I’m back where I belong.
I hope John Brown’s car is, too.
John, you see, was kind enough to take me out on the town last night. After a leisurely dinner (made slightly more leisurely by the fact that we were waiting in vain for my friend Kellum to show up), we wound our way to a bar called Mary’s. Of course, Zod–the one friend in Atlanta I’ve been unable to reach by phone–and his boyfriend Todd were the first people I saw when I walked in the door.
After the requisite screaming and good, honest hugs, we grabbed drinks, slunk to the back of the bar, and chewed some serious fat–meeting quite a few folks from John and Zod’s non-overlapping circle of friends along the way. Wonderful, warm evening. Good buddies. Nothing better.
(I am painfully aware that I just described the world’s sappiest gay beer commercial. Sorry.)
Anyway, being the responsible-to-a-fault kinda guy that I am and knowing that my flight left early in the morning, I had to call it a night around 1am. Rounds of hugs, kisses, then John and I stepped out into the parking lot. And, verily, we discovered that some tow truck-driving cretin had tried to cramp our style by hauling off John’s adorable little car.
If you’re reading this, Mr. Cretin, it would perhaps behoove you to note that neither of us were phased in the least. We simply stepped right back into Mary’s, intent on calling a cab, but Zod and Todd insisted on giving us a ride.
In Todd’s truck.
In Todd’s cute but compact little truck.
But no matter. Being from Mississippi the vehicular specifics were of little concern to me. Todd and John took the front, Zod and I grabbed our cigarettes and a cup of bourbon (to keep us warm) and lay down in the back (riding semi-drunk in the bed of a pickup is surely illegal, or at least very suspicious), and very shortly we were on the interstate headed back downtown. The night was cold but the sky was beautiful. The undersides of overpasses were sudden and startling and very, very funny.
Fifteen minutes after we’d begun, I bounded from the back of the truck onto the cobbled pavement of the motor court of one of the most expensive and overrated hotels in Atlanta (hey, I wasn’t paying for it), hugged everyone again, dashed upstairs, and crept into bed glowing from a really good night.
Except, I guess, for the fact that John Brown is probably out a hundred bucks. That sucks. But apart from that…
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