drunk man on the can.
John, your latest tweet reminded me of this little incident. I wonder if you remember it.
It was senior year. Probably Spring 2008, although theoretically it could have been Fall ‘08. Definitely living in Wainani. I want to say it was a Tuesday night. It wasn’t entirely late, like maybe seven or eight at night when this happened. John had been out drinking somewhere, and came back, and proceeded to make friends with and hug the toilet when he came back.
I don’t drink, but I’m fine with people that do and I guess sometimes you just drink too much, you know? I’m all for letting an intoxicated person do what they have to do with the toilet—I’d much rather it be there than all over the living room carpet or something like that.
The problem was… he stayed in there. For a good while. For some time there was the lovely sound of spewing, but after a while, nothingness.
Being the responsible college students that we were, Andy, Evan, and I did pretty much nothing. Actually, we got irritated, because damn man, there’s only one bathroom in the apartment. But we were pretty much also passive aggressive and lazy so we didn’t do much.
In truth, I had to take a leak, but I also had to buy something at Walmart. I remember distinctly, in fact, I had to buy a rechargeable battery for my Xbox 360 controller. So I headed out to Walmart. I remember getting a text from Andy at some point while I was on my Walmart trip that was something to the effect of “He’s still in there.”
Well, when I finally got back from the battery trip, he was still in there. I don’t want to sound like a hero, but goddamn at least I finally took some action. That action was to walk up to the door:
“John? What the fuck man? Are you alive?” No response. The door was unlocked. With some slight trepidation and the other roommates looking on, I turned the knob and pushed the door open, only to have it stop quickly.
It was banging against John, who was kneeling at the base of the toilet, apparently passed out. The bathroom was small, so it was impossible to open the door more than like an inch or two before it hit John. If it was bigger, perhaps we could have like, moved him or something.
Instead, doing the responsible thing, I proceeded to spend like a minute just whacking the door against him with increasing intensity. ”Get up, man!” No response. We all looked at each other, probably with two concerns: 1) When will we be able to freely shit and piss in our apartment? and 2) What the hell do we do about it if he’s dead?
Needless to say, it must have been a delayed response, as all responses tend to be when one is drunk, but the door jolting must have worked. A few minutes later he mysteriously emerged from the bathroom, walked to his bed, and collapsed. The next day I believe he was fine.
