Up to that point, I was almost willing to acquiesce, if only to put a stop to the badgering. However, a skillet was taking the joke a little bit too far. Alex must have seen something in me, though, because he began capering through the house, collecting money from the other residents, even going so far as to wake up a snoozing roommate—at 4am—to ante up. Finally, there was $13 on the line. And the string. I figured I would never hear the end of it, so I caved in. A cheer arose from the throng, and Alex whisked inside to prepare the concoction, which was to be the remainder of the rum cut with a can of Dr. Pepper.

Alex returned a short time later, bearing the skillet up on high, and laid it with all ceremony in front of me. Had I not been quite drunk already, I might have noticed that the amount of liquid in the skillet was slightly greater than could be accounted for simply one can of soda and a shot or three of rum. Then again, had I not been quite drunk already, I would never have conceded to the skillet in the first place.

Now my "friends" were all gathered around me, pumping their fists in the air and chanting "skill-ET! skill-ET! skill-ET!" I lifted the skillet to my lips as if it were a shallow goblet, and drank. And drank. And drank. And drank. I lowered the vessel of my drinking demise to exhale fumes, and get a gulp of air. And drank. And drank. And drank.

The skillet, AKA "Still Life with Hangover." Rum on the right, skillet dead center, candle... just for ambience. The red and white cord on the keychain is my trophy from the evening, dubious though it may be.

At long last, the skillet was emptied of its ungodly concoction. I rose to my feet somewhat unsteadily amidst the back-pounding approval of my peers and said blearily, "now, where is that bed you were telling me about?" Obviously, I was in no shape to make the four mile walk back home. They herded me into the kitchen, where I put down several glasses of water, some Tums and a fistful of ibuprofen in an attempt to somewhat mitigate what was likely to be a legendary hangover when next I regained consciousness. Then, I knew no more.

I woke up sprawled face-down in a strange bed with my sandals still on. The clock read 10am, and I still felt rather tipsy. So I kicked off my sandals and passed out again. Oh, sweet, dreamless bliss! I awoke next at around 2pm, and felt a little green around the edges, but otherwise little the worse for wear. A couple of the guys were in the living room when I staggered out of the guest bedroom, watching one of them play a video game; they greeted me with cheers, and told me how worried they were when I became unresponsive after swallowing the painkillers. Apparently, I retained only enough presence of mind to shamble toward the restroom to relieve myself and be guided bodily to the bed. Also, I had been observed once or twice to make sure I was still breathing. What a caring bunch of guys.

I sat on the couch and stared at the TV screen, sipping occasionally from a large carafe of water in an attempt to rehydrate myself. After an hour or so of this, my nausea faded somewhat, and I began to notice that I was hungry. So I took myself into the kitchen and toasted a bagel, which I gnawed carefully while drinking more water. Finally, I was beginning to feel somewhat human, and repaired me to the back patio, where I joined Alex for a smoke.

As we were chatting in the sun, reminiscing about the drunken revels of the night past, I felt myself become a tad ill. I ignored it, and kept right on chatting. But the sensation would not quite go away. I turned to Alex.

"Hypothetically speaking," I said, "were I to vomit soon, where would I do so?"

Alex looked at me somewhat askance before replying, "well, the toilet, ideally."

After a moment of consideration, I knew that to be unfeasible, and said so. Alex suggested the alleyway, but that too was all too far away, and had sharp rocks and shards of broken glass: as I knew this was shaping up to be a full four-point boot, that simply would not do. After admonishing me not to get any on the bricks, Alex directed me toward the bulb garden and took himself inside under the correct assumption that what was to follow would not be a pretty sight.

With Alex gone, I began my preparations, stripping to the waist and finding a comfortable place to huddle with my head overhanging the foliage. Finally, the convulsions came. As there was not much matter in my stomach aside from the bagel, the entire process was not especially unpleasant—rather therapeutic, in fact, if truth be told. At one point in the heaving, Fabio opened the sliding glass door to come out and have a smoke for himself; upon seeing—and hearing—me, however, he thought better of it and returned inside.

After sometime, the cramping subsided, and I was left staring blearily at the partially digested contents of my own stomach, feeling somewhat wrung-out, but definitely better. I noticed motion out of the corner of my eye, and shifted my focus to see some poor garden spider embedded in my mess, gesturing frantically with its foremost pair of limbs and attempting desperately to clean itself of my vomitus. For some reason, this image continues to amuse me.

The bulb garden in question. If memory serves, the spider resided right about... here.

In any case, after a couple of throat clearings and a spit or two, I gathered my clothing and headed for the shower. After about 15 minutes of warm water and soap, I once again felt human enough to rejoin my comrades-in-cups; Alex was hosing off the bulbs where I had so recently hung my head, a gesture that I felt to be extremely giving. I said my goodbyes, and began the long walk home under a blazing Phoenix afternoon sun. As I walked, I reflected on the events of the past twenty-four hours, and came to two conclusions:

1) While the raucous approval of my peers combined with monetary compensation and the legend that is now the Lord of the Skillet is warming, I shall henceforth be leery of drinking from anything other than a conventionally accepted drinking vessel, and

2) I'm sure glad I wasn't that spider.