The Morning After

I woke up. I know I’m awake, because as I lie here on the couch with my eyes shut and my head throbbing, I can feel strings of shredded skin hanging from the roof of my mouth and draped over my fetid sandpaper tongue. Last night, the pizza guy told my coworkers and I, that the pies were still hot as lava, but we didn’t care. I was hungry. We were all hungry, and no one heeded his obligatory warning. As soon as he left, we ripped open the grease-soaked cardboard boxes, and greedily stuffed our faces. Our grunts and squeals of delight sounded carnal, as we chewed, licked and swallowed. Our fizzing brain cells were starved for something more than psychedelic revelations and sardonic musings. What’s better than a hot, gooey pizza, when your stomach reminds you that you forgot to eat lunch that day, and after work, fed it only hops and barley and a few other sweet indulgences?

My eyes won’t open. They are glued shut somehow. I’m impressed with my bodily syrup, having created its own super glue. I reach out my left hand and grope around. I need water. A bottle of it was here last night, or maybe it was a beer. It doesn’t matter; I need something to unstick my eyelids. 

The pizza I ate had pepperoni and veggies on it, including sliced tomatoes. It was a boiling hot tomato that melded itself to my upper palate. I know that I’m not the only one who was attacked by scalding pizza. I recall hearing a few naughty words from someone—something like, “Sonofabitch that hurt my fuckin’ lip!” I think that must have been George. He drank most of a bottle of Stoli, then shaved off his bushy facial hair, including his eyebrows. His freshly naked face probably has a blister or two, this morning. Someone else, a woman, called out, “Oh mommy, mommy it’s so goooood,” or some such declaration. I don’t know who she was, but I can feel the dead weight of someone’s smooth leg draped over my stomach. Maybe it was her. I wonder if her eyes are glued shut, too. 

Yesterday was Friday, and it was my birthday. At work, someone started the whole birthday thing about a year ago. I don’t know why, because none of us like each other very much. I mean, we get along most of the time, but we aren’t actual friends. Someone, probably obnoxious, over-achieving Veronica, started it. It was supposed to be a cake, a card signed by all, and some balloons. On a couple of occasions, like yesterday, we went for a beer at the local pub down the street after work. This time, unfortunately, the party ended up at my apartment. I’m guessing it’s because I’m not married, nor do I have a significant other, or any pets. I have a plant; a tree, actually, and sometimes I remember to water it. I hope no one pissed on my tree last night. It may be neglected, but if anyone’s gonna piss on it, it should be me. Anyway, apparently my place is a good place to crash.

One of my co-workers, Jimmy, or was it Johnny, decided it would be funny to bring his beer bong to our impromptu party. Having never tried it before, I discovered I could miraculously drink an entire can of beer in about five seconds. Five or six cans later, I was becoming a pro. Jimmy or Johnny also brought marijuana, another brilliant mistake. I now understand what “munchies” are. My cheese-grated pie hole is a shining example of munchies gone wrong. 

The air smells sticky and in need of antiperspirant. I wonder how many of my new friends are still here? I hear a toilet flush in the bathroom down the hall, and someone is knocking around in the kitchen. I want to say something, but my mouth feels and tastes like rotten tomato paste. My brain is jangling with a painful clamor of last night’s music. I hear snare drums, tambourines and a theremin. The Beach Boys need to shut up in there, with their good fucking vibrations. It’s not helping.

Sucking on my mouth fringe some more, I try to pluck off each strand of flesh with my tongue. My arm is still hovering and wandering about, feeling for the coffee table that is supposed to be right here. Maybe someone moved it. I can’t imagine what my apartment must look like, right now. On a normal day, I have one or two piles of laundry on the couch, ready to be folded. The dishes in the apartment are always in a holding pattern—the dirty ones on the counter are waiting for the sink dishes to be washed and put in the drying rack; the clean dishes in the rack are waiting to be put into the cupboard, and the various bowls and plates scattered throughout the apartment, are waiting to be found and put on the counter. It’s a ceaseless cycle that only ends when I plan for company. Last night, I didn’t plan for company. I can only imagine the chaos I will find, after I regain my ability to see. I’m wondering if I should just crawl to my bed, and go back to sleep. 

The mysterious leg is beginning to move and stretch. I can feel its foot working its way toward my chest. I’m not a foot person, so whatever is happening here, needs to stop. I don’t want my first sight of the day to be a dirty, cracked, bare foot with toenail fungus. Not that this particular foot has those issues; my bleary mind is assuming the worst. I’m sure it’s a very lovely foot. However, it’s a sign that I must take action. I lean my upper body to the left, and sweep my searching arm back and forth. My fingers finally touch something cold and smooth. Aha! I lift a can and jiggle it. Liquid sloshes, and I can’t hear any cigarette butts clunking around. Without hesitation, I take a mouthful, swish it, and swallow. Stale beer—it’ll do. I immediately pour it over my crusty, gummy eyes, drop the can, and rub. Squish squish squish blink blink blink. Open.