Velma Loses Her Glasses

The following tale comes to you by special request, a long-distance dedication from LB in LA to AL in LA:

After Alceste and I convened in Madrid in the Fall of 1990 (or was it 1991?) 2000 (or was it 2001?), our accomodations for the first several days (or was it weeks) consisted of sleeping bags on the rooftop patio of Brigg. Brigg was a guy who neither of us knew but who had gone to high school with the RA from our freshman residence hall. I don't recall exactly how poor Brigg got stuck with us, and I doubt whether he even knew how he got stuck with us. I do recall that Brigg didn't know how to get rid of us.

So, for several days, (or was it weeks), we camped out on Brigg's roof drinking cheap Spanish wine and reminiscing. The wine came in liter boxes, and it was literally cheaper than milk. Also, it really wasn't that bad (relative to, say, MadDog or Boone's Farms). In fact, it was a lot like the boxed wine you can buy in the US now. The quality did fluctuate quite substantially, but after a few liters, it seemed to smooth right out.

During the daytime, we would "look" for jobs and/or apartments. For my part, "looking" involved wandering the city taking in the sights and bar-hopping until it was time for a siesta. I often chose one of Madrid's many parks for my siesta if I didn't feel like walking all of the way back to Brigg's roof.

Alceste was somewhat more diligent than myself, and he soon had a job. His job involved teaching English, which, as luck would have it, he spoke. This was perfect, I thought, now we had an income and we could continue our wine-drinking and bar-hopping ways. Alceste didn't see it quite this way. He preferred to enjoy the fruits of his own labor, or, as he put it, "get a fucking job, you asshole." I have a feeling he was referring to me.

Alceste then made the mistake of letting it slip to Brigg that he had a job. We were given an ultimatum of a certain number of days (or was it weeks) within which we had to stop sleeping on his roof. So, we found an apartment on the South side of the city.

This particular apartment was something of a shit-hole in a rather decent building. In fact, the building had an elevator, though it was designed to carry no more than 2 lilliputians, and a door-man. The doorman was an interesting fellow who clearly hated everyone and who openly longed for the return of the fascist dictator Franco (who is still dead).

Alceste and I, and a fluctuating number of foreigners from various locations shared this apartment with one bathroom and a kitchenette. There were usually 5 or 6 of us living there, but sometimes there seemed to be more like 8 or 10 of us in the fairly cramped quarters. Alceste and I shared one room, and we agreed that whoever passed out first each night was entitled to the bed. Thus began the long and storied tradition of "Number 1."

"Number 1" went something like this. When Alceste returned home from work, and I returned from "looking" for work, we would begin drinking the cheap Spanish wine. Since the pot of gold at the end of the drinking rainbow was a soft bed rather than a hard floor, drinking would quickly accelerate into something like a Nascar race, only with wine. (Of course, this would later develop into the card game "Up the Brandy, Down the Wine"). One of us would soon sense an advantage over the other in terms of proximity to unconsciousness which would cause a proclamation, "I'm Number One!" It was as if to say, enough with the warm up laps, let the race begin.

As you can imagine, this kind of challenge would precipitate a frenzied and furious escalation of the drinking activity by Number Two who might soon find himself in a position to shout, "I'm Number One." And so on. There were several endings to the game. Very rarely, Number One would leap to an insurmountable lead, never to be caught. More usually, there would be a back and forth, mano a mano, for several hours during which many bad things might happen until one or the other of us conceded, "Yes, you are Number One." And, occasionally, no victor would emerge until long into the morning when the whole point of sleeping had lost any meaning. Typically, those battles would be resumed after work (or "looking" for work).

Eventually, Number One began to carry with it additional privileges. Not only did you get to sleep in the bed, but also you got to use the fork to eat with. You also got to wear around your neck the compass on a string by which we navigated on our drunken escapades out into public. And, finally, as Number One matured into a fully developed sport, you got to pick the itinerary for oour drunken escapades out into public. And each of these privileges belonged to you, but only for as long as you remained - Number One.

To be continued........................