Drunk in a Field

Can’t quite tell if it’s dusk or dawn. All I know is that I’m really drunk and really bad at telling the time. Wishing I had a watch right now—or a phone. How about a functioning conscious? I think my liver is giving me the middle finger. Oh, sweet Jesus. Here comes the flood. Yeah, my jaw just unhinged, and I sprayed a bunch of bodily fluids into the tall grass around me. Now that I think about it, “sweet Jesus” was probably not as appropriate as “sweet Noah” would’ve been. He was the one who did that thing with the boat and the animals, right? He saved them from a flood—oh God here we go again (yeah, the flood is back). I’m currently dying in the middle of a field from alcohol poisoning. You had a good run. It’s time to give up. My stomach is churning, my eyes are spinning, and my muscles are quivering—not the best line up if you ask me. I think my liver already died. Bye bud, I’ll miss all the times I used you responsibly. Not the time you gave me Hepatitis, though. That was a dick move. I think my brain is trying to die too. I-I’m having difficulty remembering—it’s all a haze. A dark haze. A nebulous cloud shrouding everything I ever once loved or knew—wait—I remember some calculus. Damnit, I knew calculus would never help me out in the real world. What am I supposed to do now? Calculate the area under the curve of my projectile vomiting? Big whoop. 

No. Ignore the math. There’s a face. I’m trying to envision it, but my brain just can’t piece it together. That’s depressing. I’m literally out here dying and I’m too drunk to even see my life flash before my eyes. This is really how I’m going out, huh?  I expected something a little more-more… I don’t even know how I wanted to go out. I don’t even remember who I am. Maybe after I’m done showering this grass with regurgitated vodka, I should put more thought into that. Or, I could just lay down and give into death—that’s sounding like the plan right now. No—that face—it’s coming back. Who? Who is it? I really wish I knew—or remembered for that matter. While I think about this, my legs decide standing is no longer an option. I guess my body is deciding my fate now because I’m immobilized with my face in a puddle of my own vomit. The face in my mind dissolves away as my heart begins to panic—my face is half submerged in alcoholic throw-up. Breathing heavily, I ensure that I inhale through my mouth, exhale through my nose. Bubbles may be fun for a kid, but when you’re blowing bubbles of puke out your nose, you fail to see the fun. New objective: don’t throw-up. I definitely can’t risk contributing to this puddle or else my face will be completely drowned. There is no more strength to move—I can’t get out of the puddle. 

This foul-smelling odor twists my stomach into knots, and the pungent taste of whatever it was I ate infused with various alcoholic beverages is gagging me. I’m longing for that face to return—it gave me some peace. Now look at me. I’m about to die in a field—not by alcohol poisoning—but from suffocating in my own puke puddle. Good one, Nathan. Wait. Who the hell is Nathan? He’s not the face—the face resembles someone feminine. Could it… could it be me? Who knows? Right now, that is the least of my concerns. I’m really just trying not to die the way I am currently dying. Can’t some ravenous wolf just come and rip me apart or something? That would be so much better than choking on vomit. Something nudges my limp leg—something wet. Accompanied with that, is a snarl and bark. No! I didn’t actually mean I wanted to be eaten by a wolf! What kind of cruel joke are you playing, God? Is it because I said “sweet Jesus” instead of “sweet Noah” before mentioning a flood? That’s a pretty shitty reason to kill me. Well, the wolf is now sinking its teeth into my leg. It hurts. I panic. 

Trying to squirm, my face completely submerges into the vomit. Yet, I am still unable to move—I breath in unsuccessfully. Instead of rich air, I get a sweltering burn in my lungs as they gorge with tangy throw-up. Yeah, that’s just what I wanted. It doesn’t feel too nice on the eyes either. As I’m sputtering and hacking, I manage to get my head above the surface and re-vomit the vomit out both my mouth and nose. The wolf yanks at my leg and my head splashes back under. God is really just teasing me at this point. He’s probably up there broadcasting: How Will He Die? The gameshow where the viewers try to decide how the helpless human will meet his demise! On today’s episode, we try to figure out whether Nathan will die from drowning in his own barf or from being torn apart by a hungry wolf. Wait. Nathan. That name again. I think it’s mine. Damnit, I can’t actually think about one thing for very long because now the animal is dragging me across the field. I have to say, this actually does beat drowning in my own puke. Not looking forward to the feast, though. I think I’m on the menu. 

Look at me go. I’m a winner for sure. No energy to move or fight back. After a couple minutes, my leg drops—I’m on my stomach so I still can’t look at my wolf friend face to face. Thanks to the silence, I’m getting really anxious. At this point, I’m hoping the wolf just crunches down on my neck, rendering me painless because—let me tell you—I am in so much pain. Oh, okay. There’s a wet tickle on my cheek, and the wolf nudges my head to the side. Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me. This ravenous “wolf” I’ve been screaming about is actually a German Sheppard—a good boy. For once, I’m at peace. Subsequently, that face starts to come back. There’s more detail this time… I… wait. This dog. It belongs to the woman I’m thinking of. Currently, my head is pounding and I’m not sure if it is from the alcohol, almost suffocating, or all this trouble with my memory—probably all of the above. I mean, come on. Was that really a question? I’m still drunk. 

This dog keeps looking at me.  There’s now a clear picture of this girl in my head, but all I can remember is this dog is hers. Let me think about all the things I do know. As of now, I know: my name is Nathan; I am in a field; I am drunk; and the girl I keep thinking about owns a German Sheppard that saved me from dying—it also definitely left scars in my leg. I still can’t tell how I got here; where this field is; and whether or not it is dusk or dawn. It has gotten darker, but I can’t tell if that’s just me fading out of this world or not. I kind of wish I could just die already. Do I really want to live with the embarrassment of almost drowning in a puddle of my own vomit? Yeah, no. This dog is still looking at me. I beg it to kill me, but it just cocks it head and sits down. Next, I try to bargain with it, telling the dog that if he does kill me, he will have a lot of food. I might still have enough alcohol in my system so he can get tipsy. I don’t think it worked. The dog just started to whimper and laid down. 

All I can think about is death and that girl. Yes, it’s not the most ideal combination of things to be floating in my headspace, but I’m drunk so you can’t judge me. I can hear the noise of crickets chirping as well as the croak of a distant frog. Well, forget all that. Now my eardrums are being violently assaulted as the loud roar of some machine screams overhead. Of course. The dog just had to start barking too. I didn’t appreciate the blinding light much, either. Maybe it’s God. Maybe my time is here—wait no, it’s a helicopter. Now I’m being lifted and… God damnit I’m not wearing any pants.

…  

So, give or take a couple days and you have me sleeping in a hospital bed. Tired? Check. Restored memory? Check. Destroyed liver? Check. Also, I did need stitches in my leg—thanks dog. His name is Rufus, actually (but I just call him Roofie). Next to my bed is that girl I kept thinking about: Jessica. Good ol’ Nathan and Jessica—the high school Prom King and Queen. See how that turned out. Once I arrived in the hospital, being air-lifted from that field, Jessica’s dad came in and tried to choke me out—I spit in his eye. That made him even more upset (naturally). He tipped my bed over and I vomited all over the floor then passed out for 36 hours. When I woke up, Jessica was there to fill me in on my drunk escapades. Apparently, after coming home from Prom, we got incredibly drunk in her bedroom. You know how things go. She took off my pants—things were getting steamy. Nevertheless, you can’t expect much when the parents are home because dad barged in, and what did he see? His daughter naked (yeah, that wasn’t sending good signals), me without pants, and a shit-ton of alcohol. My response? I hastily snatched a couple bottles of vodka and jumped out the window. 

From there, I became lost. Jessica claimed during my intoxication, townspeople reported that I let some chickens loose, tipped a cow, and vandalized a school bus (you know, with the lovely male genitalia). I guess no one actually tried to control me because I was missing for 16 hours and was only sighted doing those three things. Luckily, my pal Rufus (Roofies) was able to sniff me out, helping EMS find me. So, yeah. Fun times. I’m not allowed back in Jessica’s house—her dad really wants to kill me. That’s fine, I guess. You know what Jessica’s dad? Middle fingers to you, I didn’t learn a thing. 

that’s a lie, i learned a lot. i’m sorry. please let me be with jessica.