NOTHING TO DO WITH SPORTS
Last night, I was listening to Brian Haddad – aka Sludge – on WIP. He was recalling an incident when he threw down – oh, I don’t know – as I recall he said something like seven or eight shots of Jägermeister in ten minutes or so.
And it reminded me of my own personal experience with that foul concoction.
So I tweeted him.
SETTING THE SCENE
The year was 1987.
It was a Friday night and, on Friday nights, I used to go out for a few drinks and to chase women.
The bar was named Rumors and it was the most-happening spot on the island of St. Croix. I was sitting with my back to the bar, swigging from a bottle of Bud, and surveying the field.
When I spun back around to face the bar, I found dozens of shot-glasses filled with some sort of purple-colored liquor. I’d never seen it before.
“What’s this, Andy?” I asked the bartender.
“It’s called Jägermeister,” he replied. “Brand new. Our distributor gave us a bunch of samples and said to give it away. Help yourself. Take as many as you want.”
BACKSTORY
I was working two jobs on the island:
- Teaching algebra, geometry, and trigonometry at the exclusive Country Day School.
- Working as a sportswriter for the territory’s Daily News.
Right across Company Street from Rumors was a Mexican restaurant called Luncheria. Since the newspaper office was on the second floor, right above Luncheria, I ate there almost every night. In fact my favorite son Ed, who was twenty at the time, worked as a cook at Luncheria.
That night was no exception. I ate dinner at Luncheria.
When my son’s shift ended, he drove home to shower and dress. He would rejoin me at Rumors. There was no minimum drinking-age, if you’re wondering, so he wasn’t going to be breaking any laws as he joined me to take part in the hunt for feminine pulchritude.
It was too early to make an entrance into Rumors. So I stayed at Luncheria as I awaited my son’s return and made my first mistake of the night. That was when I decided that, instead of a bottle of Bud, I’d have one of Luncheria’s 99-cent Margaritas instead. We used to kid that it was battery acid in a glass – and that wasn’t far from the truth. It burned all the way down.
And then I made two more mistakes by having a second and a third 99-center.
So by the time my son rejoined me, I was a couple Buds and three Margaritas ahead of him.
BACK TO THE BAR
Three or four more mistakes.
I gulped down a shot of Jägermeister. I didn’t particularly like the taste – but I did like the price. Free usually works well. So I dug in with both fists and crushed three or four more shots.
A short while later, the alcohol hit me. I was so smashed that my head started doing a little swirling. I don’t get drunk all that often. But when I do, I’m a passive drunk. I just want to keep my mouth shut and find a quiet place to go to sleep.
“I’m leaving,” I told my son. “I’m just going out to the car and go to sleep. Don’t worry about me. Stay as long as you want and wake me up when we get home.”
I asked him where he parked the car and he told me it was right across the street, on the corner of Queen Cross Street. I had no trouble finding the car. It was less than fifty yards away.
At that point, Queen Cross was a gentle down-slope.
I got into the passenger seat and fell right to sleep.
A few minutes must’ve passed. No more than half an hour. But an urge overcame me that there was no denying. If you’ve ever been there, you know what I’m talking about.
I opened the passenger door a little and leaned my head outside. Instead of a curb, there was a beveled drainage ditch right there, and I barffed my brains out. Then I withdrew my head back inside, shut the door, and went back to sleep.
Some more time passed. I really don’t know how long. But that same urge overcame me again. So I repeated the procedure:
- Open the door.
- Stick my head outside.
- And barf in the drainage ditch.
More time passed. I have no idea how long it was. But the next thing I remember was my son waking me up and saying, “Let’s go, Pop. We’re home.”
Sludge, that wasn’t the first time I ever threw up on alcohol. Pardon my French – but, no shit, that was the last time I ever threw up – almost thirty years ago.
And that was the first time – and the last time – I ever drank Jägermeister.
Good riddance to that foul concoction.
In addition to being an official Eagles Outsider, Barry Bowe is also the author of:
- Born to Be Wild
- 1964 – The Year the Phillies Blew the Pennant
- 12 Best Eagles QBs
- Birth of the Birds
- Soon-to-be-published sexy, police procedural Caribbean Queen
- Soon-to-be-published novel Stosh Wadzinski
- Soon-to-be-published novel Polish Widow
Comments
No Comments