You were drunk. It was last call, and you incoherently mumbled a drink order to the bartender. She responded with a firm, “Go home!” to which you responded, “Well … maybe … you … home…” The bouncer dropped you right outside of the bar onto the street corner. You pulled out your phone to Uber home, but with your sweaty hands and compromised hand-eye coordination, it flew out of your grasp and screen-first into the cement. CRACK! I saw you freak out and curse the sky. You picked up your phone and started to walk further into downtown; maybe you could catch the 22 home. But then something changed, you started hopping up and down. You were trying to hold something in but you could no longer. You darted to a corner of the nearby parking garage and relieved yourself. I saw your face in that puddle; it was my puddle. I need to stop drinking tequila.
I Saw You is an anonymous “man on the street” column. Email your rants and raves about co-workers or any badly behaving citizens to [email protected], or send to 380 S. First St, San Jose, 95113. Submissions should stick to about 100 words.
