Stupidly Drunk

Note: I read this on stage at the Storytelling Practice Session at Sleeping Moon Cafe - an event presented in conjunction with Diverse Word Spoken Word Community and Storytellers of Central Florida.


During a visit to Gainesville in early December, I was standing behind the end of the bar at the Beer Pit. My friend Ryan owns it, and his buddies often stand behind the end of the bar. It's a short bar, and, by waiting at the end of it, we can see what's going on in the rest of the place, help out in whatever meager way we are able, when necessary, and still chat with Ryan while also staying out of everybody's way. It works well.

It was a busy Friday night, and people were coming up one after the other to order. A guy worked his way through the bodies to the bar. He was relatively young, mid-twenties probably, wearing a light brown jacket and a camouflage baseball hat. Ryan raised his eyebrows and pointed - the signal that he was ready for the guy to place his order.

The new patron tried to speak, but managed only to make some noises that weren't readily recognizable as English. I grinned at Ryan, and we prepared to have some fun at this guy's expense. That's what we normally do with people who are stupidly drunk; we make them feel stupider. And this guy was almost too drunk to speak.

After a few attempts in the midst of the chaos of the crowd, he was able to tell me that he wanted a Coors Light. I relayed this to Ryan, and I could tell that Ryan was contemplating whether he should even serve this guy. In that brief pause, it became obvious that the guy wanted to tell me something else.

I turned to face him directly. He leaned toward me, gathered himself as well as he could, and said, "I just found out I'm being deployed to Afghanistan on December 23."

For a second, maybe two, he looked at me. Right at me. What I saw in his eyes has stayed with me ever since.

It was clearly fear. Not fear of bodily harm. As far as I could tell, he was no more or less courageous or cowardly than the next guy. But he was smart enough to know that, no matter what happened over there, his life would never be the same. Whatever he had, he was about to lose. And he was terrified.

Especially in your twenties, things happen quickly. Circumstances change. People change. Relationships change. Babies learn to talk. Relatives get sick. Job openings are filled. Girlfriends or boyfriends get lonely.

Beginning on Christmas Eve, life as he currently knew it was over.

When we, as a nation, make the decision to put men and women in harm's way, we should be sure to do everything necessary to help them succeed with the least possible risk. But we should also be sure that what we are asking them to do is so absolutely vital that the risk is worth the reward. Because, even if they return, we have taken from them a portion of their lives that they can never get back.

For those who are injured, physically or psychologically, the story is even worse. And then there are those who don't come back at all...

I thought of all this in the second or two that Ryan spent trying to decide if this guy should have another beer. I turned to Ryan and said, "He just told me he's going to Afghanistan on December 23."

Ryan grabbed a cup, went to the tap, came back, and handed the guy his beer. No charge. The guy took a sip, looked at both of us, turned and squirmed away. Ryan didn't say anything, but I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was; if I were going to Afghanistan in two weeks, I would be stupidly drunk too.