Walk of Shame

“Yea, though I walk through
The Valley of The Shadow of Death...”
--Psalm 23:4

It is morning. You are viciously hungover.

Hangovers are a screaming blood-let to be sure, but it wouldn't be so bad if you were home. Then you would merely crawl out of bed (slowly, slowly—so as not to agitate tender brain cells), inch toward the refrigerator, grab the two liter bottle of flat coke and two of last night's three rolled tacos, climb onto the couch, and remain there forever.

But you are not home. You are in some unfamiliar chick’s peach-colored bedroom, and the goddam morning sun is splashing all over your pallid face like a crucifix searing a vampire’s flesh.

And, as if that weren't a goddamnuff, this crazy bitch has a thing for unicorns. It is a creepfest. There are two swirly, bluey unicorn posters on the wall, one fuzzy unicorn bedspread, and – worst of all – about thirty goddam glass unicorn figurines scattered on shelves, dressers, and end tables.

Walk of Shame Fact #67: Hangovers and unicorns do not mix.

Your bedmate awakens. To your horror, she wants to cuddle. Not that you are surprised (after all, her bedroom is painted peach), but cuddling and hangovers do not mix either. So you begin to formulate a plan for the task at hand: escape this bizarro Glass Menagerie and locate your car.

First, you tactfully elude the cuddle maneuver by reaching for the glass of water on the unicorn-littered night table. Then you disentangle yourself from her clammy flesh (slowly, slowly), whisper a feeble excuse, walk out the door, and emerge into the cruel southern California, pre-noon sun.

Thus begins the walk across the batholith that is the Valley of the Shadow of Death. . .

Step after step and dying of thirst – like a fugitive slogging through a misty bog – you surge forward. The bright-eyed, chipper morning people all turn to gaze at the freak in scuffed black boots, wrinkled shiny shirt, and the worst case of bed-head since Johnny Rotten walk-of-shamed from Nancy Spungen’s pad.

One of them, an old woman with white hair, starts screaming, "Look at the dark urchin that stays out all night and seduces unwilling women with drugs and alcohol! Look at him slither through your neighborhood, leaving his slimy trail of sin on your hallowed sidewalks!”

The neighbors point as you slink away, dragging the slippery, tangled tentacles of your disgrace.

Walk of Shame Fact # 82: There is all too much time to replay in your mind the horrific mistakes of the night before:

(Lemon drops. Laughter. Swapping tongues on barstools. Jukebox music. Al Green. More laughter. More tongues. . .)

Your throat screams for liquid after every agonizing step after step after step. You see a blistering Brazilian beauty soaping her Dodge Dart in the car wash bay. Forgetting the situation, you smile and say hi. But your snarled voice sounds like the deep, distorted drone of a thousand tortured demons piping up through the fissures of Hell.

She drops her foam brush and flees in terror.

You drop your head in shame – like Frankenstein’s first look into the mirror – and continue your desperate journey.

(It did not seem so far last night, when we left the pub and headed toward her house – two drunken lustbugs swaggering down the street -- stopping only to push her up against a wall and slather her neck and grope her breasts.)

Step by head-pounding step. Until you see something ahead: Can it be?? Yes. Yes! It is the voluptuous curves of the golden arches.

Egg McMuffin is exactly what you need!

The cashier -- a fortyish, obese, greezy-haired, flea-bound hellhound -- glowers as you order breakfast. She knows what you have done and does not approve of your lifestyle: dancing and drinking till sunrise; swooping on unsuspecting woman; seducing them with booze and bravado.

Her scowl is blinding – like the sharp white flare of last night’s bedroom flashback.

(You are on top of her, trying to enter. But you go soft. It’s that old bastard Whiskey Dick -- the archenemy One Night Wilbur.)

There is only one thing to be done about a whiskey dick: secure the blowjob. Only, you can’t just ask for a blowjob. And you certainly can’t, lovingly, push down on the back of her head. There is only one way to secure a blowjob on a one-night-stand.

You must give her the blowjob eyes.

The vomit rushes up your throat and nearly spills onto the pavement as you accidentally imagine what you must look like while giving somebody the blow job eyes.

Walk of Shame Fact #1: You did nothing wrong. You had fun; she had fun. Hold your head up and walk of shame like a goddam man.

You finish the last bite of simulated-hash-brown patty and (slowly, slowly) walk toward the door. As an after thought, you hoist a middle finger toward the corpulent cashier wench, as if to say, “Yeah I got laid last night. You should try it sometime.”

Then walk out the door, raise your head high and resume the arduous – yet proud -- walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .

"Nay, I shall run through the valley of the shadow of death.
(You get through the valley much quicker that way)."
--Woody Allen

EJD
3/27/02