Matlock

Dear Waitress at an undisclosed outdoor bar on an ice skating rink in midtown,

Be honest. I know, with a fair degree of certainty, that you roofied my drink yesterday. There's no reason to play coy anymore. If it will help, I can explain to you exactly why I know you did this.

You see, I'm a fairly regular drinker. By that I mean nary a day goes by without me having a drink. Oh, and "a drink" usually means multiple drinks. By this point in life, my body has become fairly accustomed to the presence of alcohol in my bloodstream. For my life sustaining organs, an alcohol mixture is pretty much the native environment. You know how, like, a manta ray is pretty comfortable doing its thing down there in the ocean? That's my body, functioning to perfection, with an elevated blood alcohol content. With over 15 years of near-professional drinking experience under my belt, I've become quite attuned to the effects of alcohol.

Yesterday it was one of those epic New York City days -- 70 degrees, blue skies, a slight breeze. Really it was the perfect day for some daydrinking, and catching up with friends you haven't seen in a while, and so I killed two birds with one stone. Here is a chronicle of the events of the afternoon in question:

2:55PM - Quitting time, I decided. I went out to your bar to meet my lovely blonde comrade for some drinks and some catching up. What's better out in the sun on a nice day than a few margaritas? I can assure you that I've had plenty of margaritas in my day, and always with a great result. I can also assure you that something on this day was different.

3:20PM - My margarita arrived. You gave my friend a grapefruit juice and club soda. We both looked at you like you were retarded. "I'm sorry, I asked for Grey Goose and club soda." Through your broken English-Russian trainwreck of an attempt at communicating, you informed us that you don't know what Grey Goose even is. And that's why you heard grapefruit juice. How the hell do you get a job as a cocktail waitress and not know what is probably the most-often ordered brand of vodka? Christ, I hate vodka, but I at least know what the stuff is. AND ARE PEOPLE IN HERE ORDERING GRAPEFRUIT JUICE AND CLUB SODA FREQUENTLY?? What the hell is that?

3:23PM - Your exchange with my friend continues. I sit quietly, amazed that you could give her an attitude after your colossal foul up and her nice attempt at correcting it.

3:45PM - You finally arrive with her drink. The one she actually ordered. After we'd been here almost an hour. Epic fail. Seeing the lag time here, I order my second round.

3:55PM - Second round arrives. Quickly. Almost too quickly, but sometimes we don't think much of these details when we're in the moment. I drink it fast.

4:05 PM - I order a third round. We still think you're a moron.

4:10 PM - Changover in waitress shift. This is an important fact, and memorable because the new waitress both spoke English and delivered drinks in a timely manner. I liked her. I wish she'd been there the whole time.

4:20 PM - Things start to get a little hazy for me here. I know there were a few more rounds of drinks, and I vaguely remember some other friends joining up with us as the 5PM happy hour rush began, but this is mostly a black hole for me.

[Approximately 4:30 - 7PM -- Black Hole]

Approximately 7PM - It couldn't have been later than 7PM or so at this point, but I don't really remember. It was a Tuesday. It was still light out. Birds were chirping. Folks were commuting home to see their wives and children. And here I was, a grown man, curled up in the fetal position on the wrong subway home. I got up in a daze at the last stop and stumbled to the street. I hailed a cab.

As an aside, what complicates things a bit further for me here is I had plans to meet a girl at my apartment that night, and I was kind of looking forward to some time alone with her. But at this point I'm not even home and I'm in no shape for much of anything other than lying down and moaning as I listen to the beat of the pounding inside my skull.

Approximately 7PM - 9PM. I don't remember much of anything about the cab ride, though I do remember an ill-advised stop at McDonald's for a nutritious facepunch to my workout regimen in the form of a couple of Big Macs. Thanks for that too by the way. I eventually got home and faceplanted on the couch in front of American Idol. You realize that American Idol is like the highlight of my week, right? Well I was still in such a state of poisoned misery that I don't even remember watching it. I think it was the finals this week. Actually, I know it was, because I've been watching this drivel all season long. But I don't know for sure since I DON'T ACTUALLY REMEMBER SEEING IT.

Approximately 9PM. Cute chick arrives at my apartment -- when exactly, I can't really tell you, because my whole afternoon vaporized and I was in a time warp for the rest of the evening. But she got there, looked fantastic, and given my headache and general state of misery, there was nothing I could do about it. There I lie, in the fetal position, quivering, a shell of the man I was at 2:30 in the afternoon

Now, let's look at the facts:

Exhibit A - Hi, I'm Otis, and I'm an alcoholic. There is no way a handful of margaritas reduces all 215 pounds of me to a slobbering pile of bones given my experience, strong liver, and high tolerance. Unpossible.

Exhibit B - While you're right that I can't tell you how many drinks I had, I do recall how brutally slow your service was. As a result, there's no way I could have had more than a few drinks before blacking out. And there is NO WAY that a few ordinary drinks black me out. Absolutely no way.

Exhibit C - That second drink you brought me, after our little spat, came WAY too fast. It was normal waitress time, which you weren't abiding by until this point. Gee, I wonder why you were so anxious to get me this second drink...

Exhibit D - Motive. You hated us. You were mad because we returned my friend's drink for the drink she actually ordered. What's the perfect revenge? SLIP SOMETHING IN MY DRINK, PERHAPS? Oh, and I've seen those Russian mafia flicks. I know what you people are capable of.

Exhibit E - Opportunity. Who better to poison my drink than the person serving it?

Exhibit F - Flight. Your shift was ending, and you knew you were getting out of there any minute. Perfect, right? Almost too perfect...

You see, waitress girl, the only plausible explanation here is that you slipped something into one of those first few drinks -- possibly the second one -- and I was immediately toast. So as I now see it, you owe me an entire Tuesday afternoon, a few hours of alone time with a hot chick, whatever amount of time on a treadmill it will require for my body to stop hating me for the Big Macs, and a seat at the American Idol finals. Also, I assume you'll take up the responsibility of explaining to everyone who ever had fun drinking with me during the daytime why I will never, ever be drinking with them during the daytime again now that I'm so scarred from this experience. Now, should I forward my therapy bills to your home address, or should I just leave them at the bar?