I love that, less than a week after mentioning that nothing terribly unusual worth writing about happens at The Village Idiot, I am preparing to write about it again. I have some reservations about writing this, because it’s essentially nothing more than me making fun of Kelly, my boss’s wife, but Brian has a hell of a sense of humor, so I’m going to roll with it. Brian and I are both jackasses, which is why we get along so well.

Friday night was just an ordinary night in the kitchen, not too slow, not too busy, the only thing keeping me amused was the USC – UNC baseball game. Being a die-hard Clemson fan, I was staying true to my conference (ACC) and pulling for the Tar Heels. I was the only person in the bar pulling for the Tar Heels, since Columbia is home to USC, and we were full to the hilt with people sporting garnet and black. When USC’s pitching collapsed and they started walking runs in, I started laughing and clapping, which made me immensely popular.

I was supposed to be able to clock out at 10, but a sudden rush kept me in the kitchen until 10:30. My original plan for the evening was to sit down at the bar with the Captain (not Captain Morgan, the rum, but Captain Ben, one of our delivery drivers) have a beer or two, then head over to Melissa’s house to take it easy for the rest of the night, since I had to be back in the kitchen in the morning. I clocked out, brushed as much of the flour off of the front of my shirt as was possible, and headed for the empty barstool between Captain and Kelly. I got Barry’s attention and he brought me over a beer (unfortunately, we do not serve PBR. I’m working on it.)

We all made some small talk, and then Kelly headed off to another bar with two of her friends while Captain and I drank our beers and started a bet to see who would be the most hungover in the morning (he won.) Right as I was paying my tab and getting up to head for the door, Kelly came back in, noticeably drunker. Very noticeably. Being a semi-decent person at heart, and being friends with her husband, I decided to intervene, and asked her how she was getting home (all of us at the Idiot regularly take each other home when we’ve had a few too many. We’re like a slightly dysfunctional inbred family.) Through careful coaxing and coercion, she agreed to let me take her home. I knew it was in the opposite direction from Melissa’s house, but it was the right thing to do.

She said she was ready to go, so I started heading for the door to the back alley, where my car was parked. Allow me to recreate the conversation to the best of my memory:

Kelly: “Where are you going?”

JT: “We’re going to my car so I can take you home.”

K: “I’m hungry. I’m going to tell Maurice to make me something real quick.”

JT: “I’ll make it for you, Maurice is busy, and he’s in the kitchen by himself. What do you want?”

K: “Brian will be hungry too, so make us a pizza.”

Side note: I knew that Brian would not be hungry, as he was asleep. I had called him to tell him I was bringing Kelly home, and had woken him up.

JT: “No problem. What do you want on it?”

K: “I don’t care.”

JT: “Kelly, just tell me what you like. It will be easier. Or tell me what you don’t like, either way.”

K: “It doesn’t matter. I like everything.”

JT: “Fine. Go sit down and it will be ready in about 10 minutes.”

K: “Okay.”

A few minutes later, I walk back out of the kitchen, the pizza is in the oven and cooking.

K: “What did you put on it?”

JT: “Pepperoni and sausage.”

In my mind, pretty standard pizza toppings for a drunk pizza

K: “Yuck. I hate sausage.”

JT: “You can pick it off.”

K: “Where is it?”

JT: “In the oven. It will be ready soon.”

K: “Oh.”

JT: “When it comes out, I’m going to box it up, and then we’ll hit the road, okay?”

K: “Okay.”

At this pointing the night, it was becoming increasingly clear to me that I was in for the long haul. I called Melissa and explained the situation, asking if she would come up and keep me company until I could herd Kelly down to my car and then home.

Melissa showed up at about the same time I brought Kelly out her pizza. Kelly decided she wanted to eat there, and opened up the box. I was glad I had called Melissa.

K: “This pizza is burnt. I can’t believe Maurice made this! A pizza like this should never be served here!”

JT: “Actually, I made it, and there’s nothing wrong with it.”

K: “It’s burnt! Look!”

At this point, Liz, my favorite waitress to work with, comes over.

Liz: “Kelly, that pizza is not burnt. It’s fine.”

K: “No it’s not. I’m not eating it!”

Liz: “Well, then can Melissa and I have some?”

Liz and Melissa both ate a couple of pieces, agreeing that it was fine. Also, some random drunk blonde girl took a piece and ate it. Clearly, it was fine. No one has ever accused me of being a smart man, but making a pizza isn’t rocket science, and this one was pretty close to perfect.

At this point I was tired and quickly getting fed up with the fact that I was still at the bar three hours after my shift ended. We finally got Kelly to agree it was time to leave.

K: “Where are we going??? My car isn’t this way!”

JT: “No, but my car is. The car that is giving you a ride home.”

K: “Where are the wings?”

JT: “What?”

K: “The wings that I’m taking home. I’m having a baby shower at my house tomorrow.”

JT: “You never mentioned that. Are they in the cooler?”

K: “Probably.”

When I went to get the wings, I discovered that, in addition to the wings, I had a box full of tequila and mushrooms and a box of shrimp to carry. Down a rickety flight of stairs into a dark alley. An alley that is littered in broken beer bottles, and my car is at the end of it. I was pleased. Melissa and I made a few trips, and we were finally ready to go.

After about five minutes of driving…

K: “Where are the flowers?”

JT: “What flowers?!?”

K: “The flowers from my car.”

JT: “Probably in your car. You can get them in the morning.”

K: “But they’ll die if I don’t plant them immediately!”

JT: “Tonight? Right now?!?”

K: “In the morning.”

JT: “They’ll be fine”

At this point, Kelly entered her “repeat nonsensical questions and partial sentences phase” of drunkeness. Those of us who have taken her home before know that the best way to deal with this is to nod and say things like “Really?”, “Huh.” and “Yep.” at regular intervals. It’s a lot like the conversations I used to have with my ex-wife. Then I heard her open her cell phone and start dialing. I found out the other half of the conversation with Liz the next morning.

K: “Liz? Are you taking me home?.”

Liz: “Kelly, aren’t you in Josh’s car right now?”

K: “Yes.”

Liz: “Kelly, Josh is taking you home. In fact, you should be home very soon.”

K: “Oh.”

We finally got Kelly home and into the house, but not before she insisted on laying down outside in the carport for a while. I brought in the food, opened up the refrigerator and rearranged it so that everything fit. Kelly offered Melissa a warm Miller Lite from a sixer that had been sitting out on the counter all day, which Melissa graciously accepted as if it were an ice-cold beer on a blazing summer day (she’s amazing, I tell ya!) and Kelly attempted to give us a tour of her house. I only let it go for a couple of rooms, because I knew Brian was sleeping somewhere and didn’t feel like waking him.

We left and went home, glad that ordeal was over with. When I walked into the kitchen the next morning, I asked Brian how Kelly felt. He just laughed. A lot. Then he thanked me for taking care of Kelly and putting the food away. He said that Kelly told him I had insisted on it, while she had told me just to leave it out in the carport and she would get it. In fact, she had requested that I bring it inside and then stared blankly at the mostly-full refrigerator until I finally made the move to rearrange, take shelves out, and get it all in place. It just seemed easier that way.

The rest of the day was spent with Liz, Captain, Eric and I filling in the gaps in each other’s stories for when Kelly had been out of earshot, on the phone, or in my car. I realize that I have spent an entire day in the bar, as well as written an extremely lengthy post at her expense, but if you do the crime, you gotta pay the time, unless your daddy owns hotels all over the world.

Feel free to share any drunken babysitting stories you have in the comments section...

JT out.