Part 2: "I Think I'm In Way Over My Head"

       My extreme fullness began to turn into severe depression at how much money I was about to spend. It was as if I could see my own financial demise unfolding, a train wreck hijacked and commandeered by Uncle Penny Bags himself. When the waiters cleared the third set of plates, they asked who wanted coffee. For some reason, I ignored my darkest doubts and raised my hand as if to say, "Of course I want coffee! I can definitely afford this." Immediately, Julian said, "Why are you ordering coffee? You can't pay for it." I was on a full-steam conveyor belt of wasteful spending. Absolute gluttony in every sense of the word. Meanwhile, my table mates are laughing and ordering shots of whiskey for dessert. The guy next to me orders tequila for me, despite my imploring him not to. Lets just say tequila is not really my strong suit.
       The waiters then brought out heaps of cannoli bits, chocolate ice cream and caramelized, glazed fruit. We were all about to take a shot to Julian's faux birthday when I started to pour out my tequila on the ground. The guy next to me (who is paying for it) totally caught me and calls me out in front of everyone. I know they recognized my severe ungratefulness. The fact of the matter was, I was on drink number 12 or so at this point and I know tequila is going to bury me. I take the remaining half of my shot saying, "Here's to not waking up tomorrow. Thanks for killing me, guys." Everyone is still laughing about how awesome it is to be rich and then the waiter brings over the check handing it to my friend.
       Now we all know the scene in the movie where they get the bill and their jaw drops, or their eyes grow 10 times their normal size, or they spit out their wine. Well the fact of the matter is, what happens most of the time is far, far worse and 1000 times less funny. I traced Julian's eye to the bottom of the check, and I looked deep into his face. His lower lip, which was slightly agape, moved upward to join his higher brother. His eyes slowly closed, not tightly, almost as if someone had just punched him in the gut. He made no sounds and passed me the bill.
       911.00 "Gratuity included" said the waiter.
       I fought back tears when I said the price out loud, and one of Julian's closest friend quickly snapped, "Oh! That's not so bad." But it was bad. It was 70-fucking-dollars-per-person bad. I sincerely proposed the idea of rolling up my sleeves and washing some dishes. Julian suggested we tell the owner that we were not 21 and that if they didn't let us go we would tell the police that they served alcohol to minors. In retrospect we probably should have gone with Julian's plan. I was beginning to think what would happen if we didn't pay. This restaurant could easily be a front by the mob. We could be killed.
       With my dying cell phone, I made one late night and extremely panicked call to my mom, and she tells me that sometimes in life, you have to spend a little bit and bite the bullet. She decided to loan me the money, so I was off the hook, temporarily. I then took a trip to the ATM, payed the 3 dollar surcharge, raced back to the restaurant and layed down 4 clean twenty dollar bills on the table. I felt as if each bill that hit the tablecloth, a piece of my hopes and dreams were broken off and lost forever. 5 credit card charges, a September 11th sized sum of money, and 30 minutes later, we were on our way to a bar. You see, most people know when to throw in the towel. But I figured that tonight I am going to dive head-first into the shallow end. After all, I just spent an 8th of the money in my checking account, might as well just really fuck myself over. For being a good sport, I am promised a drink by a gentleman named Ross. Thank you Ross. I will chalk your name at the top of my mental "I Owe You" list of millions. I carried with me my Foundation shred sled and 8 or so pounds of leftovers. They became my two babies, and I was faced with the difficult task of deciding which I would cast asside should the situation arise. I still don't know which I would leave behind.
       The bar reminds me of a speakeasy: No one was over 21, you could smoke where you please, and everyone is in good spirits. I loosen up a bit. My bowels loosen up a lot. Apparently my rule for no shitting in public places only applies under sober conditions, and these were not sober conditions. As I relieved some of my delicious Italian meal, I thought about how many people have done and would do cocaine off the toilet seat where my Truman (my Harry Ass!) was perched at that very moment. The sound of me pooping is mixed with me cracking up. When I get out, I saw 8 of my friends doing bumps of coke off their fist by the bar. Clearly, no one gives a shit in this place, and since coke has never been my bag, I decided to talk to some birds.
       I started conversing with one dame. Normally I am a wreck when talking to women, but all that wine must have been spiked with some Sammy Sosa game. She told me she likes vampires, she is a singer, and admits to also being 19. I briefly remembered what falling in love was like. Like a true chump, I felt invincible, so I got up and ask her if she wants a drink. "Sure I'll have a beer."
       The bartender opened up two beers and with a smile simply said "14."
       14. Just that easy. He could have said, "One and a half days worth of food," or "Slightly more than a quarter of a new deck" but in this disgusting city, spending money is as easy as a smile and a tossed bottle cap. I hope that girl enjoyed her drink...Christ, come to think of it, now I know why she loves vampires so much. Fuckin' money-sucker.
       An hour or so later, I was back in New Jersey, alone, of course, after a surprisingly (read: luckily) quickly-arrived PATH train. (I should mention that this train ride was also very bizarre. Two construction dudes stopped the train for a split second and hopped out in the tunnel in the middle of nowhere. Just before reaching Hoboken, two more construction guards casually got on the train from nowhere in the middle of their conversation about the Ming Dynasty and Terracotta soldiers). I fastened into my bed which had transformed into a roller-coaster and held on for dear life. The next morning, I woke up slightly drunk and queezy, headed to the bathroom, and, like something out of a horror movie, defecated pitch-black feces.
       Now I am back in my room, brainstorming what kind of job I should get for next semester. I think my best bet is sweeping up hair at the salon down the street, H&M, or becoming a chef at some scummy cafe near my house. My suggestion to you all is that when the time comes to bite the bullet, and it will, you might as well just ride the wave and find a quick way to get the bitter taste of gunpowder out of your mouth.
       Glad to be back.

THE END