Friday night was absolutely amazing. Blenders going all night long for margaritas, Greg making Flaming Dr. Peppers in the kitchen, Alan roasting up some barbecue out back, and twenty people hanging around the TV placing bets on when Terry’s run from the law on GTA 5 was about to end. The music was playing, the girls were dancing, the liquor was flowing and you were living it up, going from burgers to bourbon, whiskey to tequila, and finishing everything off with a Brandy Alexander with an Everclear-soaked cherry on top. Yeah, it was a great night. This morning, however, could be completely forgotten and not be missed in the least. Your mouth is dryer than the Sahara and that taste in your mouth is regret. By sheer luck you haven’t prayed to the porcelain god yet, but you move slowly and deliberately so that you don’t upset the witch’s brew that your stomach is doing it’s best to contain. You swallow two aspirin in a weak attempt to shut down the headache, get a glass of cool water to sip and make your way to the couch when you hear it: the phone. You seriously consider ignoring it, but it keeps on ringing. Finally, after you dig it out of the pit of clothes at the end of your bed….wait a minute, those aren’t yours…you find it, and answer without looking at the screen.

“We need you to come in. Can you be here in an hour?”

If your life was a Calvin and Hobbes comic, this is where the dark cloud of symbols and skulls would appear over your head. You’re bound to duty…mainly because after last night’s bender you’re broke beyond broke…and you know that saying “no” at this point is only going to cause more harm than good.  So like a good soldier, you’ll put on a brave face and tough it out. You get your clothes together, shift your hair around enough that you don’t look like a Halloween prop, spray on something that smells good and proceed to brush your teeth twice, just to make sure your breath can’t be lit on fire from the fumes. You make the drive in that rainy crap that passes for the weather at this time of year, and as you get close to the store you realize just how deep in it you truly are: The only parking spot left is the one you are about to occupy. You begin to wonder if you should’ve brought a flask with you.

Inside it looks like a Black Friday shopping scene, but with angry Jerry Springer guests at a Chuck E. Cheese volume. It’s official: your aspirin failed, and your headache is thumping harder than that Dodge Avenger with the missing hubcap was at the traffic light. For the next seven hours or so you deal with them, one by one. Sometimes you’ll get lucky and get a customer that’s easy and thankful. Maybe you’re really lucky and you get the customer that takes pity on your poor soul and does whatever they can to make your job a touch easier. If you’re really lucky, someone will see through the veil and recognize the hangover, and will speak softly and not rush you. You can only ditch off to the bathroom every so often, but each time you  are in there, even if it’s for a minute or so, you relish the peace of the bathroom stall. But then you’re done and have to step back into the maelstrom of customers.

Finally, the crowds drop and you are back to the typical one or two customers in the store. You can’t wait to get out of there, but your manager has other ideas, namely this gem: “Well, it’s so close to close now, why don’t you just close and we’ll see you tomorrow, ok?” Sure…fine…whatever. The second you emotionally break down and agree, he runs like a convict with a life sentence towards the opening in the fence. No thanks, no “appreciate it, man”, just GONE.

And people wonder why you drink.