Driving round town (Day 8)

Sleeping outside was surprisingly enjoyable

Click. Click. I awoke to the taste of my own medicine. was taking pictures of me the morning  after having passed out on Karl’s porch after our night at das drink or die haus. Having taken numerous photos of the others at their worst, it was only fair. I have had easier mornings to say the least. But there would be no rest for the overindulgent. It was time to begin the day. We had agreed to help Karl’s older brother move into their new house. Fortunately, Karls sisters had brought unless a delicious breakfast of egg mcmuffins and hash browns to ease our pain. 

                Having performed our duties and received many thanks—it would have taken them all day to move the stuff if not for us—we drove to downtown Indianapolis to soak in the sights. Most of the buildings had looked like they had been built in the latter half of the 19^th century and had suffered a lot of neglect in the last fifty years. But there were some signs of improvement. Our destination was a micro-brewery in a gentrifying neighbourhood. By some strange law, liquor stores cannot sell alcohol on Sundays, but local breweries could. 

Preacher's daughter, one of their most popular beers

Having loaded up our growlers, a 1.9 litre refillable jug popular in the Midwest, we returned for swim and some beers with Niko as thanks for our efforts. Yet more was to come: Niko had also promised us additional beers with an evening of suburban bar hopping. We were learning much about Indiana, but most startling was the frequency of drunk driving in the suburbs. One of his friends  described involved in such decision making: “You go to the bar. You get buzzed or even tipsy. You chug a bunch of water and a red bull, and you hope for the best.” Another girl confessed to us: “I know this is really bad, but I enjoy drinking and driving.” This seems to explain all of the dented bumpers I’ve seen in this city.

The first time I've seen a drive-thru bank

We arrived at our first destination called as Alley Cat’s, a name derived from the fact that the only entrance is at the end of a long, dirty alley. People seemed to be eying us and one girl asked why Karl’s sister why she was with all of these hipsters. I found the comment odd as we were dressed in athletic shorts and tee-shirts. Perhaps the method of determining our hipster status in Indiana was based on our lack of body mass.  We sipped on Miller lites with Nascars on the bottle. Having deposited our bottles into the trash—much to the horror of GD and his Canadian sensibilities, Indianapolis does not have recycling—we ventured off towards the next bar, and then another. Before I knew it, I was back at Karl’s asleep on the porch after another night of rage.

We should have applied

GD woke up at 3am. What on earth is that beeping noise, he pondered. Slowly emerging from his bed on the couch, GD stumbled his way to the alarm system keypad. Two buttons were glowing, one red and one green. But which one to press to put an end to this incessant beeping? Well, most red buttons mean power down, he concluded, and decided tol press that one. The beeping suddenly turned into a loud siren.

Karl sprung from his bed. The alarm has gone off. Someone must have broken into the house. He emerged from his room, fists clenched. Storming down the stairs, he saw a figure skulking in the shadows. Without hesitation or thought, he charged at the intruder and slugged him right across the jaw. The intruder crumbled to the ground. Karl calmed himself down, turned on the lights, and discovered GD in a heap on the floor.