*SPIRITUAL RE-ENACTMENT IMAGE COURTESY OF EVERYONE WHO’S EVER BEEN HORRIBLY BOMBED IN THE CAN.
It was apparent she was drunk when I sat down.
Her makeup was smeared and her hair had given up, the tracks of her extensions sticking out more and more every time she attempted to run her fingers through the tangled mess. She gave me a sideways glance as I sat, and I turned my head to avoid eye contact. In her left hand, she clutched an empty red wine glass and in her right, a cell phone. One that over the course of the evening would spend most of its time on the floor. She slurred her speech and kept knocking into the bags of takeout food in front of her.
“She’s been here since 5pm, cut off for a while now,” the bartender whispered to me. “She won’t stop whining about it.” I looked at my phone. It was 11pm.
Eventually, she paid her tab and got up to leave, stumbling first into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later she was still missing, so the bartender headed in to the bathroom to check on her. As a bartender I can attest to how patrons will go into the bathroom and accidentally fall asleep on the can when bombed. The bartender came back grinning. The woman had apparently decided she was hungry and had unloaded her takeout on the bathroom counter like some sort of wine-induced disgusting smorgasbord, with sandwiches and sauces placed right on the bare wet counter and sink. The bartender helped her pack up and called her a cab.
For drunks, Thanksgiving can happen anytime. Even in a dirty bathroom.