Being drunk at 4 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon seems defiant and cool on a college campus that measures networking potential with keg stand records and counts down the days until the Mifflin Street Block Party every year.
But when you're in your 50s, not in school and can barely distinguish between the door handle and the adjacent tree branch, no college student is going to describe you as a sexy rebel.""
This is precisely what occurred last Sunday afternoon while I was drinking my chai latte and studying at Copper Gable on University Ave. It was just me and the the baristas and me complacently coexisting when a scruffy old dude sporting a black leather jacket stumbled into the coffee shop.
""Heyoooo!"" he shouted enthusiastically at one of the baristas, as if he were her best friend.
""Umm, hi. Can I help you?"" she asked warily. He did a fancy crossover step that looked like it came out of Riverdance and landed, surprisingly gracefully, with both hands on the counter.
""I'm here to pay off my debt!"" he yelled confidently. The baristas exchanged confused glances.
""I'm so drunk!"" he exclaimed with the enthusiasm of Welcome Week college freshman.
Silence. No one was going to argue with that.
""Coffee!"" he screamed. I didn't see if money exchanged hands. But even if it didn't, I don't think it was in anyone's best interest it to deny him.
A few minutes later, Crazy Drunk Guy was out the door, splashing a coffee trail behind him in case anyone wanted to follow him home, or at least mug him and steal his beverage, which was probably spiked by now.
I tried not to stare out the window, as not to catch his gaze and entice him back inside, but was interrupted when the baristas moved towards the window.
""What is he doing?"" one of the baristas asked. I looked up. It appeared he was trying to eat the tree that he had recently mistaken for a door. I shared my observations with them, and the four other patrons who had recently entered the shop. By this point we were all gathered around the window, completely mesmerized and somewhat fearful for our lives.
Drunk Guy soon moved to a red moped across the street that was lying on its side. He lifted it up and let go. It fell back down. He picked it up again. Down it went. He repeated this process a few times before enlisting the help of an unsuspecting passersby, who pitifully seemed just as surprised as him when the moped didn't magically balance when lifted into position.
Suddenly, I realized my friend Erik, a proud owner of a red moped, lived in the adjacent building.
""Hey Erik, it's Kiera,"" I said when his voicemail picked up. ""Just thought I should let you know some guy is stealing your moped. You might want to come downstairs. Did I leave my scarf at your place yesterday? Bye!""
Confident I had done my civic duty, I returned to watching. Drunk Dude had partnered with a new dude, who had the brilliant idea of using the kickstand to prop up the moped. Drunk Guy gave it a satisfied pat and stumbled away, stopping to lick a few trees before finally rounding the corner.
I guess Drunk Guy was just trying to help out.
I thought about the night before, a typical Saturday night on a college campus, when eating trees and stealing mopeds after a few drinks would've upped my cool status, and wondered where the line stood between awesomely drunk and inferiorly inebriated. Maybe it was age. Maybe it's that we're still in school. Maybe it was a leather jacket 10 years out of style.
Whatever it was, becoming ""that guy"" was certainly not on my to-do list. Later that night, I curled up with a few friends and a few beers, and told my story.
""What a loser!"" they all yelled, laughing. I smiled. Drunk on a Sunday night when I should be doing my homework. I was so cool.
If you think the trees on University Ave. taste better than those on State St., e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu.
