Well, its time to put the trip in writing. So I take off at 7:20, 30 minutes after I was in fact supposed to leave. (Amtrak you government run cocksuckers) eh, at this point Im in never-never land (not the one run by Michael Jackson) and pondering which girl on the train is most do-able (a scale of 1 to 0 as my measuring stick) when I notice a girl yapping loudly behind me to apparently the cop who is sitting next to her. And by yapping I mean I doubt she stopped running her mouth about her fuckin friends that I knew this ‘fun vampire’ was 32, has been to Flunk Day (bitch) and dating a 25 year old who is clearly going to dump her old ass in a matter of days and fucks. (fucks of course coming before the days) As my luck has it, the battery in my 40 dollar mp3 player is already dying, so in order to preserve some for the ride home I take off the headphones. The rage is building. I am about green and a thousand pounds when I get off the train, with the constant day dream of smashing this broad’s yapping mouth into the window having played through out that brutal 40 minute ride without the comfort of my music. Get to Grant’s apartment, which is huge and puts the house I rent to shame. Not that life is a contest (yet), but I already begin to feel out of place. Grant’s friends are a kid who looks like The Situation and a Puerto Rican Marine; I feel a little better. I get some 'fuck it' in my system; I can’t feel anymore. If I could in fact feel, I would’ve felt like Alan in the Hangover; I hum to myself, the three best friends…The bars are the bars, I tend to bounce into everyone, knocking into both chicks and dudes. I am huge. Oh, and I wore sandals (with my customary unkept nails, Im classy) with shorts (plaids) and a v-neck tee. Its all of maybe 40 degrees. I have finally gained tool status.
The day starts for me at 7:15am. Too anxious to sleep, I’ve seen the highlights of yesterday’s games for the third time. (I slept with the tv on and watched the highlights another 4 times at least) The thoughts of how great this day could potentially be have filled my head, as I cram all 240 pounds of my massive frame onto a small couch. An hour and a half of trying not to wake anyone up and be that dude (or a 12 year old on Christmas eve) I finally go to wake up Grant at around 8:30ish. He reluctantly gets out of bed, only to lay on the couch and watch the highlights with me (my 6thish time mind you) before we go get booze and mcdonalds breakfast at 915am. (after all, no day of drinking is complete without mcd bfast twice) Booze is bought, and at 9:45am the first Busch Light is cracked. After half a b-town bomber and three busch lights for me (everyone else may get down one) we head for the train around 1030pm. Did I forget to mention I got a pump in, in there make shift gym/office/smoke den. Yep, I’m a meathead. I cram my pockets with three extra beers, on top of the bag of beers Grant has in hand, which we all drink on the metra train into town. I’m probably at least 7 beers deep when we get to Chicago, at the very least. I’m feeling good. We get to the ticket place 12:15, which with the game starting at 12:05 I’d normally be pissed. However, Lady Luck, Karma and God all got together and decided to reward me (for what I will never know) and The Situation gets us up to the rooftop in the right field of Wrigley where its all you can eat and all you can drink. After shoveling down a plate of the driest chicken breasts (PROTEIN!) I have a keg poured blue moon in hand. The cubs are losing, which is also code to get even more fucked up. I pound my way through five total blue moons (cant beat free) and am feeling good. I wave bye to two girls I went to college with, who happened to be sitting in the adjacent (that’s next to-take that seventh grade geometry teacher!) and we begin to make our way out. It’s the fifth (ish?) inning and were on our way to seats that are 5 rows behind the cubs bullpen. And by on the way, I mean I make it down the three flights of stairs at the rooftops and literally puke up anything and everything I had in my system. Puke and rally at 2pm. I am heralded as the ultimate partier (by a random dude who originally thought I was a jackass before he realized it’s my buddies b’day) which is a huge distinction for a frat brah like me. I am on cloud nine.
We get into wrigley, and Grant’s buddy The Situation is in fact as money as I probably told him (which after that much beer I’d say was four times at least) we are literally four to five rows back. (seeing as I was oh 10 beers deep at this point, I say four or five because that was my visual of it) Eight inning, cubs are down 4-0. Ramierez and Soriano both rope balls (haha) the left field line, zipping past our seats. The score is 4-3. With two runners on and 2 outs in the ninth Kosuke Fuck-u-do-me gives one of those swings a half retarded special class kid gave back in little league. He literally twists his body swinging at a pitch that hits the dirt to end the game. I’m pissed, but not surprised. Carlos Marmol, the closer who was left at the alter by the cubs, happens to throw the ball he was warming up with into the crowd. I’m a hawk, and after some bad no catches (drunks) I snag the ball off the ground and deposit it in my pocket. Mine bitches. I shoot that look and growl at the hands and people around me, while all three buddies are impressed that I did so with no fanfare or celebration. In reality, I was being protective of my baseball. We leave for what is the first of many bars. Mulligans (I believe) to play some darts with a couple of Knoxies. We head to sluggers too, which is a haze. We end the night at a bar that has a dance floor which brought only this Denis Leary quote to mind. “Straight men don’t dance, remember birthdays or marry chicks with hearing aids” However, my group has never heard this quote. That is my only thinking when they start busting out the moves on the dance floor. Grant is balls deep in a thigh high fastball (I use baseball analogies like its my job) who has already given him the signs as to what she’ll be throwing next. She wants cock, and his will work wonders. I leave him and am stuck, latching onto Johnny (Puerto Rican marine) who has already let me know that a)he’s banged skins once already and b) he wants to again, without a phone. Sweet. I’m attempting not to freak out that so many men are dancing like it’s Saturday Night Fever that I keep drinking. A little, has to be Italian woman keeps trying to get me to dance. Cant do it, I say. Doesn’t work. She has a wedding ring. Mmm…I try to muster up the dance moves, only to realize I am not nearly drunk enough, and still am holding myself accountable for my awful dancing (fucking self-esteem issues). I return to the bar, and the night gets hazy. I end up looking at my phone at 11pm, and saying to no one in particular “we got alotta night left!” I fist pump. It is the last real clear memory I have.
I end up texting whoever I can, nobody's coming to wrigleyville. Mother fucker. I get drunker. I hear I was kicked outta the bar for attempting to steal bud lights (scummy) and I take a picture of a pitch dark Wrigley field at 2am. I’m sure I was jacked about this at the time. 4:43am- I come to, outside of the train station. This can’t possibly be just luck. I have two weird scratch marks on both thighs and reak of a days worth of drinking and have no idea where in particular I am. I can’t help but think I am still dreaming. In fact It reminds me of a dream I had, only this is real and damn im in a world of pain. All day drinking just aint my thing, I guess (I’ll never be a functioning alcoholic!). I scrubily ask the lady working the desk how I can get to Claredon Hills, and she says get on the train and ride. I oblige. At the next station, this time its 5:02, I ask a well intoxicated black man how to get to the metra. He lets me know I should get off at Jackson. Thank you random drunk black man. A group of coked out posers enter the same train, tho I cant even look up to acknowledge them. Still too out of it. I get to the Jackson area, and Im freezing. Still in my shorts, cubs shirt and cubs sandals, its all of 30something degrees out with no sun. IF I were a bum I’d die, I have no discovered. There goes that potential life plan (sigh). I get to the service desk, and pathetically ask a black man and black woman who work at the station how to catch the metra to Claredon Hills.
Black man: The metra?
Me: yes to claredon hills
Black woman: Where?
Me: (still slurring my speech and in a daze) Claredon hills, my buddy lives there.
Black woman: Where were you at?
Me: The cubs game
Black man. THAT WAS TWELVE HOURS AGO!
Me (looking as much the part of a scrub as possible): uhhh, yeah…..
They point me in the right direction, alerting me that I will need to get to Union Station. That its only a few blocks up and out of where I am, in fact three total blocks. Its still cold and I still feel like dog shit, but I stagger my way into Union Station, fitting right in with the bums who normally populate a train station at 545 in the morning. It gets worse. I realize the metra doesn’t begin to run until 830, which means I will have to manage for a solid 2 plus hours. I’d get mad if I could, or if I was at all surprised my luck had clearly run dry. I wait..I try to sleep on a hard wooden bench but the damn breeze and my fuckin summer wear aren’t doing it. I walk to mcdonalds where I order what looks good. I take two bites and pound the orange juice I ordered. My head was clearly bigger than my stomach. My mission of starting and ending the day with mcd is complete and my medal is no where to be found, so I rest my eyes. Less than 15 minutes later I am awoken by “cant sleep here sir, get up and get some air”. Fuck my life. I get up while realizing my stomach feels like death. So I head to the bathroom only to shit thru a screen door and puke almost in unison. While my mouth is still full of puke I hear someone slam on the door of the stall “sir you cant sleep in here!” Like what the fuck? Who the fuck would wanna sleep on the stall of a Union station bathroom? Sure I would love a venereal disease sir, this is a perfect spot to sleep. I muster up enough where withal to tell this jerkoff that I am in fact not sleeping and to get the hell away from me. I finish leaving everything I have consumed in the past 12 hours in the union station toilet (including both my pride and dignity) and pass out on a bench at 645. I am awaken at 738 to be told, that once again, there is no sleeping in union station. Im just thankful I can buy my metra ticket. Which I, in fact do, and at 8 oclock I find myself boarding the metra. I am giddy to not be told that I cant sleep, so I close my eyes. I am awoken when the train lunges forward, and again when a bomb detonates in my stomach. Motion sickness/hangover are in full effect, and thank god a pretty girl who I’ve been eye fucking all morning is there to witness it. I first attempt to hold it in. “Come on William, you pussy shove it back down (no homo)” I keep telling myself, until finally it spews out a little and on to my hand. I give in, and lean over the trash can at the end of the metra. I am again, that guy. (This time im an inconsiderate party animal who pukes in public places) Just a little baby puke and my stomach feels better. I sit, having lost my dignity hours ago, without much embarrassment as to my current state. I shoot the pretty girl a “hey, don’t stare at me, party!!” look and she gets the deal. I get off at Claredon Hills. Finally, dry land. Its 9:00 and my luck continues to be dried and out of commission. I call Grant every 15 minutes from 9 to 11, with no answer. I remember him and his roommate telling me its “.7 miles” from there house to the train station, so I get the idea that I will just attempt to walk .7 miles in every direction and I will surely find there apt. I realize now how truly stupid this plan was. After 2 hours of walking in endless directions and seeing places I try to convince myself I’ve seen before, I kick out around “Blackhawk drive”. Seeing as I remembered making an off hand, random comment about how its “Blackhawk drive” we were driving on two nights before, I am certain it will lead me there. No dice. I find a 711 to hydrate myself at and realize my luck has changed ever so slightly. They have Gatorade on tap. Oh sweet nector of the gods, I buy the largest cup (I’m a man, yes I am) and settle down on the curb to drink it in all of its deliciousness. It’s no more than 47 degrees (approximately) and I continue to wander. I call my bro, who helps me navigate to Grants apt using mapquest. Thank you, Bradley. 2 hours later and roughly 4 miles (when I finally called B it was 1045 and I was 1.56 miles from Grants) I get into Grants apt and shower. I feel like the scene in King of New York where Frank White showers after he’s released from prison. (I also realize you have to be a Biggie Smalls fan to have ever considered watching this movie) Glorious. Its 1230 when Grant and his boys come home, and I must look like dog shit. We all share stories, and return to wonderland before the train ride. I’m glad I survived the night. Grant drops me off and I get my ticket. The old, stern looking Amtrak attendant lets me know I must take the tunnel down to where I need to be picked up. I ignore him foolishly, and stand outside. I make eye contact with a chick with a big ass and a soft “fuck me crazy” look on her face. Boner. I’m in a zone. I board the train with her. My first thought is, “man these seats don’t look like Amtrak seats”. The train lurches forward, and I continue zoning in on the thick girl with a work of art for an ass. The conductor interrupts my day dreaming to let me know that I am in fact on the wrong train, and someone will be along to help me out. I let the ticket taker know this, that I am on the wrong train and what should I do he responds “you better get off the train!” Which I oblige, and make further eye contact with the beauty on the metra. Oh so close, I give her a look and she smirks, most likely at my stupidity. I tuck my tail in between my legs and wait at the Lisle train station for a train back to Naperville, so that I can once again board a train for Galesburg. I let the Amtrak attendant know that I am in fact an idiot (my exact words), and that I missed my train. If this stern old man could even smile, he would’ve, I am confident. Lady Luck/Karma/God give me a break, and hang one for me; I will only have to wait another 15 minutes for the train. Oh joy. All I had planned to do was curl up and die (figuratively, but soon to be literally at this point) on the train, which I have now been awake/blacked out for 32 consecutive hours. Ugh..I find out we have assigned seats on the train, and I get slotted next to my #2 girl. (Side note: I’ve spent so long watching, viewing, obsessing over sports that I must rank girls by looks in every social situation) Shes cute but uninterested. I think of making small talk but I pass out, all to happy to finally (and legally) close my eyes. 510 rolls around and I awake. Almost home. 6oclock hits and we arrive. The train conductor makes an off-hand comment about how much the town we are entering sucks (a synopsis of her words, not exacts) and I know it is Galesburg. I have never been so happy to be back in all of my life. 20 minutes it takes me to stagger home, I quickly derobe, send some texts and lay in bed. 1:38am hits, and I am starving. I realize I just passed out for 7 hours, I devour two handfuls of left over stale popcorn, and return to my slumber. I awake at 8:32, some 14 plus hours of sleep and am ready for Monday. I think I am…
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