5.2 miles

Shortly after I moved in, my roommate caught up with me and finally arrived here from Maryland.  He and one of his friends had gotten orders to Camp Pendleton and had arrived in California.  I met his friend, Joe, a couple of nights after they'd arrived and had invited me out to dinner.  Joe and I were in a very similar situation.  We had both moved to California for specific reasons and didn't really have many friends here.  Other than my roommate, we didn't know anyone in San Diego.  All the guys I'd used to work with while on active duty had either moved to other duty stations or had gotten out of the Marines and returned home. 


When I first met Joe, I thought he was pretty funny.  My spidey sense quickly picked up on the fact that he was one drink away from having an addiction.  Joe had informed my roommate and I that he was living at a hotel until he found an apartment large enough for him and his two kids.  We offered him our stadium seating couch as a place to call home until he got on his feet, intending to help save him a dollar or two.  Joe moved in and somehow managed to make the best out of what we'd offered.  


Eventually, I started school, my roommate checked into his new unit and Joe moved out and into his own place.  I got a phone call from Joe on a beautiful Saturday morning saying that his kids were with their mother and he wanted to go cruise down in Encinitas.  I agreed and told him to come pick me up.  My spidey senses had to of hit snooze, because they failed to detect that that decision would soon be a mistake.  


We drove down to Encinitas and walked up and down the strip looking for a place to eat lunch.  We found a tasty little Latin American restaurant and decided to dine there.  Joe is one of those kind of men who doesn't hesitate in spending his money regardless of what responsibilities he has piling up at home (or in his mailbox).  With that being said, we ate delicious meals and drank two bottles of Argentinian Malbec before cashing out with a lunch bill well over two hundred Junior Whoppers ($200).   After this, we walked back up the strip and stumbled into a saloon that was highly populated at 3pm with a staggering 5-6 people.  We decided to join the crowd and made ourselves comfortable at the bar.  If my mom were to have been a fly on the wall, she would probably be licking her front legs and wiping her 2000 sets of eyes to make sure that it was actually her daughter sitting in a place like this during broad daylight.  We sat and talked about the usual topic of this time of year....football.  The season was right around the corner and we were swapping favorite players and teams.  


The jut-box behind me was playing a mixture of Bob Marley and some 80's hits that I don't miss much of.  The flooring, and what seemed to be every other piece of furniture in this place, was made from old dark wood and red leather.  The air was dusty and if I hadn't known any better, I would have been expecting 
Mr. Furley to walk though the front door at any given moment.  After we both had gotten through a few drinks I don't remember what was said or even the topic at that, but Joe then made a shocking statement that instantly changed the atmosphere.  He firmly stated that I was a "B*tch".  Thanks to my blood alcohol content, I found myself having quite the delayed reaction.  He must have thought that I didn't hear him, so he repeated his thought and added a very colorful word to it that rhymes with "tucking".  In my hazy world, I felt as if our thirsty counterparts in the room as well as the jut-box itself, had all stopped dead in their tracks and turned their attention towards me.  I had one of two choices to make at this time.  Either A, knife-hand Joe into an early slumber, or B attempt to look classy and walk out of this modern day "Regal Beagle" with some dignity.  


With "Classy" being my middle name, I downed my Grey Goose and pineapple cocktail, fished my cherry out from under the ice and walked out of there.  Slightly confused as to how the rest of the Encinitas population was not drunk at this time, I began walking towards my side of town.  By this time, the sun was still shining and my vision was still slightly impaired.  I remembered that Joe was so into his cocktail that I don't even think he realized that I had left.  About 3/4 of a mile up the road, I'm confident that I could have passed a DUI test with flying colors.  The sun was beginning to go down and I was not even half way home yet.  I don't really know what I was thinking when I decided to walk home, but I'm certain that alcohol mixed with my pride had something to do with it. I called my roommate to vent and somewhere along the lines asked him to come scoop me up, but he was in LA and far out of reach.  At this point, a few thoughts went through my mind....


1) You're a Marine and this is just a walk to burn off the calories you inhaled.


2) Call a cab and take the easy (smart) way out.


3) It's in Joe's best interest to never cross my path again. 


So I did what any alcohol induced Marine would do in this situation...I kept hoofin' it home.  By the time I got home it was 8:30 pm, I was damp with sweat and about half of the skin under both my feet had transformed into two huge blisters.  Ironically, as I was unlocking my door, Joe's phone call came through on my cell.  When I answered, I didn't know who I was more upset with.  Joe for being a douche lord and disrespecting me or at myself for being so prideful and walking home in flip flops.  Joe's next question easily made me launch all my anger on him.  "Where are you?" was probably the last thing he should have said to me.  After getting an ear full, I hung on him and tippy-toed myself to the shower.  


The following day I drove down to the bar where my walkathon party of one had started and measured the distance.  5.2 miles in leather flip-flops, jeans a tank top and Grey Goose for mouth wash is not a good idea.  Joe insisted in calling me to inform me that he believed he had been drugged at the bar which is why he didn't remember anything, especially calling me a B and letting me walk home.  I told him that I honestly felt he was an idiot for believing that anyone in that bar wanted to drug him as opposed to drugging oh I don't know....THE GIRL!?!?!?!  


We stopped talking for a while after this incident and Joe's relationship with alcohol grew stronger.  My pride is still in tact, but next time this happens, I'll probably go with my first option of knife-handing the guy.  I'm sure my feet would appreciate that as well.