In the interest of keeping the blog current, and because the day might have a little extra significance for me, I present this post.
I suspect I was named Patrick by my dad's insistence. His mother was pretty solidly Irish, his dad...we really don't know. Apparently among other things, he had native American blood running in his veins; don't know what else for sure. The name Hawkey is common in Cornwall, England, but it has also been suggested it's an Americanization of the Irish "Haughey." Again, don't know and don't really care. My mom is solidly Polish/German.
Dad stressed his Irishness and his kids largely followed suit, however fractional it in fact was. I have a decidedly northern European look, with light skin, freckles and red hair. I look like a resident of Ireland or Scotland. I'm really drawn to the music, that's for sure. I used to make a fuss over my patron saint's day. Certainly did when I reached drinking age.
I think the year was 1982, which would have made me 26. That particular St. Patrick's Day, my buddy Dave and I went to play racquetball. (Remember racquetball? I spent an awful lot of time on racquetball courts back then.) Anyhow, I brought enough money to pay for my half of the court rental, and another three dollars. I did this deliberately. I knew if I brought more, the temptation would be way too great to not stop after just a couple beers afterward. It would be way too easy for me to become a most stereotypical Paddy, drunk on his ass before I got home. I really didn't want that.
So after our shower, Dave says, "Let's go get some beer."
"Fine," I told him, "But I've only got three bucks on me."
"Hell, no problem," he said in a rare demonstration of generosity. "It's on me."
The seeds were sown.
Dave was a big fan of the bar scene in downtown Detroit. Because he was driving, that's where we headed. No doubt we started with beer, but eventually we graduated to Canadian Club. Of course the bars were hoppin' and good times were all around us. At some point I switched to gin, which I was beginning to acquire a taste for. We may have snacked on pretzels or something, but nothing more substantial. As usual, I was the first one to start slowing down -- Dave was three times the night person I was. One more for the road at last call, and back on to I-75 north and home. Miraculously Dave managed to keep the car between the lines and didn't run into anything. How much had we consumed? Significantly more than was required, that I can say with certainy.
Three miles from my place, Dave decided he needed to take a leak. He stopped behind a local mall and headed for a snowbank. Regrettably I was not so drunk as to be passed out. Evidently something in my impaired reptilian brain snapped. I wanted to go home, damn it. I did not want to stop here. I was suddenly and totally pissed-off. While Dave was relieving himself, I exited the car and made for an opening in a wall that divided the mall back alley and an apartment complex. If Dave wasn't going to take me home as fast as I wanted, screw it. I'd get there on my own.
So Dave returns to his empty car and assumes I'm off doing what he had done. Don't know how long he sat there before thinking, where the hell is that guy? He got out, called, called a little louder, and searched a bit. The panic began to rise. What the hell? Where is he? Did he get abducted by aliens? Did he pass out in a snowbank? That could be a very bad thing. Hypothermia is no laughing matter. Foot search revealing nothing, Dave got in his car to continue to search. Where to look? What to look for? A moving figure or a dark shape on the ground?
Meanwhile, fueled by alcohol and anger, I plodded through the apartment complex, eventually emerging on a main artery in the form of a freeway service drive that would take me to my neighborhood. Hands buried in pockets, head down (no hat, of course) I stomped into the wee hours of the morning. Eventually I came to an intersection and looked up to determine my progress. Cold and tired, I stared at the sign illuminated by mercury vapor street lights until it came into focus. To my shock and horror, the cross street name revealed I'd been trucking in the wrong direction for two miles. Are you f*ckin' kidding me? When did I cross the previous mile road?
So while Dave was desperately driving around to logical locations in search of his buddy, I unintentionally foiled him by doing a wrong-way Corrigan routine. Unbelievable. All I could do was turn around and retrace my steps, and basically restart my journey home. What should have been a three mile walk was in fact going to be about seven.
Dave was seriously wondering if he'd in fact had a hand in killing his buddy. He spotted a cop car at a 24-hour restaurant and lied to the officers that he'd spotted some drunk wandering around the main drag and if you see him, you might want to pick him up. They promised they would. Dave had a tiny posse now, at least.
I remember nothing of my stroll other than cold and utter solitude. Not a car, not a person did I see. I also didn't see a big water-filled hole in the ground until I stepped in it and totally soaked one of my shoes in freezing water. Nice. Eventually, I did get to my parent's darkened house around four. I climbed up the stairs to the bedroom I shared with my brother and collapsed on the bed, and was instantly out. The next thing I knew, I was being slammed against the wall by my coat by Dave. Hoping against hope, he entered the house (we never locked doors) and crept upstairs to see if my bed was empty or not. It was not, and he let me know of his displeasure.
"You f*cking idiot! Where were you? Where the f*ck did you go!? I looked everywhere for your stupid ass! Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead! Don't you f*ckin' ever do anything like this to me again! Asshole!"
It was not the time for explanations, but I promised I would never do anything like this again.
The next day I woke to one of those dry-heaving hangovers that makes you swear you'll never sip anything again. NEVER! In fact to this day, the aroma of gin is good for unpleasant flashbacks. I made up with Dave that night and we swapped our separate stories.
My dad used to say, "The Lord looks out for drunks and idiots." If so, the Lord or somebody must've been watching me that night. Watching and shaking his or her head.
All these years later Dave and I can laugh. All these years later though, the memory of that night and the festive occasion for it remains. And you'll have to excuse me if I don't wear green on March 17, and insist on staying home in the evening. Might even work on a model. The rest of the world? Knock yourselves out!