No, it’s not Gatorade or a good night’s sleep or tempering your booze with water the night before or any other of those fucking “Don’t drink so much” solutions. This is a real deal cure. It doesn’t just kill the pain either. It makes you a perfectly normal human being who can do physical activities and solve tricky math puzzles the exact same way you would if you hadn’t had a drop last night.

Compazine is used to control severe nausea and vomiting. It is also used to treat symptoms of the mental disorder schizophrenia and is occasionally prescribed for anxiety. Compazine may cause involuntary muscle spasms and twitches in the face and body. This condition may be permanent.

“Yes, I’ll split another bottle. My own? You bet.”

It was cheap champagne, but it was free, and I was so shitty at that point I couldn’t feel my hands, let alone discern good booze from bad. The combination of Glenfiddich, Jagermeister, tequila shots, multiple espressos and the shitty pot we’d bought from the wait staff rendered me walking unconscious. Bulletproof. Champagne was just something to swill to keep the lips wet. There was an iced case of it untouched from the wedding. If we didn’t kill it, it would go to waste.

The last thing I recall was somebody yelling, “Lets open them all… everybody gets a bottle!”

Morning came like an upper cut to the jaw. There are hangovers that come on strong and leave after you vomit. There are hangovers that creep in slowly and catch you in the late afternoon. And there are hangovers, usually involving cheap champagne, that make you pray for death. Every system in my body was in shock. I couldn’t breath from the cigarettes. I couldn’t hear from the ringing in my ears. The room was still spinning and my heart was pounding from a combination of early withdrawal, espresso and dehydration. When I tried to move, I felt the reverse parystaltic lurch of my stomach and throat muscles trying to dry heave stomach acid into my mouth. In a history of heavy weekend drinking beginning when David Lee Roth was still a legitimate rock star, this was the worst hangover I had ever had. I’d come to expect pain after a wedding, but this was beyond any previous experience. We had a four hour ride home. I was certain I’d die on the way.

About two hours into the ride, I couldn’t take it anymore. Each bump, each turn, each stop, started an attack of the dry heaves.

“We have to stop somewhere,” I coughed, barely holding down the ginger ale I’d had for breakfast, which was all I could keep down. I knew I should have eaten, but the mere concept of entering a crowded restaurant on a Sunday morning, of listening to waitresses clanging plates and watching children dart about, chased by mothers barking “get back here RIGHT NOW” made me wretch.

“Let’s stop at my brother’s house. We’ll get some food and say hi and you can lie down,” Lilly said in the best comforting tone she could muster.

My then-girlfriend’s brother was a general practitioner. I figured I was in luck. He’d probably have some decent food and a place to rest for a few hours before finishing the journey home. Maybe he’d even have a few prescription painkillers to slip me. I generally shun painkillers, prescription or over the counter, but this was an exception. It was just that bad.

Her brother recognized my dire situation as soon as we arrived. “I should admit you for an IV,” he laughed, leading me into the kitchen. Before I knew it, he was pouring huge horse pills into his hand.

“Here, try this. It’s called Compazine,” he pressed the pills into my palm. “It’s an anti anxiety and anti nausea med. I think it’s also got a muscle relaxer in there. Great drug. The hospital gives it to schizophrenics and cancer patient for chemotherapy sickness.” He gave me a dozen or so pills. “This is the only hangover cure I know of. If this doesn’t cure the hangover, nothing will,” he laughed. “But make sure you eat something with it. It’s a pretty strong–”

“How long ’til it works?” I cut him off, gulping the pill down with a glass of Gatorade.

“I don’t know. It affects everybody differently,” he shrugged.

He was right about the drug being a hangover cure. By the time we reached home, my nausea had abated and I was well enough to go running. The drug was amazing. All the jitters, the anxiety, the rapid heart rate, the stomach knots, the spinning, the delirium… all gone. The amazing thing about it was, unlike other drugs which merely cure the physical ailments associated with a hangover, this stuff also killed the mental exhaustion and inability to focus that followed a day of intense boozing. After a half horse pill of Compazine, I felt as calm as I would sitting on a secluded beach with a head full of margaritas.

Back at the office on Monday, I received the following email:

“________, I am in Minneapolis through Friday. You have to handle the motion in Carter. Get the file from Janet.”

The Carter Matter was a hotly contested dispute between factions of directors of a sizable company. The adversaries could not even be in the same room with each other. During previous court appearances, we had to physically restrain one of our clients from attacking one of the plaintiffs. It was the sort of case where the court doesn’t even bother to ask about the possibility of mediation and motions seeking discovery sanctions are filed by both sides weekly. I had to handle a partial summary judgment motion against our client seeking immediate turnover of $250,000.00.

Court opened at 9:00 and I was second on the motion list. I took the Compazine at 8:30, figuring it would kick in just as my opponent was arguing, when I needed maximum concentration. The motion before us settled, so we took the floor early.

My opponent was “Franklin,” but everybody calls him Frank behind his back. Obviously, everybody called him Frank or Frankie his whole life. Until he became a lawyer. Now he insists on being called by his full formal name. Nobody in law is “Chuck,” “Pete,” “Bill,” “Dick” or “Tony.” Everybody insists on full, clumsy monikers. “Excuse me, its Allejandro, not Al.” If that weren’t pompous enough, some insist on signing everything, including their credit card receipts, with a middle initial as well, as though they’d inherited an English Title.

I got lucky. Franklin’s argument was awful. He cited about 900 disputed facts in support of a motion for summary judgment — a motion which by definition can only be granted where no disputed facts exist. Every statement he made raised another disputed fact which he claimed proved my client had materially breached an agreement. He was rambling, enraptured with the sound of his own booming voice, completely oblivious to the fact that he was making an argument against his motion. Franklin presented the finest possible argument for why his client was not entitled to summary judgment — why this case had to go to a jury. I was amazed at my good fortune. I stared at the one note on my yellow legal pad “issues of fact preclude summary judgment.” Toward the end of his argument, Franklin asked the court for a moment to review some notes in front of him before concluding. As he flipped through the papers on the table in front of him, he turned and flashed me a sarcastic smile. I smiled politely in return. The man’s an imbecile. He’s criminally stupid.

About this time, the Compazine really started to take hold. I realized that I was leaning backwards in the leather defendant’s chair in a sloth-like position almost parallel to the floor. My feet were splayed apart and my legs felt numb. I reached for the water pitcher and found my arms were rubberized. Fuuuuuck. This stuff has me by the balls. Luckily, I didn’t panic — because I couldn’t panic. The higher functioning portions of my brain were in full overdrive, but the adrenaline receptors were off. How do I handle this? I’m going to fall down when its my turn to argue! I can’t feel my feet! My neck can’t support my head! Despite this fear gripping my brain, I felt myself sinking lower and ever more comfortably into the black leather chair. This… is… the… most comfortable chair… ever. If I was in fight or flight mode, I didn’t feel it, and I sure as hell didn’t look it. During Franklin’s conclusion, where he machine gunned my client with a litany of cheap, irrelevant shots, the judge glanced in my direction, inviting me to object. I just smiled. I couldn’t do anything else. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth, I wouldn’t be able to shut it. I pushed my tongue against the roof of my mouth to make sure I could feel it.

Half was more than enough. What the hell was I thinking?

When my rebuttal time finally came, I stood as quickly as possible, to gird against any appearance of sluggishness. The room turned pink and fuzzy, as though I were viewing it through a thick red gauze. The initial sensation was something akin to a mild nitrous oxide high. “Nooowwww weeeee’ll heeaarr frommmmmm youuuuu, Mr. _____________.” The room was running in slow motion. All sounds and movements were drawn out, as though the courtroom were a videotape running a shade too slow. For a split second, I grappled with the concept that I was addressing the Court regarding complicated contract theories, at $250.00 an hour, before a room full of my peers, on a head full of pills. They must realize I’m high. Those fuzzy pink bastards.

Then I started to speak.

I’ve never nailed an argument the way I nailed that one. “Your honor, I heard nothing but disputed facts from the movant. That’s an odd way to request summary judgment.” I then attacked each of Franklin’s factual allegations ripping them to ribbons with contradictory evidence. I even addressed them in order of weakness, ending on a high note, slamming his biggest lie before sitting down. There were none of the usual synaptic misfires, where I’d decide mid sentence that I didn’t like the sound of a phrase, and restart my point differently. There were none of the usual demons running around in my head, questioning every argument before I made it. I was omniscient. I knew what the judge wanted to hear, and those were the only points allowed to cross my lips. The best part of it was the delivery. I’d normally make such an argument in a very impassioned White Shoe tone, haughtily scolding my opponent for misrepresenting the facts. But on the Compazine, I was James Bond. I delivered the argument as though I were relating a witty anecdote at a bar, a glass of scotch cradled in my hand. When you look that loose and calm, even if you’re not 100% right on the law, you will almost always get the win. When you’re also right on the law, you can decimate the opponent.

Franklin didn’t even venture a reply. He stood, buttoned his jacket and snipped, “Your honor, I made my points. Counsel has not shown why the relief should not be granted. My clients are entitled to the relief sought.” His client didn’t even stick around to hear the ruling.

Franklin shook my hand. “Nice show, counselor.”

“Well, even a blind squirrel finds an acorn now and again,” I graciously offered.

Franklin didn’t wait to hear me congratulate him on his effort. He was only interested in hearing his own words, and making sure I heard him refer to my performance as a “show” rather than an honest win.

I sank back into the chair and reorganized my papers. Damn, this feels nice. So comfortable. Maybe I should go home. I can mail it in for the rest of the week now. Maybe stop and get some new CDs on the way. I need to burn a new mix disc for running. Maybe stop and rent some movies. Do I have dry cleaning to pick up?…

“Mr. ______, Mr. _______!” The cute little Latin clerk was shaking me.

“Huh?”

“The judge is hearing the next motion. You’re in counsel’s seat,” she barked.

I looked over my shoulder. The entire courtroom was staring at me. There was a group of peeved lawyers holding exhibit cases glaring at me.

“Oh, yeh. Right. We’re in court.”

Definitely a half next time.

-THE PHILADELPHIA LAWYER

More bourgeois Animal House stories like this in his hilarious book Happy Hour is for Amateurs.

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