You’re pretty sure you know what death feels like.
You were smack in the middle of it.
You can’t open your eyes – breathing hurts your lungs – even your hair is throbbing.
All you can do is lay in bed – and throw up – and go back to bed.
You will never be normal again.
It seemed like a great idea – the night before.
But you’re wondering – what happened?
Friday night – party. Friend’s parents out for the night.
You and fifty others – something in a large punchbowl.
Somebody said Tidy Bowl – it was blue – it was sweet, and you don’t remember much after five minutes.
How did you wind up at home, in your own bed?
With your clothes on.
Your clothes – what’s left of them.
Can’t think – can’t move – can’t swallow.
Opening your eyes feels like lifting weights.
No hope for you.
Sun blazes across and burns your face.
Roll over on a big slab of wet.
Struggle. Fall out of bed and land on the floor.
It’s tempting to lie there communicating with dust bunnies and dirty socks.
You finally pick yourself up and stagger in the direction of the bedroom door.
It’s the mirror that calls you out. Adjusting your eyes to the creature on the other side, staring hopelessly back.
Wearing a brassiere.
How?
Shirt ripped – big blue blotches and last nights hummus smeared all over – pants look like you landed in someone’s pool.
Those red things – they’re eyes, aren’t they?
Dying of thirst. How did you wind up wearing a bra?
Trying to focus on the doorknob. Twist it and stumble out.
Mom a few feet away wearing rubber gloves and carrying a mop. Staring holes right through you, launching a preemptive strike on your soul and anything that smells of freedom. She says nothing.
No defense, and no voice either. Barely enough room to clear your throat.
She points in the direction of the bathroom. Like a Cocker Spaniel that took a big dump in the living room, you stagger down the hall and climb into the shower.
It takes you the better part of a half-hour to figure out how to take the bra off. Clearly, your social skills are going to need an introduction.
The water feels great but the stream is painful; drops hitting your head like a staple gun.
Standing under the shower you slowly come around, gulping water and jump starting your brain.
You’re finally in some condition to step out of the shower and dry off, thinking all the time how you’re going to get out of what’s coming next.
You’re starving. You’re pretty sure you got rid of everything you ate the night before and probably the night before that and the year before that.
Peanut Butter came to mind. Finally dressed and feeling moderately human, you made it to the kitchen and slathered two unsuspecting slices of bread with Skippy and a glass of milk. You figured no harm could come from those two food groups.
You were sitting in the dining room when Mom came in and pulled up a chair across from you.
She asked if you had fun last night. It’s a trick question.
She proceeded to read a litany of things you were reported to have done, as observed by your friends who spared no details but who thought you were a riot.
Did a face-plant in the punch bowl and almost drowned, but managed to suck about a quart of Punch between gasps. Demolished a China cabinet. Attempted to make out with three girls who punched you and quickly left. Tried picking a fight with one of the stereo speakers. Friend restrained you from punching a hole in it while Warm Leatherette was playing at max volume. Raided your friends parents bedroom – stole his mom’s bra out of her lingerie drawer and was looking for panties when you got stopped. Passed out in the bushes in the backyard. Recovered long enough to zero in on the girl from school you had designs on but never had the nerve to talk to. Made a loud and dramatic confession before you started weeping, saying you’re pathetic and a total loser – way out of your league. You were seen attempting a very poor and sloppy kiss and got slapped silly for your bungled overture.
While this blow-by-blow description of morbid shenanigans was being blasted at you, you were sinking lower and lower in your chair until you were hoping you could sink in a hole under the table and disappear.
And you had Monday to look forward to. Maybe you could just drop out of school or transfer some school where nobody knew you.
The hangover wasn’t bothering you nearly as much as the embarrassing things you did that you had no memory of.
So given the horrific account of your party behavior and the promise of being grounded for the better part of the eleventh and twelfth grade. Not to mention your dad chiming in, promptly cutting off your allowance until the year 2000. Your life was pretty much over. You fully realized what the term Blackout meant.
So instead of being paralyzed from alcohol poisoning, you were then gripped by a massive depression. And all you wanted to do was crawl back to bed and hope it was a bad dream.
Your room reeked of Lysol when you came back. All the sheets and blankets were pulled off – the room was swept clean.
Just a bare mattress with a gigantic piss stain greeted you. You collapsed onto the bed, turned on your radio and laid on your side, staring at the wall, vowing never to get that drunk again and never drink anything colored Blue.And for sure, no sweet drinks.
For at least a month.
And while you’re busy trying to forget things, here’s an hour’s worth of Frazer Smith from KROQ on October 6, 1978.
