This is my advise for today: If you look around at a bar late at night and cannot find the token drunk of the bar, it is probably you, my friend. And you should probably be heading home.
After a much too long hibernation these last few months, I finally went out for a doubleheader this weekend--consecutive Friday and Saturday nights. And what a weekend it was. On Saturday night I travelled to the far away land known as Brooklyn. I prayed that the MTA wouldn't open the L train so that the birthday party would be relocated to a better borough (ehem, Manahattan...) but alas, to Brooklyn we went.
The place was jammed packed and it was difficult to get to the bar, let alone any kind of prompt service. After finally getting my Pumpkin Ale, I looked around and observed the natives. A giant hodgepodge of actual hipsters, pretend hipsters, sassy gays, and 2 out of place Bronx girls. An hour or two later, around midnight, when I was settled at the bar in deep conversation, a man asked if he could squeeze in to get to the counter. I thought nothing of it and figured he needed to close out. He didn't. He just wanted to settle in between me and my friend to drink his cocktail while practically sitting on my lap.
After about 2 minutes, we realized that he wasn't leaving and that he had a vacant gaze while he looked around the bar. It was the token drunk of the night! 5 minutes later, we realized that he would periodically nod off while standing and then wake to look at me with his drunken glazy eyes. The bartender quickly realized that he was the Token and offered apologetic complimentary Jameson shots for the group.
I wondered this, where were his friends? Why did he think that another drink was appropriate? And, does he know?
I wanted to ask him if he knew he was the token drunk and how sad it was to be standing alone because your friends left you for being an embarassing appendage while they tried to hit on girls. But of course he wouldn't have been able to answer, or comprehend or remember the conversation the next day. I have been to enough bars at all sorts of hours of the day to be able to spot the Token. It's the guy who thinks he knows his limit, but always seems to go beyond it into the black abyss of darkened hangovers. He doesn't know where he is, let alone how to get home, and it never occured to him to stop. Because maybe he's sad. Or maybe his boss yelled at him and he's getting evicted from his apartment and he doesn't know how to deal with things.
There's a sad pathetic-ness to the Token. I want to spit on him and hug him all at the same time. Because no one should have to drink that much just so they could have a way to escape from the world. Or maybe, I just have a soft spot for that far away glazy eyed look because I have seen it up close and have felt sad for those eyes and the person hiding behind them.
On Saturday though, I just laughed and realized he wasn't my problem. I had my own problem: figure out the quickest way out of Brooklyn!
