December, 1995. The morning after the final party I hosted at 2028 1st St., Tucson, Arizona.
I wake up, a shambling mockery of a man. Eventually I stumble outside, into the back yard-- now a wasteland of broken glass. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of beer bottles are shattered, obviously thrown against the side of the garage. I'm moving out of the house in about two days, and now my hungover self faces the delicate task of making sure all the shattered glass goes with me.
A friend calls, to make sure I haven't expired from alcohol poisoning. "Who did this?" I croak. "Who? Why?"
"You told them to," she answers. "You told them the best way to get rid of empties was to throw them against the wall."