The Bartender’s Fault

A simple golf outing with a group of friends turns sour thanks to a Wisconsin bartender. Eight men would head out to the first tee, one would not return.

It all started on an unseasonably warm April day. Unseasonably by saying it was close to 100F. An oven for Wisconsin at the peak of summer. Eight friends, four of them college buddies, Pete, Saul, Jack, Teddy, (names changed to prevent WWIII) and four other unknowns who were siblings of friends of friends, headed up to Indian Head Golf Resort (actual name withheld for liability purposes). Jack’s family had been coming here for the past 30 years. They arrived on a Friday evening just before the fish fry to settle in, grab some dinner, and hit the resort bar for a few night caps. Pete, who is hearing impaired, but also impaired in the judgment of knowing when to say when, quickly ordered rounds of Jager-bombs. Across the bar, planted at one side and spilling into an adjacent private room, was a corporate outing of a local software distribution company, and representing it strong in their baby-blue polos with insignia on the left breast.
A couple of hours pass and not much good news on ESPN, but the drinks are going down like beer at a bar. At about the sixth Jager-bomb, Saul and Teddy hear Pete, and a whole lot more, but cannot seem to find him. As they gaze over the bar to corporate America, they see Pete jack hammering his finger into the chests of three men, many times his size. Since there really was only 1 ½ sides to this story, the boys in blue won by claiming he staggered over and insisted they had “faggot shirts on”. When they disagreed, he said it was an insult to the Houston Oilers.
When they got Pete to his room, he was long over served. Not only did the bartender not kick him out after his one sided argument, he topped off his glass two or three more time. It was 1am, and they had a 9am tee off. 36 holes were going to be played on Saturday, and 7 hours of sleep is enough for any powerhouse, 30-something professional.
10am the next day. Jack, Saul, teddy, and the four unknowns were starting the fourth hole, and Pete was just peeling himself off the pillow. He missed 30 minutes of knocking, courtesy calls, and alarm clocks before they finally gave up. Finally the cleaning people woke him up, at the request of Teddy.
While golfing progressed for the Able Seven, Pete proceeded to pull himself together and head down to the bar. The crew pulled in around 1.30p and was going to wolf down lunch before a 2pm tee off again. They found Pete murderously slurring at the bar and gave him a tongue lashing. By 2pm and the first tee, Pete was barely able to hold his club. Jack drove him back to the hotel room to sleep it off, and more or less ground him. When Jack left him, he was in his room, spitting tobacco all over the place and cursing at the bastard for burning him.

From this moment (2.30p), onward, all is speculation. Facts have been pieced together by various sources. All will get their credit in due time. If credit is what they want.

Pete decided he was not going to stay in the room and wanted to catch up with the rest of the group. He proceeded out to the parking lot, which was an elaborate maze of parking spots, spaced over several acres. Pete made his way to his car and drove around looking for them. He never made it out of the lot, but instead got himself lost. He passed out in the car for a couple hours, in 100F heat, leaving people to wonder if the car was stolen. When he woke up from the nap, he made his way to the clubhouse and climbed into a golf cart. What is always amazing, is how someone in this level of consciousness, is able to go so far unnoticed. He again attempted to track down his group, and followed what ever paved paths he could find. Somehow he made his way into a rather exclusive sub-division that was adjacent to the club, and more or less part of it.

Whether he passed out behind the wheel, or began to hallucinate from the heat, dehydration, and alcohol, he made his way up someone’s driveway, and wedged the golf cart between two Lexus sedans in the garage, via an open garage door. How he got out of the cart is anyone’s guess, but proceeded into the house, where he found a couch and passed out again. This would’ve gone unnoticed for longer than it had, if Pete did not somehow tracked mud all over the home’s cream-colored carpet.

Hours may have passed, and probably did, but when the guy who owned the house found him, the first reaction to assess the damage, and then wake the intruder. He called the golf course rather than 911 because he saw where the cart had come from. He was pretty sure they’d appreciate it back.

He roused Pete awake with the poke of a baseball bat, and some venom in his voice. Pete managed to get back to the golf course, where his friends and management were waiting for him. The police had been notified and charges were going to be filed, and many of them. Fortunate for Pete, Jack was a lawyer and pulled every string he could to talk them out of doing so. Even so far as offering to pay for damages. Unfortunate for Jack, neither him nor his family will ever be allowed at the resort again.

While this story may make you laugh the first time you read it, when you’ve told it a couple times, it becomes a sobering experience (pun intended). What does it take to realize you’ve hit bottom? How do you sleep at night knowing you’ve over-served the over-served?