Perfect.

In the summer of '97, I had a job that allowed me to travel. Actually, I was required to travel, but, whatever.

I was in Florida, on the panhandle. It was probably mid-June or so. In the 4 weeks since taking the job, I had thrown up several times, tried "bar-b-q" (the cause of one of the yak sessions, incidentally), seen a 10-gallon hat and a 10-foot cross all in the same house, been tortured with hours and hours of Circus Music (which I didn't know existed), and was fired and re-hired(5 states away from home).

It was an experience, to say the least.

But on this day, in Florida, I had the Perfect Long Island Iced Tea. There is no greater drink, and this was perfection.

--

Me and my buddy woke up in the morning, and made plans for the day. We had only two objectives: To Drink and To Screw. Unfortunately for him, his girlfriend(s) were 10 states away. So, the Screwing was up to me.

We were staying with a host family. I remember them easily. They were retired, one Italian, one Irish. The husband was the only man to ever take me down. At the time, I was at the height of my obnoxious/bitter stage (yes, I'm mellow now), and was cracking wise at every opportunity.

But this guy... he had decades on me. And my buddy just sat and watched as I got creamed for three days straight. He laughed, and laughed and laughed. He thought it was the most uproarious thing.

Him: "This guy is like a smarter, mouthier version of you."

Me: "Fuck off. I'll get one in."

Old Man: "I doubt it, you little shit."

Him: "BWAHAHAHA."

It was never-ending.

As we had finished our job obligations the day before, we had all day free, before moving on to our next city in Florida (Ft. something, I think).

So, we decided to hit the beach. Being on the panhandle, near a bunch of small islands, we had a number of choices. We called around, seeing what everyone was doing, and made plans. I made an effort to get ahold of a young lady from town I had met the night before. She had already managed to let me know she was single and had her own apartment.

Heh.

I couldn't get ahold of her, but one of the other guys we were planning with was certain he knew how to get ahold of her. And right here, I made my first mistake.

I let him get ahold of her, instead of tracking her down myself, to let her know where we were going to be.

So, we told the host family we were hitting the beach. They were kind enough to throw some beer our way. My buddy was happy, he loves the beer. At the time, I was a liquor snob. Only mixed drinks and shots for me, thanks.

(Side note: A week or two later, we were in one of the Carolinas - I can't recall which one - and I tried to order a LIIT, only to find that liquor comes in these two-shot bottles, and they'd have to make me a huge drink, using all the liquor from each bottle. Price? $12-15. I passed.)

Since I loved to read, they offered to let me browse through their small fiction collection. I found a book that sounded like your typical "end-of-the-world" kinda thing. Literary Fantasy, it screamed to me.

Cool. Sounds different. I'll try it.

The author's name, though, rang a couple bells in my head. Pat Robertson... Pat Robertson.... Damn. Where had I heard that name before?

I shrugged, tossed the book in the bag with the blanket, sunscreen, and all that crap, and we headed out.

The plans we made with our co-workers was to have some drinks at the beach, and hook up later. And of course, to Screw. Hmmm. Screwing.

So we got to the beach, and hit the beer. I forced myself to drink a few beers, and because it was a: Hot and b: 11:30 am, we found ourselves getting a nice buzz on. We were pleased.

I started reading, and very quickly, alarm bells starting going off on my head. I don't remember the title of the book now, but there was quite a bit of Bible quotes, Christian proverbs, and talking about Armageddon/End of Days scenario. I looked more closely at the dustjacket and cursed.

Religious Fiction.

Fuck.

That is so very much not my kind-of thing. So, the book was a wash.

Me: "Hey."

Him: *grunt*

Me: "Wake up, fucker. We should go eat something."

Him: "What's wrong, book-boy. Don't like what you're reading?"

Me: "You knew, didn't you?"

Him: "BWAHAHAHAHA."

We walked up to the bar, ordered a burger, and I got a drink.

A Long Island Iced Tea.

Now, you have to understand, that it's very easy to fuck up a LIIT. Too much tequila or gin, usually ruins the flavor. That said, it's hard to make a Great LIIT. But to make one Perfect? Never happens.

Only, it did. It was smooth, yet not light. It was strong, yet not overpowering. You could taste the liquor, but not too much.

It was glorious.

And after one... I was smashed. Completely obliterated. The heat, humidity, and beers already in my stomach turned me into a drooling basket-case.

So, I had another one. It wasn't as good, but Perfection rolls around only a couple times in a lifetime.

Now, remember the plan was To Drink and To Screw. For the Drinking, we were Successful.

The Screwing... ah, this is where things went to shit. The beach was miles long, and there were multiple restaurants. We not only couldn't remember which restaurant to go to, but the cell phone reception was non-existant.

And we were too drunk to figure out a better way to get ahold of anyone.

So, we sat on the beach, drinking more beer, passing out, waking up, taking a piss, and then starting all over again. By late afternoon, we were hammered, and tired.

Time to go back. Only...

Who was going to drive?

You have to understand the area of Florida we were in; It was an area of small islands, connected by bridges. And we had a cargo van - that was rented - with out-of-state plates.

And we were trashed.

I told him to drive. He told me I had to drive.

He drove.

And it was an entirely unpleasant experience. Well, not really, because we were laughing the entire time. Especially as we went over the bridges.

The beach was thirty minutes away from the house we were staying in, but it became readily apparent that we would need to find a place to sober up, and piss.

Fast.

The night before, we had gone to a party thrown by one of the locals. He was nice. And fucking rich. So, we decided to stop by, uninvited. We didn't have much of a choice in the matter.

And the guy, he was great about it. Welcomed us in, offered us drinks (no thanks!) and talked to us by the pool for a bit. This guy, he had been a little worried, and was glad we stopped by.

He was a big-game hunter. He went to Africa and shot elephants and lions and whatever else they had down there. Then, he stuffed the heads, and shipped it back up to his house. Where he had a "game room", full of stuffed animals.

He told us a story about how some left-wing, anti-hunting, journalist convinced him to do a story on his hunting, and then wrote an article blasting him. So, he was nervous about letting people into his game room.

One of the girls we worked with, was a straight-up, no holds-barred vegan. She was a great chick, really, but she wouldn't touch meat. And she had mistakenly walked into the game room the night before, and almost lost her shit.

So, the rich guy was worried about her making a stink, but we calmed him down, while we sobered up in his whirlpool.

Meanwhile, the guys we were supposed to hang out with, were drinking heavily, and hitting on the chick I was supposed to bang. Sadly, none of them got with her, and she kept asking where I was.

5 drunk islands away, sweetheart.

Me and my buddy sobered up enough to finish the drive back to our host house, and promptly passed out. We left town the next day, and I still don't remember the girl's name.

That drink, though... damn.

--The Bastard.