I went out to get stupid drunk but got sick before I reached nirvana. While I was puking my guts out, I thought perhaps through pain and a rawness of throat I didn’t think possible and a thudding in my head that felt like someone was trying to get out of my skull, I would reach some mindfulness or clarity.
I was in a side street where the city fathers had preserved the original cobblestones laid down in eighteen something. Sure there were some replacements and in between retching, trying to find my silver lining, and defining what would be clarity for me I spotted the impostor 21st century replacements.
Every time I saw one I got pissed off and every time my knee rolled off an old cobblestone I wondered if the men (no women allowed in eighteen something) who laid those cobblestones ever thought I’d be here filling the cracks with puke.
Her finger nails dug into my underarm on purpose. She knew what she was doing, that tender spot just below my armpit and above my elbow. When she had her grip on my arm firmly placed she didn’t squeeze. She got a thin portion of my skin between her long nails and pinched. I wanted to pee.
Hissing in my ear she informed me I was a well-dressed drunken slob and if I didn’t want to be arrested for PI and to call my mother in the morning, then I was to get up and follow her.
I got up and followed as best I could but even in my discomfort I confessed a strange gratitude that she had not let go of my throbbing arm. We walked for forever but in reality we walked just around the block. She steered me past parked cars and a darkened street and down some stairs.
She lived in one of those artist basements; studio apartments with tiny sinks and water conserving toilets. With a sense that the placed had capacity humanity on Fridays and Saturdays, I walked carefully and quietly. I could hear loud moans from behind one door as we passed it and fought the urge to giggle.
“Should we call for help?” I was trying to make a joke, but she just glared at me so I shut up.
She kept the lights out and I heard the shower. I let her undress me down to my birthday suit and I didn’t care.
“What’s her name?” she asked.
“Don’t remember.” I mumbled.
“Not worth pickling your liver for.”
“Says you.”
I was sure that the shower would be ice cold, but it wasn’t; it wasn’t warm either. I’m sure she used a wire brush on me but she kept saying it wasn’t.
“Do you think I’m handsome?”
“Stunning.”
“Do you know my mother?”
“No.”
I wanted to ask her why she saved me but I didn’t; I was so exhausted.
The lights were still off when she asked if I wanted a bed-time story before I fell asleep. I felt a little soberer and shook my head no.
“Feeling better?” she whispered
“Yes,” and I felt a chill and remembered wet cobblestones and forgotten times and no women and the need I felt that emanated from her when she smiled. The gleam of her sharp, white, pointed teeth did not bring me any clarity.