Bowling Down Memory Lane
Reflecting on an “I did it again,” night
I’ve shared quite a bit about how much fun I had at my former place of employment. Recently, as I was recalling my time there, it occurred to me that my creative cohorts and I were a rowdy bunch. We worked hard and we partied harder.
One creative group outing, in particular, makes me cringe and crack up by turns. “Bowling night.”
Our Executive Creative Director, who I really vibed with, was great at taking care of his people. For example, in my first year under his supervision, he awarded me a ten percent raise. I’d kicked ass and deserved it, but it was a pleasant surprise, nonetheless.
One day, he strolled into our cube farm and told us he was orchestrating a night out for the creative team. A bowling night at a very tony alley. I know that sounds like an oxymoron, but it turned out that it was indeed a high-end bowling alley.
However, things didn’t go the way he‘d hoped, as the person who was handling the planning, screwed up, and royally.
In the Chicago area, there are two locations for this particular venue. One was close by our West Chicago office, which isn’t the city proper, but a far western suburb. And the other was in downtown Chicago, which at the time of day we would be traveling, would amount to at least a two-hour trip, each way. Buses were rented to shuttle us back and forth.
A couple of days before the event, loud shouting ensued somewhere in the middle of the room. Like groundhogs, we all popped up to see what was going on.
Our boss and the Vice President of the account team were arguing about something having to do with our outing. We found out that, instead of being booked at the bowling alley near our office, the nimrod who set everything up booked us at the downtown location.
One wanted to call it off — our guy — and the other wanted to green-light it. After much back and forth, and some overtly nasty exchanges, it was deemed that we should go.
Hell, the rest of us didn’t care, we just wanted to party! Although the long ride was a bit concerning. It was going to be a late, late night.
On the ride to the venue, I sat next to my English pal, Malcolm, another copywriter. I had kind of a secret crush on him, even though he was a bit of a goof, albeit, an attractive one. He had that Toby-mug-face and cute rumpled look that many British men have.
Long ride, or not, the time flew by as we were all getting primed on the bus. Meaning, there was booze and plenty of it.
Side note: This time it wasn’t just yours truly who made an ass out of herself. Read on.
When we finally arrived at the alley, we were stunned by the luxe venue. It was more of a huge lounge with lanes than your typical no-frills, “Strike ‘n Go” setup.
The bar was open. ALL. NIGHT. Free, top-shelf booze. Did I mention “free,” and “all night?”
My friend Bill, another writer, the guy with Parkinson’s Disease who I told you about in a previous story, wasted no time in sampling nearly every high-end liqueur he could get his hands on. How he remained upright, is anyone’s guess.
It seemed like the alcohol canceled out his tremors and steadied him, somehow. I’ll never understand it, but always be thankful none of us saw him go down. He was a trooper.
We were like kids in a candy store. The appetizers were incredible, the alcohol flowed freely and we left whatever bullshit we’d been carrying around, at the door.
I remember telling another writer friend, Don, to make sure that I was on the first round of business to leave, as they were staggered. He promised me he would and was as good as his word.
Do you think I made that first round?
This was a difficult time in my life. I was estranged from my family for reasons I won’t go into here, and it wasn’t the first time, so I was carrying around considerable baggage.
Of course, I thought alcohol would lessen that load. But, we know it never does.
The actual bowling part of the evening was a bust for me. Gutter ball after gutter ball, I couldn’t catch a break. That was no surprise, however, as my previous attempts at mastering the lanes resulted in abject failure, especially, when, as a kid, I dropped a ball on my mother’s foot.
Finally, I gave up and watched everyone else fuck up, except for our boss, who wasn’t a drinker. He was steady on his feet and knocked the hell out of those pins. Most of my cohorts, though, were soused.
I should add that the owner of the agency was also there. This is way before he sold the place and we went “corporate.”
It says volumes about his personality that everyone felt they could get so loose in his presence. He never was one for throwing company parties but this evening, he went all out.
I wish I could tell you that when the first two or three buses arrived to carry us back to the office, that I was on one of them.
Hell to the no. My friend Don, true to his word, tried to get my ass on one of them but I WAS DOWN WITH THE PAR-TAY, and didn’t want to leave.
Thankfully, several of my friends hung out with me, and eventually, the cavalry arrived, again, and we were trundled back from whence we came.
The party may have been over, literally, but the bus ride back was another story, indeed. Here’s where I’m starting to cringe: I recall breaking into song and bullying my buddies into joining me on a very loud and drunken rendition of Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar On Me.”
I’m fairly certain I sang the same line over and over again.
Here’s where things get weird. The buses took us back to the office. We all drove to the office. So we were dropped off and left to our own devices.
HUH?? After a night of drinking?
Several of us, tired and bleary-eyed, milled around the parking lot, like kids lost in a shopping mall.
Screw it. I started to make my way to my car and one of my co-workers, more of an acquaintance than a friend, tried to block my passage.
He was trying to keep me from being splattered all over the road, but I wasn’t having it.
Bigger and taller than me, he wouldn’t let me get around him. I remember another gal, who held onto one of my arms, bug-eyed and trashed herself, who admonished me, “Sherry…you don’t want to get three DUIs like I got.”
Finally, I shook her off, and, as my compadres watched, I proceeded to ream this poor dude who only wanted to help me.
He wouldn’t give up, though. I’ll give him that. I knew it was time to give it up when he threatened to call my husband.
Full stop.
The only recourse was to promise him that I wouldn’t drive home…yet. And, I didn’t. Instead, I went back into the dark building with Malcolm, the rumpled Brit, and our Korean friend Eui, an art director, who, with her heavy accent kept saying, “Sherrrry! You Drrrrrunk!”
The party was over.
So the three of us sat, in the dark, in my cube, guzzling water and eating granola bars. Eventually, Malcolm passed out in his chair, head thrown back and mouth gaping.
And me, well, as Eui lent a sympathetic ear as I babbled about my family issues, I started sobbing. Later, much later, I took my ass home, thankfully, without incident. As I reflect upon my stupidity that night, it’s not for the first time I’ve thought that someone or something was looking out for me.
Throughout that evening, I epitomized nearly all the stages of drunkenness. I was clever, funny, invincible, attractive (I thought), grief-stricken, and a complete asshole.
Here’s a variation on that theme from Larry Miller.
I took the next day off.
Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s soon-to-be-ex-manager is currently NOT pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.
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