3:40 am bit o’ irony.

When I walk in, I see him sprawled out on the floor.

The night begins with the full intent of crawling into a dark bar and forgetting my sensibilities, if only for a few hours. Instead, we fail. We drive. We watch people my parents’ age dance inappropriately and drink too much tequila. We leave and they call us quitters. The evening ends in “He’s Just Not That Into You” words of movie wisdom and the promise to drive my friends to the train station in the morn. I am not ashamed, though my back aches from falling asleep on their carpet-covered cement. I get up, feeling the call of my tiny twin bed. I feel the weight of my 23 years.

Two hours later, I see him stumble towards the comfort of flashing lights, flanked by UPD who are accustomed to this show. Spring Break peaks too early for this one. He will learn, but more importantly, he will live. I keep his wallet as a seven-hour souvenir and remind myself to give it to him after the stomach pump.

The entire building reeks, as we’re enveloped by the beer, whiskey, and meat smell. The air feels especially porous.

I rethink my occupational choices.

There is no time to get shitfaced and sexy. There is no need. The two do not equate.

Instead, the manchild who has too much fun with the drink goes to the hospital – tubes down the throat and a banana bag.

Hello, Spring.


“There’s more than enough time to be shitfaced and sexy.”

Words of wisdom from one Tony Patelunas, pre – Spring Break. Technically, my vacation started yesterday, but my heart and soul belongs to an indie bookstore three days of the week. I can’t complain much, as work feels more like play and banter than any sort of physical labor. I’ve never been asked to supersize anything or fold multi-color shirts. I have wrapped several display boxes of books, but only during the high holy days.

I feel frosty drinks and toasty books calling my name. A bartender in a certain Sayville establishment. A BFFL or three. I can’t neglect my work completely, though, as much I try to tune out the buzzing in my ears. Creativity waits for no one, not even Spring Break. Corny, but true. I feel myself drawn to narrative forms as of late, perhaps because I’ve overextended my foray into plays and monologues. Blame one Jules Feiffer.┬áMy mind thought like that once, but I feel as if my internal clock is pushing me towards that evil thesis. I guess I’m inspired by those around me who are graduating this semester and all of those books I shelve and sell at work. I can’t help it. I’ll try to fight it.

My moment. My chance at the watering hole.

Whenever I think watering hole, I picture this movie. I used to have a Lion King bedspread...when I was hip.