After teaching a class last night I went to join E.S. at the winter party thrown for the psychiatric residents at his hospital. When I got there, he was roaring drunk, a state in which I have seen him precisely once before. Ordinarily a very laid-back, jolly fellow, he was now so filled with bliss and contentment that I almost punched him in the nose. I did push him slightly with my finger to see if he would fall over; he managed, disappointingly, to remain upright, although it did require some effort on his part. We stayed at the party a little longer and then went back to his apartment.
On the way we started talking about the party we wanted to plan for when we move into our new house. I proposed one idea; he proposed an alternate idea. Then we had the following conversation:
E.S.: So what do you think?
FAUSTUS: I like my idea better.
FAUSTUS: Because your idea is bad and mine is good.
E.S.: You know, it’s funny. I’m very intoxicated, but I can still tell you’re wrong.
FAUSTUS: You can never drink again.
E.S.: Why is everything so blurry?
When we got back to his place he wanted to stay up all night and talk but was, thank God, too drunk to do so. We fell asleep in short order and he woke up this morning in terrible agony, for which I gave him almost no sympathy.
Of course, the one time he has seen me drunk, I slammed my hand down next to my plate and slurred, “I’m smarter than everyone at this table put together!”, so I’m really in no position to throw stones.