I was drunk. Extremely drunk. Like, let me reiterate that I was drunker than I had been since Korea. In Korea I drank from Friday to Saturday, but this single-day drinkathon made that pale by comparison.
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| "This one is for my dead homies" |
Worst of all? The prosecutor and the police were watching me. First it started at Central Park, where I was so drunk that I punched a tree, told him to fuck off, that he was a cunt, resulting in the spooking of the prosecutor and my Mexican friend. “I was becoming nervous, you fucked up a tree and a brick wall, so I just needed to peace out to Jersey,” said my Mexican friend.
My prosecutor cousin asked my girlfriend, “is he drunk from one beer?” And she was like, “well, the beers here are 24 ounces, but he’s still treating them like they’re half-liter cans, so he’s way more wasted on 5 cans than he would have been at home.“
We walk away from Central Park, into a chipotle place and I’m badmouthing a brick wall along the way, smack it down a few times, worrying my friend to such an extent that he decides to exit the premises.
By 9pm, my prosecutor cousin and my Mexican friend had been spooked, my uniformed cousin had not arrived, but when he pulled in, everyone except my girlfriend had already decided that it was time to abandon the Jose Abreu drunk ship.
When 5-0 rolls in, I was already quite aware of the fact that I was so hammered it was embarrassing my own family away. My cousin pulls up in his bullet-proof, tainted-window car, and says, “yo, Jose, montate.”
Before we know it we’re speeding away, bachata blasting out the window, people looking at me in the highway as I scream, “this is America! I’ll do what I want.”
My cousin works in the worst precinct in NYC; “we have the highest murder rate, the highest number of rapes.”
So, the truth is he didn’t really see a problem; hell, I wasn’t rapin’ or muderin’, so I was maintaining high standards in comparison to some of the citizens in his precinct in the Bronx – earlier that day my brother had texted me a picture of a dead body, wondering if he should file it as a homicide, and with me freaking out asking him how fucking desensitized he was.
So the unmarked police car continues speeding down the highway and we eventually pull up at my building in the Bronx. We walk to the bodega and order a 20-pack of Blue Moon, climbing up to my 4th story place, excited to drink at home. Nonetheless, my crib was packed, so we leave the box outside of my apartment and climb to the roof to case the joint.
While we look over the Bronx from our roof, someone grabbed our beers and took a bite from the chipotle my girlfriend had left on top of the beer. My cousin simply said: “this fucking block doesn’t change.”
But we walk down to the third floor and find the chipotle leftovers and 4 Blue Moons, salvaging what was left of the night. We grab the 4 beers and climb back up to the roof.
Before we know it, we’re on the roof, overlooking a fight. Ten Mexicans are screaming, chairs start getting smashed over people’s heads, and I become a self-righteous cunt, wondering how I could break up the fight. I get the genius idea of throwing a bottle.
My prosecutor cousin asked my girlfriend, “is he drunk from one beer?” And she was like, “well, the beers here are 24 ounces, but he’s still treating them like they’re half-liter cans, so he’s way more wasted on 5 cans than he would have been at home.“
We walk away from Central Park, into a chipotle place and I’m badmouthing a brick wall along the way, smack it down a few times, worrying my friend to such an extent that he decides to exit the premises.
By 9pm, my prosecutor cousin and my Mexican friend had been spooked, my uniformed cousin had not arrived, but when he pulled in, everyone except my girlfriend had already decided that it was time to abandon the Jose Abreu drunk ship.
When 5-0 rolls in, I was already quite aware of the fact that I was so hammered it was embarrassing my own family away. My cousin pulls up in his bullet-proof, tainted-window car, and says, “yo, Jose, montate.”
Before we know it we’re speeding away, bachata blasting out the window, people looking at me in the highway as I scream, “this is America! I’ll do what I want.”
My cousin works in the worst precinct in NYC; “we have the highest murder rate, the highest number of rapes.”
So, the truth is he didn’t really see a problem; hell, I wasn’t rapin’ or muderin’, so I was maintaining high standards in comparison to some of the citizens in his precinct in the Bronx – earlier that day my brother had texted me a picture of a dead body, wondering if he should file it as a homicide, and with me freaking out asking him how fucking desensitized he was.
So the unmarked police car continues speeding down the highway and we eventually pull up at my building in the Bronx. We walk to the bodega and order a 20-pack of Blue Moon, climbing up to my 4th story place, excited to drink at home. Nonetheless, my crib was packed, so we leave the box outside of my apartment and climb to the roof to case the joint.
While we look over the Bronx from our roof, someone grabbed our beers and took a bite from the chipotle my girlfriend had left on top of the beer. My cousin simply said: “this fucking block doesn’t change.”
But we walk down to the third floor and find the chipotle leftovers and 4 Blue Moons, salvaging what was left of the night. We grab the 4 beers and climb back up to the roof.
Before we know it, we’re on the roof, overlooking a fight. Ten Mexicans are screaming, chairs start getting smashed over people’s heads, and I become a self-righteous cunt, wondering how I could break up the fight. I get the genius idea of throwing a bottle.
My girlfriend starts panicking, and my cousin shouts in terror: “tu ‘ta crazy, man!? We gonna get shot!”
We see a short Mexican guy reach into the underside of a car and pull out a fucking sub-machine gun, and I’m like, “fuck, I really need to throw this fucking bottle, this shit is getting too ‘hood!”
It was a SIG-552, I know I recognized that sub-machinegun from my days at the Yale Pistol Team, so I knew just how effective and lethal it is.
Concerned, I grab the Blue Moon bottle, I lean down and say, “I’m gonna throw them in the middle of the street, at the direction of the guy with the SIG-552.”
My cousin starts wiling out, and grabs my hands. “Go home! You’re aggravating paperwork,” he says.
As he squeezes my arm from behind and drags me down the stairs, I shout: “I thought this was America!”
He throws me on the bed and says, “yea, this is America, but you’re drunk and Dominican, you fucking nutjob!”
