Alan and I continued walking downhill – it always seems illogical to work your way uphill until you’ve had that one last drink – and came upon a brightly lit corner bar that was filled with two-story bookshelves. The place was crowded with the type of folks that try really hard to fit the look of a stereotypical intellectual. We found a pair of seats at the bar that had four half-finished beers covered with napkins in front of them. Alan ordered “whatever beer is in these glasses” and once the bartender turned, we tossed the napkins, combined the beers and drank them quickly. The bartender raised an eyebrow as he dropped off the fresh pints and cleared away the now-empty glasses in front of us, but the owners never returned. A cop walked in and we joked that he was on the lookout for our alley friend, but judging by the amount of time it took for the bartender to pour his coffee, he probably just wanted a taste of the good life like the rest of us. It was well after three but the bar was nowhere near closing. Alan and I had one of those wide-ranging conversations that is filled with dreams and plans and is filled with all kinds of amazing insights and great ideas and seems unforgettably brilliant at the time but the next day all you can remember are the wild arm waving and gestures and the gentle reminders of the bartender not to bother the other patrons with your yelling. In time, as these things tend to, everything went black.

I burst up with the gasp of air usually reserved for the awaking comatose. I had passed out on one of those awkwardly angular Ikea couches that always manage to be just slightly too short. In lieu of blankets, it seemed I had only managed to bury myself under coats.

“Jesus, how the fuck did we get back here?” I rasped at the crumpled form of Alan. “Wake up you son of a bitch! Where the fuck are your blankets, you bastard?” He just grunted and rolled farther into the crevice between the bare mattress and the wall.

He finally woke up shivering. “Shit. I pissed the bed.” He said it surprisingly matter-of-fact, and then started laughing as he climbed out of bed, gingerly avoiding what I assumed to be a giant puddle of urine. “To answer your question, I have no idea what happened. You want a bloody mary?”

We mixed some eye-openers and headed back up to his roof to enjoy the bright morning sun and clear our heads with the cold, clean air. We sat there for a couple hours, smoking and enjoying the non-sequitur filled conversation that only comes when you’re still half-drunk and your brain only fires sporadically. After a long pause that found us both again staring at the skyline, Alan looked at his watch and gave me a scheming look.

“So, I’ve got some friends that are headed to a wild bar to catch the football game. Want to get after it?”

And so it began again.