most dangerous profession #29745: drunk mime

Flashback time again! It must have been all the acid I dropped in high school* coming back to haunt me because this story jumped into my mind on three separate occasions this week - with no prompts (WACKY!).
* did not actually happen Dad and I'm too old to ground (I think).

So this story involves the same cast and crew but this time there is no feminine protection involved.

My friends and I loved to party and living in a university-laden city with a multitude of bars, taverns, pubs, clubs, and cabarets with a small few block radius made having fun very easy and economical. The term "draught war" was music to our ears and sometimes the drinking got a bit out of hand.

BTW - a draught war usually broke out in the Summer. Bars and some pubs would compete by dropping draught prices ridiculously low during early evening hours to attract crowds. Most places didn't participate and the bars that did usually consisted of the more pick-up a coyote* kind of dance bar place. We would just go for the cheap drinks and nachos before moving onto more palatable haunts (yes, I'm a bar snob - what's the big deal?)
* coyote: someone who might bring on the urge for you to chew your own arm off to escape from once sobriety makes the trek back into your brain. I have not heard, nor used that term since the nineties.

So some nights it would get very out of control since there was no limit at this time on how many drinks you could purchase at one time. It wasn't unusual for a server to come by with a full half-pint tray and for a table of four or six to buy the entire thing. What party kid can resist 30 cent drinks?

It is unnecessary to ramble on, or describe the debauchery any further: short of long, we often got hammered (what's that little liver of mine? you want me to tell them you almost walked out on me a few times because of my behaviour? oh shush, you little whiner, I went easy on you at BlogHer). Suffice to say we drank copious amounts of alcohol especially on weekend nights.

One Saturday morning after one of those super sloshy nights, I came downstairs after the usual rise 'n shine call to find one of the guys passed out face first between the couch and coffee table. Not completely unusual but something didn't seem right.

It was the angle of his body that seemed wrong - it looked like he was lying on top of something. During my CSI examination, another room mate had come downstairs and we moved the table to try to move the guy off the floor because the dude was totally blocking the bathroom we needed to be sure he was breathing okay.

Once we flipped him over we realized what was going on. It appeared that before passing out, he had made some KD, lay down the couch with the food on his chest, then passed out, and proceeded to roll off the couch onto the floor taking everything with him.

A flipped-over, full bowl of bright orange macaroni lay on the floor next to the now flipped back-over guy. The still passed out guy.

We were relieved when he quickly started to wake up and stretch - after all, he did have to go to work - and more importantly, I had to use the loo - BAD.

The moment he lifted his shoulder to move, his eyes popped open like something out of a horror movie and he cried out in pain. It only took one look at the arm to know it was broken (I ain't no med student but yuck, it was broke-en B.A.D.).

"How the h*** did you break your f'ing arm Dude?!?"

He had no idea. For real, he had absolutely no idea.

After a discussion of possible arm-breaking scenarios with no resolution, he was packed off to get the arm looked after. Then we all scurried off to work.

I worked at a woman's clothing store and Saturdays were the least painful days to work with a hangover. It was busy, the staff was at full capacity, and things always went fast. This day was no exception.

At the end of the day, after close, the music would be cranked and clean up would begin. This was also the prime time to gossip and share stories of Friday night parties. What can I say? We were a huge group of twenty-something girls who loved to have fun. So stories would fly and it usually was a huge laugh.

That particular night two of the youngest girls were talking about a wild party they had attended at one of the down town universities. I remember it was a funny story, that just got better with each detail so I took a break to listen when one of the girls said something like "and just when we thought it couldn't get any weirder, listen what happened to us on the way home:".

The look on my face must have involved a completely slack jaw because that is how I felt after hearing the story.

Apparently at the end of the night, they were walking home when they encountered this very attractive, charming, completely wasted young man who proceeded to follow them home. He was a total gentleman, sometimes acting like a mime, sometimes plucking flowers from gardens to give to them.

He wasn't bothering them and they were flattered by his attention so they had no issue with him tagging along. He didn't say much, anything said was fairly incoherent but he wasn't a stumble fall down drunk and appeared agile.

The girls agreed that it seemed he had noticed something across the street (a flower? an invisible box or imaginary wind storm? who knows what caught his attention) and suddenly he took off across the road.

As the charming drunk mime ran into the street, seemingly out of no where (though my money is on "it came down the road") a car appeared and hit this mysterious, completely charming drunk. They said he wasn't hit really hard - the driver did brake almost in time - but he was hit enough to knock him across the hood and onto his butt beside the car on the road.

How do I remember these details?

OMG and holy heck, by this time I was taking notes and trying to phone the now sober and broken mime at home.

The story finished with him getting up, staggering for a moment, grabbing his arm in confusion and then taking off into the night. The driver hadn't stopped, no one was quite sure what had just happened so for these ladies they just had a really wacky story to tell the next day.

I think what got me most about this story wasn't the fact that the mystery was solved by sheer chance and now we knew how his arm was broken - it was the fact that he came home and made KD with a broken arm AND without setting the house on fire.

Dude never EVER cooked when he was sober.