Why is this dude passed out on my fucking couch?

Here's the thing about living right uptown from all the bars in a college town: drunk people will abuse your house. In several ways...

First of all, when you're in college, "the world is your toilet." (I think I saw that as a bumper sticker once.) But after long nights of drinking and even longer walks back from the bars, people just LOVED to use my backyard to relieve themselves. Guys AND gals.

Now, the cool thing about my house was the roof. But what SUCKED was that when I moved in, the landlord specifically told me, "Never go out on the roof. You know...for insurance reasons."

Yeah right. Like telling a child not to eat the cookies.

So I'm sitting out on my roof one night. It's about 2 AM and I'm watching my fellow partygoers stumble out of the bars. I see a guy come towards my back yard in a zig-zag fashion. Boy, this dude was wasted. He huddled into the corner, unzipped and broke the seal. But when I looked at his t-shirt, I noticed the logo of a familiar highschool.

Holy shit - that's my friend Jordan! We went to highschool together 4 years ago!

Ha! I guess Jordan forgot that my house was the one whose lawn now spelled out his initials. So, I figured I'd have some fun with him...

"Hey man, nice stream," I complimented.

"What the..." he said as he looked up.

"Hey Jordan, what's up? Did you forget that I lived here?"

"Aw shit man, my bad. I totally forgot this was your house. Sorry."

"No that's cool, pee away! Everyone else does."

Hey, it was a harmless mistake. We all make them. And I forgave Jordan. But a few months later, something happened that wasn't quite as forgivable.

It was about 3:30 AM. I stumbled in through the back door after a long night of bar hopping. When I entered the living room I noticed my front door was wide open.

Hmmm...that's odd. Must've been the wind. Oh well.

I closed the door and headed upstairs. But before I got very far I noticed my roomate was passed out on the couch. So I thought, what the hell - I'm gonna go mess with him...

"Pssst! Kevin? How you feelin' dude?"

No answer.

I walked into the dark room and came closer to my unconcscious friend. It REEKED of Vodka. "Dude, are you alive?" I joked.

But it was no joke. Because when I looked over at his face, I realized that the guy passed out on my couch...was not my roomate Kevin.

What...the...fuck...?

His lifeless hand hung over the edge of the couch, covered in bar stamps. His wrist donned 3 different colored "over 21" bands. And his shirt was stained with, what I assume was a combination of vomit, Popov and Syline Chili.

I tapped him on the shoulder. Psst! Dude! Wake up!

Nothing.

"Hey! HEY! Can you hear me? WAKE UP!" I yelled as I continued to poke him.

The guy didn't move.

Shit.

By that time it was getting close to 4:00 AM. I was tired. And there was a complete stranger who had walked right into my house and passed out on the couch. So I continued to poke at the guy in various places: head, shoulder, chest, arm...but nothing. He still wouldn't wake up!

At that point it started to get kinda funny. Well, I thought, I guess I could just leave a note for this guy. After all, it's not THAT big a deal. And I don't wanna press charges or anything.

I ran upstairs and grabbed a piece of printer paper. I drafted a note which read:

"Dude, you don't live here. Please leave when you wake up. Thanks."

I came back down with a roll of duck tape and the letter. I started fastening it to his shirt when I realized, wait a minute. What the fuck am I doing? This is stupid. I'm not going to bed with this on my conscience.

I ended up calling 911 to report a drunken intruder.

"Yeah, but I'm not trying press charges or anything. Just come over and get this kid outta here please," I told the dispatch.

45 seconds later the cops walked in the front door. The shined their flashlights on the kids face and began yelling at him.

He didn't budge.

Then they started shaking his arm.

He didn't budge.

"Yeah, I think this dude's REALLY wasted. I've been trying to wake him up for 15 minutes."

So the cop took the base of his flashlight and started JAMMING it into the kid's breast bone. Oooh! That's gotta hurt, I thought.

He quickly sat up on the couch, looked around the room with half open eyes and began drunkingly spitting out his personal information to the cops...

"456-44-0011"

"101 East Chestnut"

"August 4th, 1979"

"SIR? Do you know where you are?" the cop asked.

"I'm at Sarah's house. 101 East Chestnut," he mumbled.

"Dude, do I fuckin' look like Sarah?!" I yelled.

He tried to stand up, but the cops held him under his armpits for balance.

"Please get this guy out of my house. Don't press charges or anything, but get rid of him."

"Sorry about this sir," the cop said. "We'll take him home immediately."

As the cops (and the intruder) walked out onto my front porch, I heard one of the officers say, "So your name is Grant Narrin, huh? Well sir, it's time to take you home."

Later that week I did some research on the school's student database. I typed in "Grant Narrin," and nothing came up. I asked around, and nobody had heard of him. The cops also said that he wasn't a student at the university. So I unfortunately NEVER found out who that guy was.

SO...if anyone knows a guy named Grant Narrin, let me know. Because that dude owes me an apology.

---

THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM STUFF I'VE DONE

Never live down the street from bars.