Illustration by Bob AulStumbling out the door to check the surf Sunday morning, my mind still a soup of the previous night's festivities—or rather, activities—I spotted a solo tennis shoe on the back wall of someone's surfside adobe. "What the hell is a shoe doing there?" I asked myself. I gazed back toward the ocean and surf and sand . . . sand . . . sand . . . I remembered running in the sand that night and . . . WHAM! A realization of the night before slammed into my battered brain like a sick flashback in a movie—and not a quality flick like Apocalypse Now, but a terrible B- or even C-grade movie. Would Joseph Conrad be proud?
I was "That Guy" last night! You know: "That guy's an asshole!" "That guy's wasted!" "That guy needs to shut the hell up!" "That guy's drunk!" Well, That Guy stole your shoe after you kicked him out of your place Saturday night. Sure, That Guy stumbled into YOUR party, opened YOUR fridge and proceeded to drink YOUR beer before "Hey! We don't know you! Get the fuck out! Who is that guy!?!" Well, That Guy was wrong and admits it and apologizes for being That Guy . . . but YOUR shoe is still on THAT wall.
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