I puked on the shoes of my idol

I used to wait for the school bus at the corner of Marden Road and the Elmira Road. A black Ford Galaxie would swing around that corner every morning with a great cacaphony of squealing tires and squalling dual exhausts. The guy behind the wheel and behind this ruckus had one arm hanging out the window and a ciggy hanging off his lips. To my fourteen year old sensibilities, he was the epitome of cool. Fast forward five years. My idol is now my co-worker at General Electric. He's got a little bungalow on a country road fifteen minutes from the plant. He's also got a couple of kids and a wife and a truly awesome drinking regimin. We played on the same rec league hockey team where it was standard practice to drink on the way to the rink, in the dressing room, and on the bench. The general consensus was you couldn't actually do game time with a drink in your hand, but anything else was fair game. I found that quite an adventure given that our ice time was 8:oo o'clock Sunday morning. Buddy had a billiard table in the basement of that bungalow, where we shot pool and drank beer all night and pissed in the laundry sink. Life was good! Fast forward another ten years. I've graduated the Homewood Health Centre's world famous addiction treatment program. Twice! You wouldn't believe the famous names that have passed through that joint, but I digress. I've got a nice house on a fine street a half block from Exhibition Park. I've got a university professor on one side, a mafia boss on the other, and an othodontist across the street. One summer day I heard through the grapevine that Buddy was on a team at a softball tournament going on at Exhibition Park. Figured I'd walk over and check it out, and maybe hook up with my old pal. Found him in the beer tent, of all places. His team had already been eliminated, so we sat in the beer tent catching up for a few hours. I was a bit out of practice, and found myself getting whoozey. Whoozey to the point that I had misgivings about the approximately 300 yard wobble home. What if I had to puke out my guts in front of the professors house? Mafia bosses and orthodontists don't exactly smile on that kind of shit either. So after bidding farewell, I ducked under the table for a half second and puked all over the shoes of my idol. Walked away refreshed and rejuvenated. Don't know that Buddy ever noticed.