When work drinking goes south

On Monday, a show at the theatre company I work at had its press Opening. That means Opening Night party. That means free booze. That means trouble.

While the show was running, I went to Dalton’s, a local bar around the corner from the Theatre, with a bunch of co-workers, to have a drink before reporting to work at the party. Dalton's is a bar new to me, but is marked with really good food and a strong tap. Now if they just dropped the prices down, it would be a staple.

I had to work the coat check at the beginning of the party, which was fine and slowed (not stopped, mind you) the flow off free Bud Lights (we are a not-for-profit, so our booze ain’t top shelf) keeping me from leaving friendly buzzed and entering fire-able drunk (at least in front of the higher-ups). After I clocked out, I had a shot to tequila with my boss and a co-worker whose last day it was, which uped the emotional ‘I love you guys’ quotient of the evening.

The party began to wind down around 11:30, and some of the actors from the other show were heading to Brooklyn. I have one more drink, grabbed some co-workers who live in said borough, and hailed a cab.

We meet the actors at a place called Barcade, which is a dive bar filled with old arcade games. The first thing I do as a way to announce myself was order shots. JD was chosen, and off we went. I believe a co-worker described my facial expression post shot as “horrible pain”. Hey, it’s Jack, what ya gonna do?

The exact details of the bar are a tad fuzzy, as the many free beers and now two shots (tequila and Whiskey are not great bedmates) caught up to me. I did enjoy myself a lot, and have yet to be told I did something messed up. I did head out eventually, jumping a cab back to Astoria. My plan was to sleep it off and attempt to get to work near on time. When I enter my living room, I found Hubris and Brownsox drinking bourbon. Crap!

You see, Hubris’s waiter lifestyle allows for such late weeknight wackiness. Brownsox recently got a job that pays him to blog about politics (making him the only person I know who can do their job on the crapper), so he does not care about 2am house parties on a Monday. If I was a stronger or wiser man, I would have gone to bed, but I am what I am. I sat down and had some Knob Creek and attempted to explain my evening, but mostly made fun of Brownsox for wearing a black turtleneck sweater in May. Soon after I arrived, Bourbon Samurai gave up his attempt to be a mature adult (i.e. get a good sober night’s sleep before work in the morning), came out of his room, and drank with us. At some point I went to bed, slept, and got to work 90 minutes late.

My job rules.