After the showing on Tuesday night we got a little drunk. We had beer for the audience, but since the whole audience was students, we drank the beer. Husband had had a whisky event that night and brought us a bottle, but we had no cups so we swigged it from the bottle like the fucking hobos that we are.
Then at 11pm we decided to journey towards Rudys. Me, Husband, Joey, Gary, Matt, Chris, Brandon, Shani, Kim, Jen, and Ben. Here's what happened.
We waited at the 33rd St 7 Station in Queens (ever heard of it? I thought not...). It was less than ten degrees.
The train came. At the next stop, Queensboro Plaza, we lost Shani. She lives in Astoria.
Two stops later, at 45th St, we lost Jen and Ben. They took the G to Williamsburg. Because they are hipster scum.
Then, between stations, the 7 Train stopped for about 20 minutes. At first we didn't notice. We were drunk and Brandon was showing off his amphibian prowess by hanging off subway poles. Then we got a little worried that we would be trapped on this subway car forever, just us and all the people who were pissed off that they had to share a car with noisy drunk pole-flipping assholes.
The train finally made it into Grand Central. Chris jumped off saying he had to pee and he would meet us at Rudys. People piled on the train. We sat politely. Finally someone turned to us and said, "this train is going back to Flushing."
We ran out of the train, cursing, and made our way to the shuttle platform. The shuttle. Dumbest train ever. When we got there, we found the Atlantic City shuttle, stopped quietly in the station. We pounded on the doors, hoping to be let in, but instead a regular train came and we got on that. During the hubub, we lost Matt. But just as the doors of the shuttle were closing, Chris reappeared.
At Times Square we took the long walk underground to 8th Ave. Brandon began ripping down posters (the guy is wierd. he really is). When some MTA employees tried to apprehend him, a drunken Kim told them that he had tourettes (which he actually may) and couldn't help it. The MTA employees became concerned. Brandon started hitting himself and we all walked away.
In the big 8th Ave hallway, under Port Authority, Brandon began whimpering about going home. It was close to midnight at this point. I managed to get him in a headlock and run him down to the 44th Street exit of the station. When we got there he pried himself free, gave me a hug, and ran to the A Train like his froggy life depended on it.
Then Husband came up behind me and said we had lost Chris to the A Train too. He had yelled BYE and ran away.
And so arriving at Rudys were myself, Husband, Joey, Gary, and Kim. Pathetic. The second we stepped into Rudys Husband began feeling nauseous. Maybe it was the smell of hotdogs, or sour beer, or despair (or the fact that he hasn't felt totally well since returning from Denver) but he had to leave. So I took him home.
When I left, Kim, Gary, and Joey were ordering a pitcher and settling into a booth. I am sure they closed the place down with Prince songs, pitchers of Pabst, and the pride of being the last three standing.
Labels: Brooklyn Brewery, bullshit, drinking, journeys, pictures, whisky
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