There aren’t many things that will cause me to pretend drunkeness and envelop Gary in a big hug while saying “I love you, maaaan.”

The last time I did this was at his Annual Christmas Party (which he had exactly the one time in 2003) after six hours of drinking liquor and alcohol, smoking marijuana (the second and last time I’ve ever done it, and in front of off-duty Baltimore County cops, to boot), and hugging every guy and gal at his house telling them all “I love you, maaaan” and being very thankful when I sobered that the women were not all offended at being called “maaaaan.”

Tonight, I’m home an hour and a half early. Gary showed up at eight with beers and somber news: having been trying to find a buyer for the Indy for a year, he’s almost finally succeeded (he won’t be satisfied until the paperwork is signed, though). He paid us all in cash for the current pay period, for what we had worked and what we were scheduled to work, then he told us to close up early, and told me not to come in Sunday: he’s only running carryout on what is probably going to be the last day of his ownership, not wanting to take any unneccessary risks.

So, I’m going to throw these clothes in the hamper, shower, and head out to a birthday party. Gary’s beer is in my car, waiting for my arrival in Baltimore before I indulge. I think I’ll have several. After all, I have tomorrow off, and what the future holds in store for the Indy — or my employment there — I just don’t know.

And I feel like Lyra, in “The Amber Spyglass”, when she enters the world of the dead and must leave her daemon Pantalaimon on the shores for her return. I feel like that poor bloke in “The Temple of Doom” who got his heart ripped out (y’know, before his “Shit, that guy ripped my heart off!” fear got replaced by “Shit, I’m being thrown into molten lava!” fear.) Tomorrow, I hope to feel “Shit, where’s a fucking aspirin and how much did I have to drink?”