkness, I yelled at the top of my feeble voice, "Tell her to shut the fuck up!"

That would be the last time I saw her.

Time for some damage control. Being from a strict, religious family, I'd managed to hide my drinking from them for years. I still have no specific idea of what happened but I knew already that I needed to spin this correctly.

"I think it was that leftover cheese steak in the fridge," I said in a hopefully clear, sober voice, "it must have gone bad."

My old man looked at me, seemingly convinced, and said he'd have the doctor check for food poisoning when she came back.

Bingo, I've still got it. Laid up, half passed out, no idea what's going on and I managed to pass this episode off as food poisoning. But what the fuck happened to me?

My memory dump would have to wait. The nurse informed us that several people in the waiting room want to make sure I was alive. "But only two visitors at a time", screeched Nurse Ratched with the bitched-up face, "One of you will have to leave."

Since I was in no condition to volunteer, what with drifting in and out of consciousness the entire time, the old man got up. He left me with my mother to greet the parade of circus freaks that I called friends.

The drunk and stoned. The pierced and tattooed.

The over-sexed, barely-dressed, self-professed tramps were my favorites to introduce. Then the obviously drunk rock stars who had come straight from the show. Apparently they've written a new song about me.

That's right! I went out to see the band at some new bar. Oh man, I saw a shit load of old friends there. This might really be serious.

Finally the old man came back into the room followed by the doctor. I'm about to fade to black again. Immediately, I can read the look on my father's face. Food poisoning, my ass.

The look is explained by the doctor as I'm drifting off. "Congratulations on being alive Mr. Dumbass", the name has been changed to protect the moron, "Most people with a blood alcohol level of 0.46 are usually in the basement by now"

My last thought of the day........ Man, this is going to be a bitch of a hangover!

My name is Al...

And I can't hang.

Al Can't Hang is a gentleman and a seasoned SoCo-ologist from Phoenixville, PA.