The aftermath.

My car was not, in fact, at Charles' house.

It was at the Ranch. Way out on Central.

As I discovered after walking the three miles back to Charles' house.

Curtis drove us home. I don't remember meeting Curtis. In fact, I don't remember anything from the time I ordered a drink around 1h15 in the leather bar 'til I found myself walking home walking home from Charles' at around 3 or 4 AM. Two hours: total blank. Extremely scary. I absolutely don't remember spending the last of my money, nor the fight in the parking lot (which thankfully I was not a part of), nor Charles asking whether I had my laptop in my car, nor getting into Curtis' car, nor riding home. I just remember being at Charles' and not wanting to sleep in the parlour because of the mice and my preference not to contract hantavirus and walking home shortly thereafter.

Needless to say, I spent most of yesterday walking and chasing the bus. Never a terribly pleasant way to spend a hot summer day when you're wearing all black. Utterly ridiculous.

So: what was the mistake? Several. Started out too early -- we were at the Ranch by nine. Of course Charles never leaves 'til after last call, so that's five hours instead of a mere two or three you'll want to be standing around with a drink in your hand. The place was extremely busy. Started out with too many red bulls already in me. Then drank a couple more with vodka, and finally switched to martinis with gin. Any time I wind up at the Ranch drinking martinis it seems I wind up spending the next day retrieving my car. Ridiculous. But they're actually pretty damn good martinis. Way better than you should ever expect to find in a cowboy bar in Albuquerque. But of course you have to drink them pretty fast while still keeping something in your hands, and -- bingo. Disaster.