That night was a blur. At sixteen, I got my first experience of what it’s like to be missing gasp of time.
First I was doing shots of tequila in a park with my girlfriend, and two other guys. Lets give them some fun names. We’ll call my girlfriend at the time Froggie, because she was cute and spoke French. (That’s right, Al. Your sister finally makes her first appearance in my blog.) Then there were my two male friends, The Farmer, and Lying Psycho.
After a few shots each, Froggie and the Farmer went their separate ways to get home, while Lying Psycho and I staggered over to Spike’s house to harass him for a bit in our semi-drunk states.
It seemed that our inebriated behavior was a little off-putting for the then-square-and-studious Spike. (After high-school, Spike would turn out to be quite the drunken bastard himself.) At some point, Lying Psycho somehow convinced me that drinking an entire 2-litre bottle of Bavarian Cooler would be a good idea, and in my frame of mind, I was in no position to object, so I drank it all. Then Spike kicked our worthless butts out of his home.
I don’t really remember getting home, but somehow I got there, with Lying Psycho in tow, or perhaps I was the one in tow. We laughed about stuff in my basement – according to a later testimony I was putting dirty in my mouth and laughing about it, but this came from Lying Psycho, whom as the name might suggest, is both a liar and a psycho. At least he was as long as I knew him. You know, some people juggle, other people go tiger hunting in bikinis. Lying psycho’s thing is to sleep with other people’s girlfriends, and pull knives on children on Halloween.
Aw crap, I think I have to add that one to the list. Well, I’m not sure. I don’t really know who the kid was. He was just some ten-year-old trick-or-treater who was making fun of a bunch of us for being such old trick-or-treaters, and Lying Psycho, (who wasn’t even wearing a costume – rather he put on a button that read “this IS my costume,” which my mother gave him), thought he’d teach him a lesson by pulling a switchblade on him. The kid looked like he was about to shit his pants. I started yelling at him. I think this is the moment I realized I’d befriended a total loser, perhaps because I was actually sober. Maybe Lying Psycho should make his own list. That would be a very long one.
Okay, so back to the night of drunken stupidness. I have a recollection of being in the bathroom, trying to vomit in the toilet and failing miserably. Not the vomiting part – that part I seemed to have down pat. Getting it in the toilet is another story. I think I must’ve got my puke everywhere but the toilet. After a few good heaves, I no longer had the power to balance, and kept slipping in it – and my vomit was red, red as the Bavarian Cooler was when I’d downed it sometime before.
My father managed to get me to unlock the door, and with Lying Psycho’s help, they got me up the stairs and into the tub to be washed off. I have perhaps ten seconds of memory of all of this. FLASH: Vomiting FLASH: Bathtub WAKE UP!
I awoke at about five in the morning, hyper-alert and hungry as hell.
The next morning my father asked me how I was feeling, and I said I was fine. He told me the hangover would probably last twelve hours, but I didn’t even wake up with one. I had actually thrown up beyond a hangover. My body had expunged everything, so there wasn’t any alcohol left for it to process.
To this day I can’t stand the taste of Bavarian Cooler, or vodka for that matter. My body still seems to associate it with being sick.
But my dad – he wasn’t even mad. At first he asked Lying Psycho what was wrong with me, though he naturally denied all knowledge. My dad wasn’t mad. He said it’s okay to do this once; I didn’t know any better. But I’d better as hell not do it again.
Well, I wasn’t the one who cleaned up the mess, and I don’t imagine it was a fun job, so I feel like I owe him a little for this, though who knows, maybe he made Lying Psycho clean it up.