When Carlos woke up this morning, he wasn't sure how he ended up at my house, given the fact that we had met up at King King for this month's Compression party last night, where he rolled in with the Usual Suspects.
"Well, remember that conversation we were having last night about drunks?"
"Yeah," he answered.
"It's actually quite ironic if you think about it."
Somewhere at around 11:00 p.m. last night, as Robtronik played Cybotron and other early-techno and electro sounds, Carlos and I engaged in a quite lengthy discussion regarding drunken nuisances, y'know, those friends who become so out of control after a eight Adios Motherfuckers that anal retentive party people like Carlos and myself end up becoming designated babysitters. We were on our first round at that point, a vodka tonic for me and a Long Island Iced Tea for Carlos, and waiting with much anticipation for the 2x4 set from Egyptian Lover and Arabian Prince later that evening.
Carlos eventually got a second Long Island and put the straw in front of my mouth until I finally relented and took a sip as Edit and Ooah the Turntable Junkie took the laptop and turntable set up. I hate Long Islands and this one was particularly stiff and Nyquil-tasting. Carlos was a little buzzed, running more words together in a minute than he usually does in an entire day. I got up to use the ladies room, came back and decided to go out for a smoke. Carlos insisted on coming with me and, once we were outside, started macking on me, breaking his cardinal rule prohibiting most public displays of affection.
By the time I finished my cigarette, Son of the Electric Ghost was onstage and Carlos could hardly stand. I grabbed him by the hand and dragged him in with me. The security guard stopped us.
"I can't let him back in like that," he said.
"Oh, but, he's with me. I've got his back," I answered.
"Sorry, he's going to have to sober up first. Then we'll let him inside."
Hmmm, what an unusually decent security guard.
"Well, can I bring some water out here for him."
"Sure. Don't worry, you have twenty minutes before Egyptian Lover and Arabian Prince."
I ran inside, plopped down three dollars and a tip for a bottle of water that probably came from a Costco pack that cost three dollars altogether and ran back outside, stopping only to tell Juan and Omar what was going on. Juan seemed pretty wasted himself (although he said later that he was fine) and was flanked by a bevy of dark-haired ladies. I don't think anything I said registered with him. Omar, who seemed a bit irritated by the newfound knowledge that he was the only sober one left in their party of five and would inevitably be stuck with designated sucker duties later on that night, followed me outside.
"I didn't know he was such a lightweight," Omar said.
"Dude, he's not. This is weird."
Carlos was sitting in a tattered plastic chair with his head cocked to the side and chunks of puke splattered on the asphalt. He got up, took a step towards us and fell into the chair, which then collapsed. His head narrowly avoided the puke pool.
Omar and I tried to think of what to do. He didn't want to stick Carlos in their ride's SUV on account of the puking. Even if I didn't fear puke stains in my car, he wouldn't be able to lie down in it as it's too small.
"Why didn't you just stick me on a bus stop and leave me there?" He asked this morning.
"Trust me, I thought about it."
The security guard and random party dudes came over to offer their best wishes.
"Dude, it happens to the best of us. Just ride it out," they all seemed to say.
Meanwhile, I was running back and forth between the patio and the bar, grabbing napkins to help wipe up the spew.
"Yeah, that's why I started calling you Baby Spew last night," I said. "Like in AbFab. 'Lacroix. Baby spew. Lacroix. Baby spew."
"Babyshambles is more like it," Carlos responded. "I'm feeling like Pete Doherty."
Out on the patio, Carlos apologized profusely.
"Eh, don't worry about it," I shrugged, secretly fuming that I could hear Egyptian Lover and Arabian Prince bust out Kraftwerk's "Numbers," but could not dance to it.
"Let's go home. Take me back to your place."
"You can't stand up."
"Yes, I can."
He stood up and fell back into his seat.
I ran back inside to get more napkins. The tall guy and the short guy behind the turntables were working some mid-1980s dance number that I still can't recall by name and hadn't heard since back when Power 106 was the Hi NRG station in LA. I told Omar to meet me outside because I might have to take Carlos home. There was no way he was getting any better. Then I heard the familiar tinkle of keyboards.
"Debbie Deb!"
Fuck, man, I could be dancing my ass off to "When I Hear Music" right now, but I have to go back outside and take care of my boyfriend who got plastered off of two drinks!
"You should have just stayed in there."
"I couldn't. You kept whining for me to take you home and every time I tried to walk away, you grabbed on to my leg."
Back outside, Omar helped Carlos over to my car and pushed him into the front seat. I took care of the seatbelt and then drove us back to the Valley. We exited the 405 at Nordhoff and eventually stopped at the Hayvenhurst light. I saw Carlos cup his hand around his mouth.
"Shit!" I screamed, rolling down the window as quickly as possible. "Stick your head out the window!"
The couple in the car next to us doubled over with laughter. I quickly turned into a parking lot.
Carlos leaned his head out of the window.
"Go do it in the bush. It's getting all over the car."
Carlos got out and I grabbed the extra napkins and tried to wipe up the excess saliva now lining the car door. I guess this was his revenge for the night that my brother puked in his car.
Eventually, we made it back to my place, where Carlos passed out on the sofa as we watched the Clash on VH1 Classic.
What we still don't understand is how the fuck does one get that drunk off of two Long Islands? Carlos developed a theory that some guy fancied him and slipped him a roofie.
"Yeah, Carlos, that one really makes sense," I laughed. "When was the last time you had a Long Island?"
"I don't know. Few years."
I'm just guessing here, but maybe, if it is indeed true that one's tolerance of alcohol goes down with age (as seems to be my case), perhaps if one drinks two drinks that would have done nothing but provide a good buzz at 25, one might end up ill from the same combination a few years later. (Although, I have to say that when we cancelled New Year's Eve plans because Carlos still wasn't doing any better, I changed my mind and realized he was probably right and, most likely, someone did spike his drink.)
After writing this, I walked over to the sofa where Carlos was still attempting to sleep.
"Ugh, this hasn't happened in a long time," he said. "But, I've had a few laughs at the expense of others, so I guess this is my turn."
"Yeah, maybe this is fate's cruel way of getting back at us for making fun of _____ passing out in the DJ booth."