Reading Tom’s Metro Stories story reminded me of an experience I had back in June trying out the new later weekend Metro hours after a night of serious imbibing(which I’ll reprint from my personal blog here):

Note to self: “Never get off the boat.” Never ride the metro home, drunk at 3AM.

Running straight from a booze-hall to an underground metro station without one second of sobering up, or eating all important beer soaking snacks is a terrible idea and an even worse experience.

The best way to describe it is as if you are trapped in some horrible kaliedescope world, where the metro escalator going down seems like a toboggan straight to hell. Riding along with you are chirrpy-faced drunk bird-people wearing polo shirts and hawaiian leis. The bird people mocking you with their high-pitched chatter as you ride to your doom beneath the earth whilst screaming like a stepped-on house-cat.

The underground world of Dupont Station aka Hades is an agony of waiting. Waiting for the train, feeling like a drunk Neo in The Matrix II, all I could do to not fall head-first onto the third rail was lean against (clutch desperately to) the metro-stop’s map-pole. Wobbling, supressing Jamesons’ whiskey bile and staring at the weird lava-lamp creatures, whose features drip past me as they pace the long stark station.

Holding on for dear life, waiting for the train, watching a trio of cute latina girls be approached by a creepy as hell “normal” looking dude with a big smile and serial killer eyes. He stands an inch or so from the lead girl and stares right into her eyes, smiling. Not saying a word. The girls start laughing and talking in Spanish, but the lead girl starts flirting with the psycho-killer! The other two girls look very concerned. Psycho-boy’s pick-up line (at 3AM) is “I was out for a walk. You WILL come home with me”. Then he stares again. That’s all he says.

Then of course, Dupont being Dupont, a raging flamer swoops in and starts trying to match-make and translate in Spanish. But oddly, all Psycho-boy does is continue to fucking stare! He was like some scarry Nam vet with the 1000 yard stare.

The two friends are really weirded out, and looking around nervously for help, being now out-matched by silent-psycho-kid and flamer latino man. So I casually lean in and whisper to one of the girls – “if that serial killer nut-job makes a move, I’ve got your backs.” Of course in my drunken voice I don’t really whisper this, instead I inadvertantly announce it to the whole friggin metro station. Flamer and Psycho pause and look at me. Latina 1 and 2 gravitate over to me, and the oblivious flirting latina keeps on talking with the duo. Meanwhile, Flamer is secretly positoning himself within ass-grabbing distance of Psycho.

The train comes, and the two girls grab their flirtatious friend and they rush to the back seats, I body block Psycho, who is taken (by the hand) by Flamer over to another seat while I sit with the girls. Their protector. Their drunk, useless if anything goes down, protector. They shower me with thanks, I drunkenly say that the only person getting fucked this night is Psycho-boy by Flamer-man. Sure enough, confident Psycho is now cowering in terror, leaning against the window, trapped in his seat by the amorous advances of friendly predator “matchmaker” man.

They all get off at various stops. The rest of my ride home, is a head nodding, rolling around drunkenly in my seat, motion-sickness affair. Focusing on some dude’s green sneakers to center myself. Focusing on some chick’s cleavage to entertain myself. Stumbling off of the train at Braddock road. And then Frankenstien walking down the bike path to my house. Imagining the concrete train tracks wall as various barricades. The Berlin Wall, a prison camp, the trash wall in the Simpsons with the Who, a new Bush anti-terrorism inovation. In all these versions there are imagined machine-gunners gunning for me. Stumble zig-zag dodge patterns, firing back with my fingers and “Pshoo-Pshoo” sounds. Bumping into a trash-can. Then the final insult – walking through an icky spider-web, a fate that I can hardly stand whilst sober let alone drunk.

I enter my house, still drunk out of my mind, swiping at the invisible net I’m stuck in trying to supress my laughter and the drunken phrase I want to scream out – “Take your stinking paws off me, you damn dirty Ape!”