—
TO THEIR CREDIT, I was dropped off exactly where I asked to be and given a bump of grade-A shit. The front of my shirt was slick. The sidewalk felt dented. When I tried to stand up out of the car, my knees caved.
“Don’t blame yourself, Carlos,” I said. I felt in control as I consoled him. “I made some bad choices, you are not to blame.”
Carlos and his cousin sped off sharply, squealing, and I leaned against a wall. I watched a couple walk out of their way to distance themselves from me and I laughed at how bad my shirt smelled. I dug into my purse and it was soaking wet. I shook beer off my phone and it miraculously clicked on.
Hi, Simone, I texted. It’s Tess.
Hi!!!
You said we could talk.
I’m outside actually. If that’s ok.
I am going to ring the bell probably cause you’re not responding.
Oh look whose bike I see!
Hi Jake!!!
Maybe you can just ask him to talk to me, cause I know he’s there.
I’m sorry. I know it’s late for you. You’re old.
I’m not mad about France. No big d.
We got in a stupid fight, but it wasn’t that much.
Simone!!!
I’m going to ring the bell again, I’m warning you.
Ok, no one is answering, I’m going home.
Tell Jake I’m sorry and I hate him, whatever order you want.
I’m sorry that was me again, I know you’re home.
I see his motherfucking bike.
France hurts my feelings.
I’m leaving.
Also, I’m sorry the restaurant closed. I care a lot. Too.
Simone, if you’re good at this job, what exactly are you good at?
—
I REMEMBER the sickly green Heineken light in the window of Sophie’s. I remember the bathroom, my hand slipping every time I tried to cut a line. I remember my eyes in the mirror. I remember the coke spilling into the sink. I remember the back of my thigh being pinched between the trash can and the wall when I was pushed against it. I remember someone’s tongue, not being able to breathe. I remember my cheek on exfoliated concrete. The rest is a blessed darkness.
—
THE FIRST TIME I woke up was a false alarm. My skin registered clothing, and I reached into my jeans pocket where I kept pills and broke off another piece of the Xanibar and swallowed it. There was a glass of water next to the bed, but I didn’t surface enough to reach for it.
When I woke up again it was to a sunset I didn’t deserve. Not just me, no one could deserve it except newborns, the untarnished, the language-less. I stayed perfectly still and the ceiling was violet. I searched myself for signs of pain, for the inevitable headache. All seemed calm. I took a bigger breath, preparing my body to sit up. My ceiling pinked and blushed. The windows were wide open. The wind had wrecked every book, shirt, or slip of paper. It was freezing.
I moved my neck first, craned it, looking down. My jeans were on. My Converse were off, but my ankle socks were on, evidence of an outside presence. I didn’t remember getting to my bed or to my apartment. I sat up a bit more.
From my tailbone the shame started and with it came prongs of pain up my spine until it hit the base of my skull. I looked reluctantly at my shirt and moaned. The vomit had dried but the blood was still damp in spots on my breasts and at the collar. It had already dried and rusted out on the pillowcases. I touched my nose and flakes of blood came back on my fingers. There was a note safety-pinned to my shirt: “Please text me so I know you’re alive, Your Roommate, Jesse.” I patted the bed for my phone. It was dead and there were beer droplets inside the screen. Movement made me ill. I ran to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and threw up. There wasn’t much of anything left. Just extraordinarily gratifying dry heaves. My first real thought was, Shit, what time am I in today?
—
IF I AM QUALIFIED to give advice on anything, it is probably a hangover. Advil, marijuana, and greasy breakfast sandwiches from the bodegas do not work. Don’t listen to chefs—they will have you drinking five-day-old beef stock or reheated menudo or pickle brine or wolfing down bags of White Castle burgers at five a.m. Mistakes, all of them.
Xanax, Vicodin, or their opiate/Benzedrine cousins, Gatorade, Tums, and beer do work. Dirty Dancing, The Princess Bride, Clueless. They work. Bagels sometimes work, but not with anything on them besides cream cheese. You think you want lox, but you don’t. You think you want bacon, but you don’t. Salt will promote your headache. You think you want Ritalin, Adderall, meth, any kind of speed. You don’t. You’re fucked for at least six hours, so the goal is to numb out.
Toast works. Before you leave for your night out, leave yourself bread, a big bottle of your preferred color of Gatorade, a handful of prescription drugs, and a note with an emergency contact. I had none of these things.
—
SOMEWHERE IN the middle of the night, as I watched old DVDs of Sex and the City on my beaten-up laptop, my lids barely qualifying as open, my hangover transitioned into a fever. I was irritated that my computer screen was shaking, until I realized that it was on my stomach—I was so hot that I kept throwing off my sheets, my clothes, but the shaking was me, shivering.
Initially my sheets were stiff, my skin brittle. I touched my forehead and the sweat released. My pillows were wet. Then the heat rose again, chasing me. I couldn’t catch my breath. I searched the apartment but there wasn’t anything, not even Advil.
I put my winter coat over my pajamas and hid my head under a wool cap. I thought of Mrs. Neely when I was on the stairs, clutching the railing, talking to myself. It wasn’t that cold when I got outside. Sweat was running down my sides and from my hairline. The bodega was two doors away, but I couldn’t get there standing up straight.
“It’s you!” the Pakistani owner said.
“Hello.” I held myself in the door frame. He and I had developed a fondness for each other over the months.
“You remember me last night?” He came out from behind the bulletproof glass.
“No, sir, I do not.”
“You need to be more careful. It’s not safe for young girls like you.”
“I’m sick, sir.”
“You’re all red in the face.”
“Yes, I’m sick.” I rolled through a wave of nausea. “I need medicine.”
“You need rest. You can’t live like this.”
“I have no intention of living like this much longer.” He didn’t understand me. “I will rest, I promise, I promise.”
My vision faded, browning. I got scared and sat down on a stack of New York Times. I heard myself making sounds like crying, but there were no tears on my face, just sweat at my temples, behind my ears. He had his hand on my back.
“Can I call someone?”
“Please, I just need medicine. I have a fever and I’m alone. I need stuff like what a mom would get.”
He called out into the back and his wife came out. She looked at me like I was a criminal. He talked to her in another language and I took pauses between each breath, reassuring myself that I was still alive. The wife made her way around the store: Advil, water, a box of saltines, two apples, tea, a can of lentil soup. She pulled down a bottle of liquid NyQuil, assessed me, and put it back. She came over with the individually packaged capsules instead.
“Only two,” she said.
“Your girls are good girls. He’s so proud of them,” I said to her. He had shown me photos of them many times. The eldest was in high school in Queens, applying to Ivy League colleges. I couldn’t take her pity when she handed me the bag of items with no charge. I accepted because I hadn’t brought my wallet.