And 18 Years Have Passed

Today, my husband and I celebrate 18 years of marriage. Wow, 18 years, I know. In 18 years, one can be born and graduate high school. It astounds me. Nope, I don't know where the time has gone. The last I really remember, I turned 21, my husband proposed to me, and it was off to AZ.

My husband and I met over the telephone in the summer of '89. He was stationed in Darmstadt, Germany in the Army at the time. A boy I met from my area was home on leave, went back to Germany, and called me one time when my husband was with him. To make a long story short, he and I started writing letters, talking on the phone, and then he came to meet me in person on Feb. 2, 1990 with an engagement ring in tow.

He proposed on the morning of my 21st birthday, and then left on Valentine's Day for AZ for his next post at Ft. Huachuca. Two months later, I hauled my stuff out there. Back to IN to get married, and two kids and 18 years later, here we are.

We went out Sat. night to celebrate a little early. We had dinner, and then stopped into a hole-in-the-wall bar in the area where the drinks are cheap and the entertainment even cheaper.

The first instance of being mildly amused was during a trip to the bathroom where another lady sat on the toilet and read her text messages and watched video attachments. The second was a couple of very, very drunk good ole boys.

I don't believe I've ever seen anyone as drunk as one of the latter. It was a good thing he sat in a chair against a wall or he likely would have toppled over. He'd get up, stagger around, and I'm not exaggerating when I say he barely took a few steps and had to get his bearings, what little was left of them, that is.

Once, he got up and approached a guy sitting at the bar who had to outweigh drunken good ole boy by at least 200 lbs. "Izzz hurd you wus talkin' sheeit bout me. I hurd ya when I wuzzz sittin' over dere." When he motioned with his head, he had to catch himself on the nearest stool to keep from falling.

At this point, another bar resident chimed in to say that he didn't hear a thing and he'd been sitting there the whole night. I really don't doubt that even though it was only a little after 10 p.m. My husband tapped me on the shoulder to watch the exchange because there was a lot of hand flailing and body language. Drunk guy knocked his hat off his head in all the commotion of getting his point across. (I had to break my attention away from the NCAA game on the TV. I'd pointed at the TV and informed my husband that this is what we do in IN - we watch basketball. Even though I haven't really watched a basketball game in the 18 years we've been married. That's not a NY thing.)

Someone finally convinced the drunk guy that no one was talking smack about him, so he retreated to his seat once again. Good thing for sturdy walls because when he plopped in his chair, his back hit the wall before his behind hit the seat.

I watched one guy buy two $30 Hoosier lottery scratch-offs. He didn't win a penny on either of them. Geez Louise, $60 down the drain. I honestly hope I reach a point in my life where I don't bat an eye losing $60 in ten minutes. This is how domestic I am - I was mentally calculating things like "That would buy 20 gallons of milk or 20 gallons of gasoline. That would pay over half of the electric bill. That's two months of phone bill. I could buy at least two pairs of shoes with $60."

Though the entertainment didn't end there. Drunken good ole boys must have thought it was pert near time to be gettin' on home. The drunkest guy reminded me of a really old "My Name is Earl" main character. He stood up, and walked like he had a hitch in his getty-up. He walked diagonally, not even coming close to the front door. Instead, he stood outside what must have been a closet or some private room. He jiggled the door knob, and when it didn't open, he yelled out, "Where's da damn door?" This incited giggling and looks of horror throughout the bar. So okay, I was the only one who was truly horrified over what might happen next.

"O'r here," his friend answered. He followed the voice much like a blind dog might follow the scent of food.

They made it out the door, both crawling into the cab of a pick-up. "Who got in the driver's seat?" I asked. The lottery guy answered, "The damn fool who couldn't find the door."

We all sat in suspense for a good five minutes. I don't know what they were doing in the truck, but I did see someone light a cigarette in the dark. They started up, and people were starting to place bets on whether they would successfully back out of the parking space. Egads. It was something else.

I actually like those kind of bars. There's never a dull moment. There's always someone trying to fight someone else. Always someone who's had way too much to drink. You never know who you'll meet. One time, I talked to a youngin' who'd worked in New Orleans helping to clean up after the hurricane mess. I talked to a guy who I'd grown up with, but wouldn't have recognized if my life depended on it.

Another time, I had a mexican busboy approach me from the restaurant where we'd dined earlier that evening. I couldn't understand a bit of his broken English except that he was drunk. I'd take a step back from him, and he'd take a step forward. Getting into my personal space, he was. Finally, one of my friends stood up and told him to beat it, and the little mexican guy scurried off faster than I've ever seen a drunk move.

Yep, yep. Good times to be had at those hole-in-the-wall establishments where for ten dollars you can get a buzz and all the entertainment one can handle for a night.