You hear knocking. Insistent; and, well, quite annoying. You open your eyes and try to peer through the haze that fills your brain. It's cloudy outside, and your cornea's are seared by even that amount light.
Shit . . . you think as you take stock of yourself. You seem to be in one piece at least, aside from the hangover which has obviously annihilated the majority of your brain cells.
You then notice your cramped bed. A telephone booth. The knocking has escalated to an earthquake of thundering, your telephone booth home shakes about.
Someone really needs to make a call.
You get up and brush yourself off, even though the booth seems clean. Apparently it's just a reflex when getting up off the ground.