I Don't Think We're in Kansas Anymore ...

Fridays are my late nights at work; keeping the store open for that last little straggler of a tourist on his way back to the hotel from a day of walking the streets in search of history or a joyous kazoo harmonizing ride on the Ducks. I've come to dread these people and their overactive interest in high-end furniture only to ask that inevitable question: "Do you ship?" and finally gasping at the price I quote them. It's kind of a good thing that their likings tend to gravitate them toward oversized contemporary sectionals because they seem to need the extra firm cushions to catch them when the shipping charge knocks them back off of their feet.

So, this past Friday evening, after the last of the tourists were escorted to the front door and guided in the direction of the Holiday Inn around the corner, my fellow co-worker and I, along with another employee who will most likely turn out to be one of my bosses somewhere down the line, all decided that it was the perfect evening to go out for a couple of drinks. With so many places to choose from in Philadelphia's Old City neighborhood, it was finally decided upon to find a spot where we would be able to sit outside and watch the Friday night tone of the city change from suits rushing toward the subway entrance to cleavage trying to break free from tight, low cut cocktail dresses. We quickly found the perfect spot for people-watching and drinks: the last remaining outdoor table at a corner restaurant at 3rd and Market Streets.

There we sat for a couple of hours under the oversize canvas umbrella; its flaps advertising some sort of French bottled water. Around us were groups of finely dressed couples talking softly across the black wrought iron cafe tables; a murmur of whispered voices drifting across the warm evening air like the ebb and flow of waves caressing the shore. We ordered appetizers; an assortment of seafood that worked well with the bottle of white wine already emptied between us and our fresh drinks sitting on the paper cocktail napkins. Our topic of conversation varied greatly, but always seemed to steer itself back to work, but in a good fun provoking and gossiping kind of way. Flirtation was in the air between my two co-workers, but that was nothing new. I've been witness to this type of behavior between the two of them before and I was enjoying the pleasant awkwardness that played out before me like a high school play.

After wine and two or three drinks, someone decided it was time for a round of shots. I tried to steer clear of the temptation; trying to be the respectable elder of the group (eleven years older than the one younger than me and a good fifteen years on the other), but my objections were were overruled and I soon found myself staring down at a shotglass containing a mixture of Southern Comfort and Peach Schnapps. It wasn't the most pleasant tasting shot, but it went down easily enough and I quickly chased the last of the taste down with a swig of a freshly opened bottle of beer.

Darkness soon blanketed the sky, leaving us bathed in the shadow of the umbrella, surrounded by the ambiant soft yellow-pink glow of the street lights lining the avenue. We decided to pay our check and head off to new surroundings. Again, I objected, stating that I'm feeling good at that moment, but I was still well in control of myself. My co-worker pointed her finger to the bus stop across the street and informed me that we weren't going to go to any place where we would lose sight of the bus stop and (throwing in for good measure) that I only lived a few blocks away. She grabbed my hand before I could state my argument and I found myself making my way down Market Street towards the Delaware River waterfront. A sea of people washed around me, their faces blurring together as they passed by on towards their own destinations.

It was amazing how quickly that shot had taken hold of me. Maybe it was because there were so many people around and I didn't know where I was being taken, but I really don't remember entering the next bar, a place called Drinkers. I remember it being about a block from Front Street, right on Market Street. I remember it being a long and narrow room, like one of the many converted storefront buildings that may as well have been a fish market or a butcher in a bygone era. I remember the walls having a dark '70s kind of paneling running from the front entrance to the stairs in the rear of the room leading to another bar in the basement.

But most of all I remember the doorman, a young well built black man...kid...with a shaved head and tight-fitting t-shirt. It wasn't the kid I remembered as much as what happened to me. After all, I was in a straight bar I've never entered before with straight co-workers. I had to keep myself in check, even though the kid did seem to have a chest that Evil Kinevil would think twice about jumping. My co-worker, a woman, walked in first. I was chit-chatting with my other co-worker and watched her reach into her purse and bring out her I.D. I passed the doorman, still talking and saw my other co-worker, a 6'4" bull of a guy, pull his wallet out of his back pocket and display his I.D. Thinking I better not move any further into the room and have the doorman calling after me, I turned towards him and reached into my back pocket...

He looked at me through the dim lighting and the cloud of cigarette smoke hanging in the air and...shook his head! At first, I didn't quite get it, but he continued shaking his head, almost spasmatically, and waved me away.

"Dude!" I shouted back at him with a laugh. "Why don't you just stab me in the back on my way out and put me out of my misery!"

The doorman looked cautiously at me and, realizing that I was still laughing, offered me an embarassed apology before going on to the next card-carrying patron.

It didn't take long for two more beers and another shot (this time Southern Comfort and lime juice) to grab me by the ears and take my head for a little spin. I'm pretty good that way. When my head tells me it's had enough alcohol, my feet start taking me to the nearest exit. I'm far beyond those years where drinking only led to more drinking and only stopped long enough to order another drink. I'm mostly a beer guy and I can drink a good number of them and still function (especially for someone of my size), but it makes it that much more difficult for me when other things incorporate themselves into that formulatic consumption, such was the situation that Friday night with a bottle of wine and shots of Southern Comfort. I kindly said my good-byes and drifted out of the bar and into the night, my head wanting to go one way and my feet the other. In my mind's eye, I was walking a straight line towards the bus stop, but only passers-by would know what I truly looked like (although I don't think I was too bad).

When I reached the bus stop, I leaned against a street sign and waited...and waited...and waited. I looked at my watch and was surprised to see it was nearing 11:30. I wished there was a bench at this stop, but I had to remain standing, my eyes burning with a drunken tiredness that cried to be closed.

After about 10 minutes, I saw the headlights of an approaching bus grow nearer. I dug into my pants and pulled out two dollar bills. The bus pulled up and the doors opened with a hiss. Inside, the florescent lights blazed in all their artificial glory and I bowed my head, keeping my eyes in shadow for fear of them bursting into twin flames before a busload of horrified passengers. I fed my bills into the farebox and moved down the narrow aisle, thankful to spot a forward facing seat near the front. I closed my eyes as the bus pulled away from the curb. My mind was alert to the sounds around me: someone on a cell phone, the drone of the bus engine, the soft computerized female voice of the GPS navigator announcing the next stop...

"5th Street...National Constitution Center...8th Street...Market East Station...15th Street for Suburban Station...19th Street & J.F.K. Boulevard..."

The bus turned the corner onto 19th Street. Only a few more blocks to go and I'll be home in bed...

"Market Street...Walnut...Chestnut............."

"Washington Avenue..."

I stirred slightly.

"Ellsworth..."

Oh crap!

I pulled on the cord signalling the driver to stop at the next corner. I never even bothered to look out the window or at any of the other passengers. The bus stopped, the doors opened and I stepped out into the warm night air, kicking myself for having fallen asleep. The bus pulled away, kicking up a wave of curbside dust and exhaust fumes into my face. I looked around, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Abandoned buildings, empty lots, darkened streetlights.

Yup, I'm in hell...

I quickly got my bearings and headed due north on 19th Street. My street was about six or seven blocks north of here, but from the looks of my surroundings it may as well have been six or seven miles. The first major street ahead of me would be Washington Avenue. Although it's busy street during the day, lined with a wide array of blue collar businesses and home improvement specialty stores, it doesn't see much traffic at night, except for hoodlums driving about looking for someone stupid enough to be walking around by themselves.

Midnight in Baghdad...

I made my way up to Washington Avenue, praying that a taxi would be nearby, but knowing it was unlikely. The closest place I could think of to get a cab would be 5 blocks east on Broad Street. If I didn't get a cab soon, any direction I decided to walk would probably be a bad decision.

I reached Washington Avenue and looked towards the east: no cars. I looked towards the west: one car heading towards me. I wondered if I should hide in the shadows, but I figured if they were looking for someone and spotted me, running or hiding wouldn't help.

The headlights drew closer...

...and I noticed the familiar small dome on the roof...

"TAXI!!!!!!!"

I ran towards the intersection; a mantra repeating in my head: pleasebeemptypleasebeemptypleasebeempty...

The cab pulled towards the curb...

YES!

I opened the back door and hopped in.

"Where to?" The cabbie asked.

"North. I'll tell you when to stop." And then I added as an afterthought: "But don't let me fall asleep."

The cab dropped me off at the end of my street and I walked the rest of the way to my house. I unlocked the door, greeted C-Rex and headed up to bed.

As I laid my head down on the pillows, a famous line suddenly found its way into my mind. The movie is not one of my all time favorites, but the line seemed to take on new meaning...

There's no place like home...

Down, But Not Out ...

That's what the sign read hanging from my employer's main store only hours after lightening from an intense thunderstorm sparked an inferno that destroyed 95% of the structure last night. To read about it click here