the worst place to wake up

When I came to, I was surrounded by annoyed medical professionals who calmly told me to lay back, try to relax, and to tell them what I had drank that night. My vision was blurred, my motor skills weren't all there, and my chest was on fire. Slowly I realized I had passed out for the umpteenth time due to drinking, and this time I had actually been taken to the hospital.

It was Homecoming my senior year at college. My fraternity made a little formal date party of the event, and I being of supreme wisdom had declined to bring a date. The idea of coat-and-tie tailgating seems absurd to me five years later, mainly because I associate tailgating with less than formal pursuits like shotgunning beers and messy barbeque finger foods. However our fraternity's alumni had put together a nice little spread under our tent, with jambalaya and several different bottles of whiskey. Little did I know that at the end of the evening I would be waking up in the second-worst place to wake up following a drinking stupor.

My most impressive blackout feat to this point in time had been our semi-formal party my sophmore year, when I had awakened in the bushes across the street from the New Orleans Convention Center at 7 in the morning, just next to the off ramp of Interstate 10. I was wearing my brown suit (which blended into the mulch I was laying in). I had however lost my tie, and one of my shoes. I cabbed it back to campus (amazingly I still had my wallet). The cab-driver mentioned that I was missing a shoe, and I agreed with him quietly, and we finished the ride in silence. That evening we had a fraternity meeting, and no one could piece together what happened to me. It would be the first of many times over the next three years that I would black out, and simply wander away at night.

In rampant denial of my alcoholism, I noted that my date to that night's function, had left very early in the night to take care of a friend of hers. With her gone I ceased to curtail my drinking to a reasonable level, and swiftly imbibed myself into a bush. If in fact the lack of a date catalyzed my drinking, it did not bode well for me two years later at homecoming when I was dateless for the whole event, and wearing that same "lucky" brown suit.

At homecoming senior year, I did not see one actual football play executed. I stayed outside the stadium for both halves, only venturing in for the halftime show to see the featured act Outkast. Filming an MTV special, they performed their latest hit Hey Ya! twice in a row, much to the chagrin of the full stadium standing in a light, drizzling rain. I focused on counting bottles that day instead of downs. I progressed throughout the day from Makers Mark, to Jack Daniels, to my old standby Jim Beam. We simply kept finishing the bottles so I had to move on to what I gauged was the next best thing.

I remember heading from homecoming to a bar following the game. We had some food out, and a keg tapped there was laughing and dancing ... This is where the memories end. When I came to, my "lucky" brown suit was still on me. However the hospital staff had cut right sleeve of the coat lengthwise to my shoulder, to put in my IV and get me rehydrated. I distinctly remember how curtly I was being admonished by one nurse in particular, as if to say "Christ, why do I have to babysit these drunk college kids?"

Oh and reason my chest burned was because I had been given a sternum rub to determine how deep my alcohol coma was. I had not come to as a some doctors knuckles had scraped up and down my sternum, prompting the destruction of my favorite suit coat and button-down shirt.

Once again, none of my fraternity brothers had any idea that I was in the hospital. My brother happened to be in town with a friend from high school, and he called my cell phone, and was given the story when a nurse picked up on my end. He came and picked me up at the hospital and left me in my own bed with a bottle of Gatorade.

I reflect on this story now, because I realize that waking up in the hospital is probably the next to worst place to wake up, and I really hope I never experience the first. In my estimation the worst place to wake up would in fact be jail. A good friend of mine recently told me that

...

I've been tossing this story around recently because an acquaintance of mine recently found himself arrested, and in that worst place, for the second time. I had seen him just prior to an incident which ultimately led to him ending up in jail again.

A good friend of mine who cares deeply for this person went out on the line for this unlucky individual, securing his bail through a bail bondsman. I don't believe he's gotten much support from those close to him for this decision.

My friend cares deeply for this individual, and feels that he doesn't deserve to stay in jail while he waits for his court date. At the advice of his lawyer he also believes that the judge will be more likely to be lenient should the individual show up in civilian clothes rather than an orange jumpsuit.

I've still not decided how I feel overall about the situation. I did not know the individual in question well enough to justify securing his bail as my friend did. I know many friends who I would jump to help in a time of need, and similarly those who would come to my aid. What if I should I do something to one day warrant ending up in jail? So my friends and/or family come to my rescue. What if I follow up that kindness, and end up in jail again? At what point do they stop trying to rescue me?

I hope that things iron out as this situation unfolds. I am simply a spectator to this contest. I can only wish for the best; I can't do anything to influence the outcome.

The board is set...the pieces are moving. I can only pray this ends well.