Ben Franklin and the Eldorado Redemption

We went out to dinner the other night and I ran into an old friend that I hadn't seen in at least 15 years (we'll call him "Ben Franklin" to protect his privacy). We caught up with things as much as time would allow; it was quite nice to see him. But this chance encounter brought back memories of something far more seamy. Something that I thought had been buried by the simple passage of time. I refer to The Incident.

This tale is not pretty. When it was all over, there was more than enough blame to go around. But I feel it must be told, if not to exorcise the demons of the past, at least to try to come to an understanding. I don't know how some of the others who participated have fared in the intervening years. I can look myself in the mirror in the morning.

Most days.

"Ben Franklin" was a jovial guy who seemed to have that joie de vivre that many of our age had long since replaced with sullen cynicism. When he drank, as we all did, he got drunk - but not normal-drunk. Whether it was a screwy metabolism or maybe he just drank a lot more than we realized, "Ben" wouldn't simply get drunk. He would get cataclysmically drunk. He would get Keith Moon drunk. And there were no gradations - the alcohol seemed to hit him all at once. He went from 0 to 60 immediately. At one party, he was fine one minute; the next minute we found him lying on his back outside on the grass, singing opera as the sprinklers soaked him. He would crank-call the police. He would start yelling that he was the real Batman, and cursing the villains from the old Batman TV show. He would throw up things he hadn't even eaten.

One night, we headed to our local hangout, the Eldorado Diner, in Elmsford, NY. You could still smoke in restaurants in those days, so everyone would order the minimum amount of food that we could get away with and we'd sit and smoke and drink coffee. We even had a regular waiter, Francisco, who "Ben" would clap on the back and call "Federico" for some reason. On this night, however, there had been quite a bit of alcohol consumption, and I feel the need to blame what happened next on alcohol. It's a copout, of course, but isn't life all about bullshitting yourself?

We grabbed a table and "Ben" headed to the men's room to relieve himself. We promptly forgot about him and started to engage in our usual routine. After an indeterminate amount of time, someone (a co-conspirator I will call "Joe Soda") went to see where "Ben" was. He returned from the men's room with a horrified look on his face. The horrified look lasted about four seconds, and was replaced by hysterical laughter. One by one, we got up to see.

I entered the men's room, which was fairly small. "Ben" was in the farthest of the two stalls. Well, half-in and half out would be more accurate. Pants down, he was lying on the tile floor with his head next to the base of the toilet. He had fully evacuated into his undershorts. Furthermore, he had vomited all over himself. He seemed to be making some rudimentary attempts at communication, but nobody could understand what he was saying.

The rules of comraderie are clear - you get your buddy cleaned up a little, and get him home. We all just kind of looked at each other, and then went back to our cheese fries and mozzarella sticks. And we watched people enter and exit the men's room. Some emerged bemused, some were repulsed, but every facial expression we observed sent us into peals of laughter.

We eventually got him in the car and dumped him on his front porch. I like to think all humans are fallible, and maybe the good you do evens things up a little on the cosmic balance sheet. But underneath it all, I wonder if we didn't lose just a small piece of our souls that day.

UPDATE!

I've received numerous responses by e-mail from those who were there that fateful evening. My knowledge of the events at the Eldorado that night is necessarily limited - alcohol consumption and the passage of time have enshrouded the incident in haze. The more recent information I have obtained helps paint a more complete picture. I hope they don't mind being quoted, albeit obliquely. Again, names will be changed to protect all involved.

"Bus" wrote: "dare i suggest that you go about writing the task of getting him in the car .... that, too, was quite the scene with the can of lysol and a blanket or a sheet .... or was it a garbage bag???"

"Joe Soda" wrote: "Hell my Dads car smelled for a fucking week after that so I too have no problems sleeping at night! Whoever wound up buying that car got a nice used brown stain in the back seat too!"

"Sister D." checked in with: "Speaking on behalf of God, you all will smoke a turd in Hell for that ONE..."

"Master" illuminated things further: "One thing though was missing. If you remember at the end, when we dropped "Ben" off at his parts house (actually left him on the front porch), his pants actually fell down, as the front porch light simultaneously illuminated. We then all ran off back to "Joe's" car. "Ben" later told me that his parents were so angry that they "depanted" him, and threw his soiled garments out the second floor window. I believe his pants actually got caught in a backyard tree, where they remained as a painful reminder of the nights events for several weeks. I also recall something about his Mom throwing him in the bathtub"

Correspondence was also received from "Tallboy". No word on the matter from "Zee Itchy Eye" or "Ben Franklin" himself.