SPECIAL TEAMS

One by one we staggered out of the bar, surveying the streets outside with eyes swollen wide like submarine periscopes. It had finally stopped raining, and under the dimly lit blanket of inner city streetlamps and traffic lights the ground was slick and glowing with reflections and colors.
Rob Chelsea turned back towards the floor-to-ceiling windows of the bar's table area, where the other patrons stared, grinning smugly, as if they had somehow won something. Rob Chelsea flicked them off with both hands, screaming out in a monosyllabic slur that made the rest of us laugh as we headed out into the street.
We'd collectively decided several hours earlier that our buzz lust was too powerful to put off until Friday, and so with about a hundred bucks and pack of Djarum Cloves between us we descended upon Mikels Tavern like an invasive assault squadron, eager and cocky and loudly abrasive. None of us had ever been to Mikels; it was a relatively brand new bar that had replaced its predecessors reputation as a 'fight club joint' with a style that catered more to the business casual type. We werent by any means 'business casual', but Jimmy insisted it didnt matter, because it was almost 11 and all the sensible people with important jobs were already sleeping.
The waitresses and bartenders glared at us as if we were an unwanted pack of wolves harassing their innocent flocks, as the 7 of us rapidly spiralled down into a swimming pool of empty pitchers and painfully loud insults, quickly mauling our designating drinking money and resorting to an 'every man for himself' attitude.
In the middle of a table-wide conversation about Bill Cosby, Ryan smashed his glass against the floor, proclaiming to the suddenly silent room that 'It had the ghost of Elvis inside of it'. After another awkwardly quiet moment of pondering, the volume quickly resumed to its normal, obnoxiously loud level.
We decided to leave a few seconds after the barkeep told us were cut off, to which Jimmy responded 'Who, exactly?'
"All of you,"
"Oh," said Jimmy, one eyebrow up. He glanced over at Sarah - sleepy face smushed agains the table-top - and then to David - who stared at the ceiling in an almost catonic state, drastically mouthing the words to the song on the barroom radio. "I mean i can see cutting those two off, or even him," he pointed at Ryan, who was writing the word 'Fuck' on a cocktail napkin in as many different fonts as possible. "But the rest of us are good,"
"Yeah," said the Bartender. "You're good to leave once you pay your bill."
"Dude," said Rob Chelsea, "Why are you being such a dick."
"You guys are breaking my glasses, yelling at the top of your lungs, and making fun of the other customers." It was true; moments before he approached us Rob Chelsea and I had been literally barking like dogs as an overwieght girl in her 20s vigorously made out with a frail filipino who had a massive birthmark on his face at the table next to us. Jimmy had decided it was more safe to simply repeatedly scream the word 'Ewwwww' at the top of his lungs everytime the two targets moved in for another kiss.
Much earlier in the evening, while we were all still practically sober, we had started chanting Ravens Suck, Ravens Suck, Ravens Suck,' as on the television the Baltimore Ravens were being decimated by the Patriots. A few young white guys wearing Ravens jerseys looked genuinely upset as they sipped their pints of Blue Moon and contemplatively scratched their goatees while they glanced at us.
"Sloppy eyed fullbacks," i had said, matter-of-factly. And Jimmy had added,
"You guys are faggots."
"I just want you guys to politely get the fuck out," said the Bartender. I looked at Jimmy, the room trailing my eyes as i turned my head. I fumbled for the pack of cloves on the table.
"Well i dont see why we have to leave," said Jimmy. I pulled one of the cloves out and lit it.
"You cant smoke in here,"
"I am smoking in here," i said, my voice unintentionally sounding like a confused little kid. "How coudlnt I?"
"Get out."
Starry eyed, i nudged David out of his trance and the two of us headed for the door. A few moments later Ryan and Josh stumbled out, arms over each others shoulder as they sang the chorus to 'Closer' by Nine Inch Nails, albeit horribly out of sync. Finally the others came out, and like a gang of wounded soldiers searching for the aid station, we headed out across the street towards the cars.
"Fuck you," screamed Rob Chelsea, twirling in circles in the road, arms spread wide. "I'm Chad Ochocinco!"
"Rob lets go," said Jimmy.
We were barely in the car before we were speeding away, swerving around neighborhoods that became victims to our out-the-window screaming and hollering. Our maniac laughter rose up out of the streets like a poison mist, infecting the homes of innocent citizens as they tried to sleep.
We cursed out spanish guy on a bicycle, the frame of the bike gleaming in the reflection of the streetlights.
We made fun of a young couple who stood face to face on a front stoop, probably preparing to say goodnight, jeering in broken, barely sober English.
And as we drove past the house of Brittany Sorenson, who had gone to high school with us all, Ryan stuck his whole upper body out the window. He laughed like a pirate as he screamed obscene metaphors that floated like an angry, drunken cloud from his mouth directly into the dark rooms and halls of her childhood home. I pulled on his sleeve, having to shout over the yelling and the air blast from the open windows.
"Does she even live there anymore?"
"Who knows!!?" screamed Ryan, turning away.
We pulled into Jimmy's driveway finally, falling out of the car like skydivers, stumbling with the invisible weight of alcohol.
"Guys," said Ryan, waving us close to him. "I want to show you something, i want to show you so bad ..."
With bewildered, eager grins we stepped towards him like the walking dead, faces freeze-locked in total amusement, as with a toothy smile, he took a step forward ..

....and threw up all over us.