Fear

From the archives. Edited for clarity but not for content (names of people and places changed to protect my secret agent status):


One time I went dancing with my friends (the roommates, the boys) Matt, Peter, and Luke. Peter had gone to his own version of great lengths to get appropriate attire for the dancing. I own two suits. I was helping him dress with the patience of great nannies everywhere, and he offered me some of Matt's Adirol. I accepted the offer after a spell of token kvetching. I've got issues with speedy drugs. Matt has many uses for it, my guess is that it helps solidify his character arc primarily.


We are out, having acquired Helen from across the hall, and she's driving with Peter sitting shotgun: the delusional navigating the stubborn. It's raining pretty hard. I am oblivious to how much I am talking. Peter wants disco. He does not know where to find it. We travel. I suggest that we head over to the Snackbar, which ain't exactly disco, but you've got to really try to walk out of there having not committed at least two or three biblical atrocities. Once inside, I'm dying for a drink, and beeline the fuck to the bar, letting everyone else decide what the they're doing. They've decided to leave.

Peter is starting to get quite upset that the plans that he hardly manifested are not coming through. I request that we stop off at the nearest liquor store so that I can buy two little airplane bottles of gin (if this is how the night is headed, nothing will stand in the way of my getting drunk, especially being that I'm not driving for once!). After much more quarreling, we're off to Celebrity Underpants, which is the sort of nightclub that is so far off my map that I could keep a fantastic disdain for it all my life, which I do. Walking up to the club, I kill both bottles. I dance a little, I drink a lot more. The club closes.

We're all clumped under the awning at my favorite taqueria, barely avoiding the rain. There's more of us now, and I'm not sure how that happened. The voices inside me are demanding that I go to the 7-11. The guy inside has barricaded the door, and I really can't blame him. I didn't even know what the voices wanted me to get.

I'm standing at an intersection in a residential neighborhood. I have no idea how I got there. It's raining harder than ever. I begin to freak the hell out. I blacked out and got myself about five blocks away from all of my friends. I start running, and so does my head... to nowhere good of course. My underlying fear of abandonment surfaces and harpoons what's left of my good sense. I'm finally standing in front of everyone, crying and shaking, but imperceptibly as it turns out, due to my drunken state and the rain that has soaked every inch of me and my good suit. Nobody flinched when I came back. I apparently left saying that I'd be back in ten minutes. I was.

Recalling this all to Matt, he casually informs me that one should exercise caution when mixing Adirol and alcohol, as you probably won't realize how drunk you've gotten yourself until it's too late.