The Actual Birthday

Well, well, well, I believe an apology is in order for my error in recognizing the date of my own birthday, but I think you'll agree with me in saying that I got the worse end of that deal. Either way, I did just celebrate my actual birthday, and these are the events that I can recall:

I woke up bright and early to the sound of knuckles rapping on the cold metal door of the abandoned railcar that has become a home to me. Never one who believed in the "early bird gets the worm" theory, I chucked an empty bottle of Night Train as hard as I could in the direction of the noise.

The projectile landed so forcefully that when the glass shattered, many of the shards flew back and landed in my hair. Sadly, I did not notice this until much later whilst I was receiving a scalp massage from a young Oriental woman I met during my weekly visit to the Salvation Army. The glass cut me up a bit, but it really did a number on the little Asian concubine's fingers. She actually had the nerve to ask me for permission to stop!

Ah well, where was I? After I made it clear that I was not interested in receiving visitors, I rolled back over on my makeshift bed of old gym mats, scratched my bare barrel of a chest, and attempted to seek refuge in my dreams once again. There were a few seconds of silence before the rapping began again.

My body went into overdrive and I was on my feet in the "Drunken Dog" fighting stance in a tenth of a second. "What do you want, ya brigand?!" I shrieked, running full steam ahead at the door. My hands gripped instinctively for the handle and hurled the heavy metal aside.

With murder in my bloodshot eyes and blood streaking down my forearms from the vicelike grip I had on the broken glass in my hand, I lunged outside and tackled my asailant! My eyes were blind with rage and the world outside my living quarters was bathed in a blood-red tint. As it turns out, it was not a usurper at my door at all. In fact, it was my good buddy, Dingy Joe.

If it were anybody else, they most likely would have shit themselves upon being tackled by a bloody beast of a man such as myself. But Dingy Joe is not your average human being, and as I'm sure you've guessed already, it takes an above-average person to hang with Ole Quint.

I helped Dingy off the ground and we exchanged a firm handshake. It made no nevermind to him that I used the blood-covered hand; to be completely honest, I don't think he even noticed. To my great delight, my friend pulled a flagon of bourbon from his trenchcoat and smiled.

He must have remembered my birthday, because normally Joe is the type of guy who would slit your throat if you so much as glanced at his liqour - not that I can say much in opposition to that. I took a swig from the bottle and passed it back to him; he did the same. This process repeated for several hours before we finished the bottle and decided to head downtown to prowl for skanky broads.

I think we were halfway down Delaware Avenue when the liqour overtook me and I jumped on top of a moving vehicle. The driver didn't seem to appreciate my tap dance routine on his Subaru, but who was he to challenge ole Quint? Certainly not a worthy opponent!

The antics grew worse and more frequent throughout the night before I ultimately lost consciousness in an alley behind a cheesesteak joint. I also pissed myself. That's right, I'm not ashamed to admit such things to you. You'll get nothing but honesty from ole Quint.

What, you may ask, did I learn from this experience? Well, I'll tell you. Birthdays, come and go, but friends and booze will be there forever.