Somebody Take Me Drunk

I've found an editor at long last, and I am so sure we are a good fit. I welcome curiousss on board. This is the first story he has edited, and I can tell how much more readable, how much smoother the story goes with his apt hand applied. I do want to say that after receiving his final edited version, I still tinkered a little with the story. So, if you find anomalies they can be attributed to me. Thanks to curiousss for his time and effort.

--------------------------------------------

Those damned Rockies! They do it every time. You let them build you up - "This is going to be an interesting season. We have some raw talent. It just depends if these guys actually want to make a career out of baseball. They certainly have the skills, it's just a question of whether they want to put them to use or not," said the team manager, again, this year.

Then they slam-dunk you! "Well Bret, it's like this - those Giants are a very talented team and they have put it all together this year, going, what, 30-25 so far this season. We just need to continue to improve...yada, yada, yada."

Here I am, a season ticket holder, having paid $2665 for sixty-one home games at club level. There's a pretty good crowd of ticket-holders around me, and we've become friends over the years. There is always a spread of food and booze in the club level, so everyone makes a party of each game.

It seems we always drink a little more when the Rocks are losing, to drown our sorrows, but then we tend to drink just a little more when they are winning, to celebrate their great prowess.

Yeah, it pretty much is just an excuse to get shit faced –

"I drink to your health when we're together

I drink to your health when I'm alone

In fact, I've drunk to your health so often lately

I've begun to worry about my own."

I dunno, somebody said it. I was a little too drunk to remember, but I do remember hearing it and laughing my ass off.

The Rocks lost to the lowly Padres that night four to two. We'd had a party, I mean a real party. All the others in the club level had girlfriends or wives, so they went home together. It was eleven pm, the game had ended at eight. We'd partied on for hours and here I was puking in the parking lot beside my pickup.

I was on my hands and knees, too drunk to stand or walk, so I had to drive! There was no way I would be able to walk to a bus stop.

I was on my knees, puke down the front of my shirt, leaning against my pickup, fumbling with the keys, trying to find the right one to unlock the door. I'd dropped them in my own puke. That made things real pleasant.

I heard the sound of voices, but not like they were right close. It was so strange; "Denver 131, I'll be out with Colorado ADP-735, a Red Chevrolet Silverado Pickup in the Rockies' Parking lot, structure C space 325. Man on the ground." This was a female voice.

"131 Denver, 10-4 do you need backup?"

"Denver 131, negative at this time, looks to be an intoxicated man trying to get in his vehicle. Will advise."

I saw the pretty red and blue lights swirling all around me. I saw this hot looking female cop walking towards me, flashlight in her hand, shining on and around me. My body and head were leaning back on my pickup. I was helpless; I could not get up, I just couldn't do much of anything except look.

"What do we have here?" the cop asks. "You been drinkin' at the Rockies game tonight?"

"Mayyybe a li'l." I replied, sounding surprisingly sober I thought.

"Looks like you threw up all over yourself, sir. Do you have any identification?"

"Yes, ma'am. Here..." I reached for my back pocket to get my wallet and fell over, hitting my head on the pavement.

"OK, never mind, I'll get it. Is it in here, in your pocket?" she asked.

"Uh-huh," I said, my cheek lying in this puddle of cold vomit.

"OK Mr. ...Scott Gary Roberts," Officer Victoria Newland said, "Can you stand up?"

"I own't think sho." I replied.

"Scott, you are way too drunk to drive or be out in public. You are a danger to yourself, so I am going to have a paddy wagon come take you to the drunk tank and let you dry out for the night," she told me.

"No, take me drunk, I think I'm home," I begged.

She laughed. "No Scott, you'd stink up my cruiser and I have to live in that thing tonight, so you'll be ok, just hang on."

I woke up in a foul smelling 20x20 cell with 13 other foul smelling drunks. They had puked on themselves, shit their pants, pissed their pants and generally made messes of themselves. Of course, I didn't need to be treated like this; I have money, I'm not a common drunk. Just because I'd shit my pants doesn't mean I'm like them!

My head hurt so bad I wondered if I'd had a hemorrhage. My cotton-mouth was so dry I'd have considered drinking urine. The dried vomit on my clothes, face and hands was repulsive. The sticky wad in my shorts, running down the back of my legs, was horrible. If I could ever find a shower, I may never leave it.

Around 10 am they opened the cell and processed us all out. I was miles from my pickup, on the streets outside the Denver City Jail and no way, except walking, to get anywhere.

When they gave me back the contents of my pockets at the time of arrest, I had my billfold with six hundred thirty four dollars, credit cards and ID, my keys, a pocket knife and part of a roll of LifeSavers. I put the LifeSaver's into my mouth all at once and started the mushy walk down the street toward Coors Field. I walked into a 7-11 along the way to buy a bottle of juice and the clerk refused to serve me because I looked and smelled so bad.

No cab would have me; I was going to have to walk. Maybe I could get a bus.

Then, the strangest thing happened - the cop who had arrested me, Officer Victoria Newland, pulled up in her personal car, honked and got out, wearing street clothes.

"Scott, let me give you a ride back to your truck," she said. "Just don't touch anything in my car. I have an old newspaper on the seat, sit on that and let's go."

I looked at her like a jackass looking through a gate.

"C'mon, get in," she urged.

"Thank you, thank you so much ma'am," I said. "I'm afraid I need a shower, I'm sorry about smelling your car all up."

"We'll just roll down the windows. Scott, do you know what you said to me last night, while we were waiting for the paddy wagon?" she asked.

"Uhm, not really, I hope I didn't insult you."

"No, you said, 'Take me drunk, I think I'm home.'"

"Oh, I guess I got a little mixed up," I replied.

"Anyhow, I got to thinking about the irony of your statement - kind of funny on the surface but tragic underneath. I've been thinking about you all night. You're a young guy, nice looking, have money in your pocket. Where're you headed?"

"I just wanna get my car, officer. Thanks for the ride," I deflected.

"Scott, I got off at six am, then dragged my ass out of bed at nine forty five to be here for your release and I'm going to ask you to talk to me," she insisted.

"I'm just hung-over, had a big party after the Rockies game last night, that's all," I said.

"I checked your record. You've had one DUI, one arrest for public intoxication and one arrest for fighting. I imagine that, if you've been arrested, you've gotten away several times for each one. Do you have a wife, parents, family?" she queried.

"Naw, I'm alone; caught my wife in our bed with her little brother and her dad; that was a little bit more than I was expecting, so I divorced her. Other than that, nobody." I said gloomily.

"Oh Scott! I'm so sad to hear that, but you need to get over it. You can't throw your life away just because she let you down. You're young, very good looking and you have lots going for you.

Here we are at your truck. Scott, if you want to get some help, I can give you a name and a number," she offered.

"Yeah, that would be nice, thanks officer and, thanks for the ride," I said.

She took out a piece of paper from her purse, wrote something on it and pressed it into my hand.

"Call this number before you take your next drink, Scott. Someone who can help you will answer."

"OK thanks," I said, without looking at the paper, "thanks again for the ride." I was glad to get the ride, but so glad to get away from the 'pushing me to get help' stuff.

I needed to remember to clean the seat of my pickup before I used it again. I got home and went in, finally to get my shower. Oh, those were some nasty clothes.

As I undressed, I looked at my clothes, thought about my condition and what a mess of my life I'd made. Truly, since Dottie and I split, I have wandered aimlessly. This is not acceptable; shitty pants, puke all over me and my clothes, arrested again – I've got to get some help. I don't need those fucking Rockies anyhow, and that is the place to start. I decided I needed to break the pattern, as the hot water flooded over me, washing chunks of puke out of my hair and the smell of dried sweat off my body along with the mashed shit from between my cheeks and down the back of my legs.

I fixed myself some bacon. Then I made some cream gravy from the grease and put a pan of canned biscuits in the oven. I fried three eggs and sat down with bacon and eggs, biscuits and gravy and I drank a quart of orange juice. That helped.

I saw the piece of paper, which the police officer had pressed into my hand, lying on the dresser. Picking it up, I wanted to see what she'd written. It was only a phone number - no name, nothing else.

When I was growing up, I'd always thought that if someone's habits got so bad that other people actually took the trouble and cared enough to talk to that person about them, it was worth a hard look. The offending person owed it to himself, at least, to listen to the complainer. Then, a little self-examination probably would be in order.

I dialed the number.

"Hello, this is Victoria," was the answer.

"Oh, um, uh, Officer Newland; um, this is S-Scott, Scott Roberts."

"I didn't think you'd call, Scott. I am surprised you called so soon. Made a decision, have you?" she asked.

"You are right - everything you said! I called this number to see about a program, or something," I offered.

She explained, "Scott, there's something special about you. I am not licensed to treat you; I am not a professional counselor. I am just a cop. I became a cop to help people and I spend way too much time just processing crimes, chasing criminals and doing paperwork. I thought a lot about you this morning and last night. I want to reach a hand out to you and see if we can find some place inside of you that I can meet you, to sort through the things that are dragging you down, maybe help you back up. Whaddya think?"

"Whu-uh...Mmm...I...why me? What do you want to do to me?"

"You still have a few choices left Scott but time marches on and, if your heavy drinking continues, your choices will become more and more limited. First, at some point you may hurt someone, you may lose your freedom, you may lose your own life, lots of things could, and some things will, happen. Your future is headed in a bad direction," she said, then added, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it's just the way it is. It'd be good for you to take a little stock of things."

"Yeah, I know," I replied quietly, somberly, "and you want to help me? Take stock? I mean, why me and why you?"

"Like I said, I wanted to be a cop to make a difference, and I'm not making a difference, I am just chasing my tail. It's a big step for me too, Scott. I am taking a chance and, if you fail, I'll fail...so, I'm kinda layin' it on the line, too." She spoke with revelation in her voice...her own awakening taking place as she explained the meaning of her intentions.

"Wow! It's like, like an angel is fluttered down into my life and -"

I was unable to finish my sentence.

Victoria cried too. An emotional bond was beginning to form. It was a good thing, because it would be needed.

"So, let's meet and set out some ideas and thoughts. Both of us need to be exposed here if we are going to be successful. For me, my intention is to get you to be aware of whatever demons drive you. I want to expose yourself to you. The only way I know of doing that is to just begin small and help you relax. I'll share myself with you; you won't be on any exam table, because I'll be out there for you to pick at if that's what you want," she said thoughtfully.

"OK, well, when are you working, when are you available?" I asked. "Since I have my trust fund, I really can do this any time of day or night, any day of the week," I added, then thought about her time.

"Am I going to be paying you for this?" I asked.

"I'll need to get you a copy of my schedule. Nope, no pay; this is something I'm volunteering. I could have picked anyone, and I picked you, so we go into this equal. I am offering my time, my heart and my best thoughts for you; you need to commit to offer your honest appraisal of life as you are experiencing it, to take things as they come honestly and deal with them openly," she said.

"My reward from this will be to see you be successful in life. To help you stare down discouragement and anger and whatever drags you down. If you begin to live successfully, you'll make my day."

We met at Village Inn restaurants, mostly because they have great coffee and free pie on Wednesdays if you buy something off the regular menu. It was just an excuse really - meeting in public while trust was being established was the best thing for us both.

Let me tell you a little about Victoria; she is a tall woman, six feet one inch with a lean, muscular build; but in her uniform she seems to be of medium build.

Cops have to wear bullet proof vests under their shirts so it makes her look thicker; they carry utility belts with a .40 caliber handgun, 2 extra magazines, flashlight, expandable night stick, handcuffs, a can of mace, 2-way radio, and a stun gun. So, when fully decked out in Denver's PD's dark blues, she looks like she weighs in at about one hundred eighty or one hundred ninety pounds. In truth, she weighs one hundred sixty five pounds, she has a soft and supple skin, but she is lean and in shape. She has muscular legs, strong shoulders and a flat belly; she is in excellent physical condition and knows how to fight.

She's a student of Marshall Arts and can put a man half again bigger than her on the ground before he knows what hit him. She's not infallible but she is smart.

She has C cup breasts that she keeps well bound when in uniform, just past her shoulder length blonde hair, which she keeps in a bun when working, and she does not shave her body, anywhere.

She has a full blonde pubic bush, silky hair on her legs and delicious armpit hair that is thick and bushy blonde. Trailing down from her belly button to her pubic bone is a blonde path of fine filament-like hair that is extremely sensitive to her. It is one of her secrets, that 'it drives her wild if somebody blows on that and nuzzles her there gently.'

Nobody on the force knows these things because she is always totally covered up when working; it is her secret.

Victoria is from a Montana clan and has four brothers, she being the one girl, and she's the youngest in the family. Her dad still works in a large open pit mine there. Her mom owns her own house-cleaning business and makes as much as most men around their town.

They are pure blue-collar people and are the salt of the earth. They work very hard, they love one another devotedly and they are very proud of their baby, Victoria.

Her older brothers are protective, but they've always picked on her mercilessly, playing boyhood pranks on her and yet they were all for one and one for all.

She could play a mean prank herself, every one of her brothers received payback for whatever price he exacted from his sister, and payback was double, at least. Victoria made her mark, giving as good as she got. It thickened her hide and honed her senses

One thing about Victoria, she knows men. She loves men. Her best friends are all men, her brothers.

It would be a mistake to think that Victoria Newland is a dyke. She is girly, loves men, wants a husband and family, it's just that she is six feet one, strong, athletic, on to male tricks and has been raised around older brothers. Most men are intimidated by her, or aren't aware of her sensitivities. She has "Next door girl" wholesome good looks and is twenty-seven years old.

I am six feet four inches, sandy hair, green eyes, weigh two hundred twenty five pounds and have a muscular build. I've been told that I'm hot looking, but I'm suffering a pretty severe case of lack of self-esteem since I found my wife fucking around on me with her dad and brother. I am not even going there.

I have an inheritance and am not pressed for cash or for anything in this life, except for a girlfriend. I am probably an alcoholic, at only 29 years old. My mom died six years ago from cervical cancer. My dad died of a gunshot wound. He was a stock broker and one of his clients, who'd lost everything and blamed my dad, shot him to death as he left his office building in downtown Denver ten years ago.

They were pretty well to do anyhow, and had large life insurance policies, annuities and 'financial depth,' as it's called. I am an only child, so I inherited a great deal of wealth. I guess I started drinking after that, and then the divorce escalated things even more.

"So, Scott, what do you see for yourself? Who are you? Where are you headed?" Victoria asked me.

"I dunno. Guess I'm sort of a loser. Don't have much direction. I think I need a good woman, but I'd be a lousy choice for her, so that isn't likely. There are lots of loser women out there, but they're worse than me. I need somebody who's better, stronger than me, I guess." I honestly appraised myself.

"Ok, but do you expect some strong woman to come along and make you better? Don't you have to take responsibility for your own self, so you do have something to offer someone?" she asked.

"Yeah, I just can't seem to get started. It's easier to just get drunk," I said.

"Well, that's honest, I appreciate that. Scott, you should try and break your cycle of destructive behavior. Stop hanging around with those who always want to get drunk, or party," she opined.

"I know, I thought about that in the shower that day you took me home. Hey, I haven't had a drink since that night you picked me up."

"Where have you been? What have you been doing?"

"Just staying close to home, not going to the games, not hanging around the bars or seeing my old friends. Some of them have called, but I haven't answered the phone when I see it's them."

"I'm off for the next 3 days. Do you want to do something together?" she asked.

"Um, yeah, sure; what?"

"Let's go skiing. We can go up to Winter Park or Eldorado or even Vail if you want."

"Wow, I haven't been skiing in years, since I was in high school. That'd be a kick in the pants. Let's do it." I said.

Though the Rockies were playing, it was late May and the Colorado High Country had had extraordinary snow storms all season. There was still snowpack in the high country ski resorts and they thought they would be open until Memorial Day, at least; maybe a week longer into June even.

I asked Victoria to call and get reservations, giving her my Diamond American Express Card. She was only able to book one room, but it had 2 beds in it, and we got weekend passes, so we could ski for 2 days unlimited. We were off to Vail resort.

I let Victoria drive my Silverado. She seemed a bit anal retentive about car wrecks and driving. She'd seen some nasty car crashes and was a nervous rider. No problem for me, I was glad to let her drive and enjoy the scenery. I was actually having fun. I think she was too, a little anyhow.