Neighborhood

[Apologies to all of you who've already heard this story, but our lives are otherwise lacking in stories that don't center around spit-up and poop, so when something like this happens, we pretty much have to get as much mileage out of it as possible.]

There we were, putting Simon in the car, getting ready to head over to some friends’ house, when we saw the teenager, walking down the middle of the street.

Now, of itself, that’s not all that weird. It’s a fairly quiet street, and our proximity to the local high school means we not infrequently see teenagers walking around the neighborhood, not infrequently choosing to walk in the  middle of the road. Hey, they’re teenagers.

No, what first caught my eye was the way he was holding his skateboard. Hugging it, really. And, I asked myself, was he wearing hot pants? Ah, no, those were his boxers. He had pants with him, it’s just that he was carrying them. But, you know, teenagers. They can be like that. And as we had some socializing to do, Julia and I merely exchanged glances that said, more or less, “Teenagers, [shrug].”

It was when three more teenagers, about the same age — which was around, oh, fifteen — showed up trailing behind him, two of them carrying the third around their shoulders, that we began to suspect the influence of more than just abundant hormones. I believe it was the phrase, “I can’t believe I drank that much!” that tipped us off. Too much what? Milk? Soda pop? Soda pop and milk mixed together?

No, these boys were clearly drunk. Or, at least, clearly to us. To them, of course, their lack of sobriety was top-secret, as evidenced when one of them — the one being supported by his two friends — turned to us and said, a bit too loudly, “Happy Saturday!” For which his friend reprimanded him to be quiet. Indeed, or else we might have suspected something was amiss, had he not wished us a happy day: “Oh, it’s just two teens supporting their other friend, all somewhat staggering down the street, talking about drinking too much, ho-hum.”

At that point, I was inclined to wait before getting in the car, just to make sure that they passed by our house without doing anything stupid … or, at least, any further stupid activities.

When, just then, a police car drove down our street. “Should we tell the officer about those kids?” Julia asked. This quickly became a moot question, as the car, slowly following the boys, eventually got their attention by flashing his lights. (Perhaps they’d thought they could play it cool while the police car drove on by, with no authority figures the wiser, just like they managed to get by us without anyone noticing they were drunk … ahem.)

And then another police car showed up. Oh, and, eventually, two more. An otherwise slow night in Portland, it would seem. One cop car per drunken teenager. The police had the teenagers sit down on our lawn while they searched one guy’s backpack, which pretty much forced us to sit and watch the spectacle for a while. Some neighbors from up the street made their way to the scene — somehow, somehow, they had also detected alcohol in the boys’ bloodstreams, and filled us in on details we’d missed in the boys’ behavior.

Like their going down the street, banging loudly on cars. And attempting to skateboard, poorly, while drunk (I’m guessing that was Mr. Boxer Shorts), leading at least one of them to have bloodied palms. The neighbors also pointed out that at least one of them had vomit on his shirt. On the back of his shirt, no less. Ah, always the sign of a Good Time, when there’s vomit — likely not yours — on your shirt.

After a while, it got boring watching the boys sitting (and, occasionally, laying) there, and we figured the four police cars (with at least four officers inside) could probably handle the four boys on their own, so we went off to our evening activities as planned. But I’d like to close with a handy decision chart for any teenagers who happen to be reading this blog (and heaven help you, because if you are reading it, you’re already making some poor choices in time management, but never mind that now).

• Don’t drink until you’re of legal drinking age. This keeps things simple, and is the easiest route. But, you’re a teenager, and you often make choices that are, at best, rash and poorly thought out, so let’s move on to the next option …
• Don’t drink to the point of drunkenness. Yes, alcohol can have that effect on you, but many adults have actually discovered that one can enjoy alcoholic beverages for their flavor! Probably not the cheap swill you bought, however …
• So you’ve decided to get drunk even though you’re underage. Okay then, can I at least recommend that you do so at a place, such as your own house, where you can stay after you’ve gotten drunk? You know, just sit around, watch TV, sleep it off, whatever? And not have to, say, walk home in an obviously drunken state for many blocks?
• No? You have to get drunk at someone else’s house? You want to add Public Intoxication to your eventual Minor In Possession? Okay, well, we’re pretty much well off the “wise” path at this point, and it’s all about mitigating poor decisions, so can I suggest you try getting drunk at night? You know, when the professionals do? Now, admittedly, there is something to be said for the safety of stumbling home in the daylight, in that cars and bicycles (if not, sadly, sidewalks) can swerve to avoid hitting you as you suavely stroll the streets, without anyone catching on whatsoever that you are, as they say, blotto. And yet, if we assume you will get home safely (“safely” being defined relatively here, given that you’ve already shown you are a middling skateboarder at best when drunk), there is something to be said for the cover that nighttime provides. Because, you see, there’s less light out at night, so any visible evidence that may tip off others to your inebriation is thereby obscured. Besides, if it’s really dark out, you may be mistaken merely for obnoxious, drunk adults, and not the obnoxious drunk teenagers you are.
• What’s that? You’re ignoring all my advice thus far? Going to get drunk, illegally, at someone else’s house, while it’s still light out, forcing you to walk and/or stagger home, for many blocks? Then at least this advice: zigzag. Because as you leave a trail of alcohol-inspired stupidity in your wake, you will also leave a trail of phone calls to the police by the people you pass. And when they tell the police that they saw you going down Thus-And-So Street, and you continue walking down Thus-And-So Street block after block, with all the more people calling the police on you, well, it’s not terribly surprising that, when you get to the end of Thus-And-So Street, there are four police cars waiting for you.
• Really, it’s come to this? Well, it goes without saying that you’ve made some Very Bad Choices to get to this point. One final bit of advice: keep your pants on, doofus.