Hapless Hour

It’s 3pm Friday and I’ve just walked into Sutton Place, a bar on 53rd St and Second Ave. The weather is miserable, raining all day with dark clouds covering the entire sky. The bar is empty when I arrive with one of my coworkers. It’s June 5th, the day of the annual Finance Happy Hour in the city and I’ve decided to ignore and avoid all discretion, giving in to the intentional recklessness to which my internal compass seems to lean.

Since I began working I’ve noticed things, little things, changing in my speech and thought patterns. The attention and focus needed to remain within the realm of the appropriate while in the office has taken a toll and appears to have pushed my out of office tendencies further into the profane. My conversation points have gone from mildly crass to grotesquely offensive. Tonight is a dangerous convergence of my out of work habitat (a bar) and my office coworkers and I’m relatively confident they’re going to see a side of me that will taint all interactions hence forth. However, even my early estimates at impending indiscretions did not match the vulgarity that followed.

I started with a bud light. Then I had another. About four more followed before people really started showing up at 4:30. I was still in my comfort zone and had only tested the waters. The bar was dark, and occupied almost entirely by my office brethren. I started changing beers every now and then but still had not brought liquor into the repertoire. Speech began to be more free and uninhibited. In a conversation with two coworkers that I was fairly close with along with two interns who had just started I threw out a one liner about my previous experiences in rape. I immediately saw from the terrified expressions on their faces that I had crossed lines. However, confused in my surroundings, I regretfully followed it up with my usual reaction to uncomfortable stares after inappropriate comments… I topped it with the next thing I said.

“Matt, you can’t make jokes about rape like that, look at the people that are here, Jesus.”

“What’s the big deal? It was only barely rape because she was unconscious. I’m sure she would’ve said yes had she been able to talk.”

I quickly realized I was the only one laughing, and no one else wanted to be associated with me. I had become toxic, maybe even more toxic than that 40 year old bald guy that was bad at his job and hit on all of the young analysts. They moved slowly away from me, backing away without taking their eyes off me like I was some sort of sexual deviant who they were afraid would attack…I suppose my prior conversation points did nothing to disprove that theory so I did the only thing I could do, I got another beer.

Thankfully for a while this seemed to be an isolated incident. I didn’t think they would tell anyone about my made up rape escapades so I was probably safe. I was talked into taking shots of tequila with some other analysts, which I happily did. This was probably the central turning point of the night. Before this moment I still maintained hints of control, now I was a zombie driven only by one thought, to consume more booze.

I suddenly found myself with another beer in my hand, someone had bought it for me, but there was a crowd around and I had no idea who it had been. I then realized I was in a conversation with my VP and one of my good friends. He talked about doing something and asked if I would do it. Without realizing what it was I told him if he did it, I’d do it. We then shook hands and he told me before the end of the summer we both had to go sky diving. I was thoroughly wasted and could barely discern his face. I just stammered in agreement praying that I wouldn’t fall over right there. Reinforcements arrived soon and a couple of my non work friends showed up to enable me to release some of my profane build up in the safety of their welcoming ears.

It looked like I might survive the night, albeit probably by passing out on the table in the back, but without thoroughly destroying the small reputation as a “nice guy” that I had. Then some coworkers approached us and my first comment was, “She has AIDS.” Things spiraled quickly out of control after this and I’m left with only vague flashes of scenes. One, in which I’m surrounded by concerned people asking, “Is he going to be ok?” I remember shouting “I’m fucking wasted!” and then chugging my beer and almost tipping over off my seat. Someone had brought a breathalyzer but I was so drunk I couldn’t even blow on the thing right and she quickly took it away before I could drop it in my beer to see what the BAC of Bud Light was. I think I called someone “mildly retarded” but I can’t be sure. The place was crowded but I was fading. I had been drinking for several hours without lunch or dinner and the shots had taken their toll. I really don’t know how bad things got, because to be honest I have no recollection of my final, dire moments entrenched in that Godforsaken mindfuck of beer taps and liquor bottles surrounded by people that could get me fired. It was a decidedly unforgiving combination.
I woke up the next morning sprawled on my couch, with the TV on, and the microwave beeping. I had a vicious headache and sick feeling of fear. Not because of what I could remember from the night before, but because of all moments I couldn’t