the sandbox

It was late on a rainy Seattle evening that I found myself staggering into the open doors of a shitty sounding music venue named "Studio Seven." My original itinerary, stuffed neatly into one of my inside jacket pockets, had told me that I was to be at a place off 1st street called "Sodo Pizza" at exactly 7pm, but another quick glance at my watch reminded me that I was already incredibly tardy. Surely, I thought, it wouldn't be that big of a deal to step into this fine establishment and get something to drink. It made sense at the time: why hurry to be punctual, if you're already running late?

Of course, I regretted this decision almost immediately. The crowd, swelling and throbbing, seemed put off as if they all had the same terrible day, couldn't find the words to express themselves, and decided to binge drink until Jesus returned. Usually, I don't mind this kind of behavior, but tonight I worried it would taint my already boiling mentality. No, I thought, this is the worst place for me to be in my current state; I should be miles away.

In all honesty I should have been at the hotel by now preparing equipment for the job in the morning, a video game exposition lasting throughout the weekend. My briefcase should have been unfolded and purged across the silky bed sheets in the Renaissance Seattle, while I took the available extra time trying to shake off this terrible jetlag to get a well rested handle on it all. Of course this plan would also require me finding Sodo's, meeting Dr. Walsh there at 7pm, and not being hammered since 10 in the morning.

But my apprehension of modern-day transportation made the drink inevitable. It took me three whiskey sours, a Miller High-Life, and a Tito's and OJ at the Fara Cafe Sports bar at Austin-Bergstrom, with four margaritas and a whiskey tonic on United Airlines 1291 just to make it to Washington in one piece. The two martinis at "Jonathon's" in the Seattle-Tacoma were unnecessary, but I saw no logic in trying to sober up just to have all those nerves rush back to me. No, I thought, it is better to just keep drinking until Sodo's, that way I can stay as calm and collected as I am now. No sense in risking the chance of a total nervous breakdown.

My cab driver, a friendly but shallow looking man of about 30, was ready for me by the time I got to the airport entrance. He had arrived somewhere right after I had my first martini and right before I was escorted to the front gate by the nice folks of the TSA. I was told that I was in a heated debate with the bartender about Ann Coulter's gender, although ironically the only thing I recalled saying was complimentary of the beast. "She is quite beautiful for a transvestite... almost impossible to tell, really." The drinks, it seemed, weren't strong enough, and I was slipping back into a terrible state. That's why I asked the driver to immediately take me to the closest known liquor store near South 1st so I could get something to calm my nerves.

He let me off on the corner of 1st and S. Hanford, and pointed to my request. "That's about the best I can do in this area," he sighed.

"Great," I exclaimed as I handed him his fare, "I can walk from here anyway. Do you happen know where Sodo Pizza is located?"

He gestured southward with a single deflated hand, as if raising his arms was a terrible chore, and said, "I know it's not my business, but I feel I should tell you that the cops here don't take kindly to public intoxication."

"Good," I replied as I quickly grabbed my briefcase. "I would hate to think this fair city might be overrun by deviants. If I see any drunks, I will flag down a cop immediately. Our share for a better tomorrow, right?"

He started to respond, but having no time and no interest in letting him interrogate me any further I slammed the door, saluted, and hurried across the street. The driver, obviously fooled by my trick, drove away immediately without a second thought. Good thing too, because the smell of cop was almost too strong for my nerves, and further questioning would have yielded words that I would certainly regret.

I had resolved to give up on the liquor store (which was obviously a trap), and decided to head directly south towards Sodo's, but thoughts were already pounding around in my skull. Surely I wasn't already on some hot list of criminals after one gentle airport-bar room conversation. Am I too much for the kind and quiet locals to handle? Would my entire trip be recorded in some flat-foot's legal pad? Had I singled myself out as some terrible radical, here in the middle of this murky and wet metropolis?

By the time I got back to my senses I found that I was so lost in thought that I had aimlessly wandered off course. For fuck sakes, I thought, how idiotic could I be? That's when I looked up at the letters of "Studio Seven" and, feeling as though a drink might help me decide what to do next, walked right into the lion's den and took a seat at the bar.