It was a quiet, relaxing evening: Wednesday, November 23, the day before Thanksgiving. I've bene making a concerted effort to curb my bar visits, not because I'm a raging alcoholic but because there are so many more beneficial things I could be doing in the evenings after work. Studying or reading a book, for instance. Drinking also consumes copious amounts of cash and generally leaves me not only with a headache and a sore stomach for a couple hours but also with the bad feeling that I just wasted some perfectly good money and brain cells.
That particular evening I had been thinking of packing for a trip I was taking the next morning to spend the holiday with my family. I had a 6:15 A.M. flight Thanksgiving morning. Seeing as how I'm normally frantically packing my bags while the shuttle bus is in my driveway honking its horn, I decided to change the pace and pack my bags BEFORE the scheduled airport departure time. Looking over my packing list, I spotted cash. Since I was still dressed from work I decided to take a quick, two-minute walk across the road to visit the ATM. Once outside, I decided to hit the mini-mart and pick up a couple lottery tickets as well. Between the gas station and the bank is a bar and club with a dance floor. You can probably see where this is headed.
NO, NO, NO, I told myself, I'm going to pack my bags. And besides, it was already close to 9:30 and I was hoping to be counting flying sheep in my head by eleven. I walked in front of the bar on the way to the ATM, bound and determined to hold fast. And I would have been successful had I not seen the sign that said, "Come celebrate Thanksgiving with us: free drinks and buffet from 9-11, 11/23." That got my attention -- after all, I had skipped dinner and was thinking an appetizer and a free beer (ONE BEER) wouldn't break the budget.
I thought some more as I walked to the ATM and withdrew the requisite cash. I even forced myself to walk back home, deposit all but $20, and walk back to the bar to ensure I didn't end up sticking around too long and blowing my travel money. Entering the place I got my first warning: two beautiful women giving out free vodka shots. Even though I hate shots, the gal gave me a lemon drop and smiled while I checked her out. The place was pretty dead, which made me more confident I'd stick to the original plan and head home by eleven. I sat down at one of the five bars in the place (it's pretty big) and ordered a Miller Lite. That's when I saw her.
She was the bartender, and she was the prettiest girl I have seen in a long time. I was so into watching and talking to her I forgot about the buffet. Next thing I knew I was on beer number three (free drinks, mind you) and my stomach was growling. I decided to tour the buffet -- and what a treat it was. I expected some greasy chicken wings and typical bar fare. Nope. This was a Grade-A buffet: mashed potatoes, cheese sticks, strawberries with a fondue fountain, crackers and dip, BBQ beef sandwiches, and my favorite, very rare prime rib with horseradish sauce. I literally pissed my pants I was so excited about stumbling into a place with great free food, great free drinks, and hot bartenders. I enjoyed samples of all the food except for the fondue.
After pigging out on the buffet line, I headed back to the bar to flirt some more. The bartender was somewhat receptive and very friendly. People were pouring into the place by this time and I didn't even realize that it was past eleven. She kept bringing me free beers, so I kept drinking them. After talking to some other ladies, a couple of guys I used to party with, and having a few more beers and shots, I looked at my watch and it was 1:30. That's right, 1:30 A.M. Thankfully I was able to stagger home -- the eight beers and two vodka shots had really hammered me. I quickly threw a couple shirts into a suitcase and hit the hay.
I almost missed the alarm the next morning. I arrived at the airport without much time to spare, sporting a SEVERE hangover and a dirty coat (I grabbed the wrong one). I was terrified to eat or drink anything lest I have to puke or worse in the airplane lavatory on my two-and-a-half hour flight to Dallas, where I'd connect to another flight to my final destination. I'm a frequent traveler, but there are two things I've never done: take a dump on an airplane and throw up during a flight. I didn't want today to be the first for either.
Thankfully I was able to rest (READ: half pass out) for a good portion of the flight. When I woke up we were somewhere over Texas and my stomach was churning like a vortex on the Mississippi River. I was going to have to find a shitter soon. I knew this was not going to be pretty, so I prayed I could hold out. And I did. We made it into Dallas without much ado and I made a beeline to the nearest bathroom. All the stalls were filled and I was counting the precious milliseconds that my bowels were holding tight. Finally the stall on the end opened and I raced in, sat down, and buckled up for a ride that was going to be much bumpier than the flight.
Wave after wave of liquid shit exited my body, propelled with such force that my ass got hit with the aftermath. The smell wasn't too horrible, but I felt somewhat embarrassed unloading such a shit storm in audible reach of many other people. I had grabbed a bottle of Coke before I got on the flight in the morning and I gurgled some of it down to try and calm my stomach. No sooner did the shit wave subside then I felt the sensation that I was going to puke everywhere. I quickly stood up, and the toilet flushed. (I hate those autoflushers -- it's hard enough as it is to keep track of my computer bag, my coat, keep my shirttail out of the muck, and hope my wallet with my driver's license, my keys, and my cell phone doesn't slip into the mess.)
No sooner did I do a 180 and face the porcelain throne than my stomach proceeded to empty itself again via my mouth. I puked and puked and heaved until I was crying. I was heaving, trying so desperately to puke again, but nothing would come up. About that time another shit storm came and I was sitting right back down.
After about ten minutes of this I decided that I was going to be okay, pounding head, sore stomach, and loose bowels be dammed. Proudly exiting the stall, I passed a line of people five deep waiting for the crappers. No one looked at me funny, so either they were in complete amazement or they didn't notice -- which should qualify them as deaf.
By that point I didn't understand how there could possibly be anything left in my system. Going to a DFW airport shop, I picked up a package of Pepto Bismol, another Coke, and two packages of Advil. Chewing Peptos like candy, I prayed this spell of feeling good would last another two-hour flight. I was also thinking to hell with the turkey -- I was half tempted to buy a ticket back home and just spend the whole weekend recovering.
Continuing on, I was able to rest on the second and final flight of the day as my headache slowly subsided. Watching the fields and farms below without a cloud in the sky was very peaceful, and I began to feel okay, confident I would survive. Just when I thought I was in the clear, we went through some very small bumps. I know all about bumps, too -- as an airplane pilot, I have a stomach of steel and enjoy turbulence very much. The prospect of turbulence is generally exciting to me. Today it was not. Until then, I had NEVER thrown up on a flight and I was hell bent on keeping that title. My stomach had other ideas.
Considering I wasn't going to run to the bathroom -- I had no time to pass the two other people in my aisle and then run to the back of the airplane -- I covered myself with my coat, found the barf bag in the seat pocket, and proceeded to fill it halfway with the remains of my Coke and some weird looking stomach bile. We landed at our final destination a measly ten minutes later. I was embarrassed, but I don't think anyone suspected anything, since I hid myself and kept it quiet; but my ego was shattered.
For those curious, I did close the bag, carry it off the plane in my hand, and deposit it in the trash receptacle in the terminal without a bit of shame to my game.
As the day went on, I felt better -- I was at100% a few hours later, just in time to enjoy a great Thanksgiving dinner. No permanent damage done, except to my records. And it took me over a week to even be able to stomach another beer. I hope I never drink that much again, especially if a cross-country flight is involved anytime thereafter. I am quite certain I will never forget that Thanksgiving trip.
As I'm writing this now, things feel eerily familiar. Today is December 24; I am flying the same flight tomorrow, going to visit the family for Christmas. It's close to eight o'clock at night, I haven't started packing, and I'm going to walk to the ATM and get some cash. I'm also planning to visit the bar for a quick bite. I only hope it's different this time.
