You did a really bad job of hiding that pint of Smirnoff, dude. You just let it sit there below you, right next to the huge ass lemonade you had no doubt purchased to pair it with. Obvious. Conspicuous. A clear bottle filled with clear liquid, label popping red every time you lifted your hand for a sip. It was a bold strategy, no doubt, but I have to wonder why you didn’t just dump the whole pint into the lemonade and be done with it. Why you didn’t sneak down to a garbage can and stealthily dispose of the evidence. Maybe just ditch it in a bathroom stall. Something. Anything. That would have made a lot of sense, right? I mean, you had won, Giants fan. You had beaten the man. No eight or nine or ten dollar beers for you, no, your reasonably priced pint of vodka was all you were going to need for the duration of the game. Reasonable and frugal. Worth the risk. Victorious. But you got cocky. Or maybe you were just oblivious. Maybe you were a great deal more drunk than you were letting on. Sat quiet in the midst of a black out. The calmest problem drinker of all time. Who knows? I don’t. I don’t know you. Only you know. Only you know you.
And so it went. Sometime around the 4th inning. Alcohol Enforcement. Busted. You were asked to leave the premises. You were in violation. You left without a fuss, your friends followed behind, despondent. A few minutes later the narcs who had sold you out, fellow Giants fans no less, left the bleacher seats after receiving the Narc Seat Upgrade or whatever they call it. No on likes a tattle tale, except the Seattle Mariners Baseball Organization, I guess. And you were gone, Giants fan. Tim Lincecum T-shirt jersey wearer. Strange and uneven and poorly located tattoo haver. You were somewhere else. Maybe at a bar, maybe just a few blocks away, watching the game on television, the hollow echoes of the stadium’s babel reaching your buzzing ear ever so slightly. A memory imagined, but no longer real. A missed opportunity. A squandered evening. You flew too close to the sun, vodka drinking Giants fan. You were blinded by the light, transfixed. The strange scent of your own burning flesh jolting you into awareness a moment too late. The end arriving before the beginning was over.
You left your lemonade behind with your empty seat. It sat in front of me on the concrete, more than half full. I did not touch it. I did not drink or discard it. I measured it’s vacant volume with my eyes. About 12 ounces, give or take. About three-quarters of a pint. About perfect.