Lessons of Time Travel

By Chris Dannen

Birthday Parties. In a land where religious feast days have gone out of style, where the birthplace of Mardi Gras has been demolished, where most colleges have outlawed kegs—the birthday party tradition wares on. Congratulations, the birthday tells you. You have lived another year in a nation with a miniscule infant mortality rate, a nation with seatbelt laws, railings on every staircase, a behemoth military and a first-rate medical system. Fantastic. You have done something that literally every other human being you encounter has done just as well as you.

What a marvelous excuse to get belligerently drunk and jeopardize a life thus far free of mortal accidents. My birthday was on Saturday. So that’s what I did.

I spent the evening of this most pedestrian of holidays in New York City with an old buddy, who we’ll call PJ Casey. But this is not a male-bonding story about skirt-chasing, fist-over-fist shots, burning pulls from a flask, cigarettes bummed, frothy pints or profligate bar tabs. In fact, this story is not even a story. Because on Saturday night, I did a little time traveling.

What I have garnered from eyewitness testimony, my cell phone call log and the receipts in my pocket are the following events. I present them as a cautionary tale for those readers with birthdays upcoming—and because the ensuing headache and loss of balance kept me couch-bound and bike-less for a number of days.

11:43pm: Leave apartment in Greenwich Village. Step into elevator apparently outfitted by the same phone-booth company of Bill and Ted fame.

12:38am: Receive a Budweiser from PJ at local bar. Drink some. Smash bottle on barroom floor.

1:24am: Make first phone call of the evening to a likewise-blacked-out college pal back in Virginia. A piece of human history is lost forever.

1:51am: Call another good friend to proclaim my secret love for her. Get voicemail. Blurt a series of exclamations about the delicious nature of beer and how, at present, I cannot feel feelings.

2:45am: Ingest a one-pound burger at a diner only to have it transform, by means of anti-colonic magic, to cement upon contact with my insides.

10:09am: Hindered by cement burger, sit up in a spinning bed and rejoice at the absence of any licentious young ladies. Assert mentally that every day without accidental fatherhood is a day of blessed glory.

Yesterday I rode for the first time since my adventure into the land of blotto. I went by myself, and in the blanket of leaves that has fallen recently I lost the trail a couple of times and bounced off a handful of hidden rocks. But it was a satisfying roll; I could feel my cadence solidifying from time spent on the road bike, and the day was sunny and cool and I didn’t have to sweat much to keep up my pace.

Before that ride, I had felt like I was mentally one-down after Saturday night. On the bike, I think I broke even somehow. For an activity so often associated with catharsis and release, getting hammered felt like a ridiculous waste of time. This birthday felt ironically uncelebratory, even akin to the most mundane of daily activities: driving, mowing lawn, paying rent or buying greeting cards.

Sure, it felt a little like an accomplishment to go out hard for one night. But there’s a difference between finding something to do, and finding something worth doing. At least if I ride again soon, I’ll have earned something. I’ll be one-up again.