The ringing phone startles me awake

I Fell Down Some Stairs

The ringing phone startles me awake. I find myself lying on the bathroom floor, in my underpants, comforter over my head. The cold tile helps to calm my queasy stomach but I need the comforter to keep the rest of me warm. It’s 11am and work is calling, I’m late by a half hour.

“Hello” I croak, surprised my voice still works. It’s my co worker Jason making sure I didn’t oversleep. “I got drunk and fell down some stairs,” I whisper. He lets out a huge belly laugh and I’m forced to pull the phone away from my ear afraid the sound might shatter my brain. Holding the receiver right up to my mouth I grumble “I’m not coming in today”

“Are you okay?” he says with concern.

“I have to let you go, I’m gonna puke” I quickly shut my phone and put it down where I won’t puke on it.

I had stared out the previous evening with every intention of being well-behaved, having a little fun, but responsibly. I had managed, by being broke, to miss every one of my co worker Greg’s band’s shows. This show was free and I hadn’t gone out in awhile, it was on my way home from work and right across from the train station four stops from my apartment. There was no excuse not to go.

I walked in to find a table full of my co workers, a PBR in front of each of them. I got a little nervous but figured without a red cent to my name and a negative balance on my debit card, it should be easy to keep from drinking. As soon as I sat down though, the trouble began.

“What are you drinking tonight Katherine?”

“Oh nothing”

“Come on, have a drink!”

“No I’m not drinking, I’m broke.”

It was the wrong sentence to use. That’s what I usually say when I want someone to buy me beer. What I should have said and never did even after this fatal error was, “I’m not drinking tonight.” I guess I forgot to tell myself that even though I had to be at work the next morning at 10:30am that I wanted to, just a little bit, get drunk.

Almost everyone at the table was smoking. I repeat over and over to myself that I don’t want a cigarette. As I watch each sensuous drag in, the glow of the hots brighter as that delicious cloud of smoke fills every inch of their lungs pushing its way back out through their lips and nostrils, the smoke slowly crawling around their heads like long agile limbs of a lover. I feel my heart swell with longing but I hold my ground and dare not ask to bum one. The watered down PBR moves past my lips and down my throat, washing away any resolve to not smoke. I break down and as sweetly as I can ask Jeff to please roll me a cigarette. We laugh and joke and with every head toss back in laughter I bring my beer up to meet my eager lips. Before I can even finish one can another is placed in front of me. I’m having a good time but as soon as the band comes on and it becomes to loud to speak to each other I am no longer being occupied. My eyes move over the bar. I check out everybody checking each other out. The sounds of the bar are silenced by the noise in my head. My vision grows darker. I am faced with my own loneliness and boredom and I’m drunk, an alarming amalgam. I text message an old boyfriend. He seems disinterested and would rather watch point break. It’s the best thing that could have happened really. I had been spared from falling into old mistakes.

After the show everyone wants to go to this bar Kristina’s, the scene of my last debaucherous night out. I went there after a Christmas party to meet some friends. Someone had left me a copious amount of cocaine by the sink in the bathroom and since I didn’t have a cigarette pack cellophane to keep the left over amount in, I safely stored all it up my nose. Upon remembering this I prevail over my drunken mentality and make the responsible decision to go home.

I stumbled across the street and pushed my way through the train station doors as I hear my train go by. I let out a low groan of frustration as I made my way up the treacherous stairs to the platform. It was a cold night, a few degrees below freezing. Under the heat lamps I try in desperation to keep warm. A girl, about my age, tries to do the same. She starts up some chit chat about the weather, speaking with a sing songy hipster accent, and because I’m drunk I fall face first into a conversation. She tells me here name is Janine and invites me to a party just off the Logan Square stop. “That’s my stop!” And just like that, I follow her up the street and then four flights of stairs to this party. In the kitchen is a keg and everyone is issued a red plastic cup. It’s late into the night, the party is packed, and the beer is from the bottom of the keg, mostly foam, tasting as if someone had already drank it. It makes my stomach rumble but I tell it to SHUT UP! And drink on.

I fit in right away and am excited to find that most everyone is in their mid 20s and at that awkward “I just graduated from college, now what?” stage. I moved from the kitchen to the living room, sat down on the sofa and started talking to the kid I happened to sit next to. During the conversation my stomach starts to rumble and my cheeks fill with spit. I know what’s coming next. I excuse myself to use the rest room and promptly place myself at the end of the line. After just a few short moments I know I can’t wait any longer. I have to get out of here! I don’t want to be the weird girl at the party, “Who’s that girl puking on the floor?” “I don’t know I didn’t invite her!” I move now as if on cruise control, with a vague command of my body. Only seconds after walking out of the apartment, projectile vomit. I go down the stairs anyway puking out in front of myself. My heel catches the thick part of a puddle and slides out from under me. Legs shoot out in front of me. For a moment I hang in the air free falling. Still on cruise control I make no attempt to grasp for anything. No attempt to break my fall. I can almost hear my body whistle through the air as it comes down hard on the wooden stairs with all the force of my drunken weight. Boom! A sharp pain quickly makes its way from the top of my ass crack, up my spine, fading somewhere in the middle of my back. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The sound of my ass hitting every stair. Swirling around me, just light and color, sound and shape have gone out of focus, pushed away by the searing pain that no longer fades at the middle of my back but now makes it way all the way to the tips of my fingers and toes. Sliding across the landing, feet still outstretched in front of me. Slam! I hit the wall and finally stop. I sit there stunned. Pushing my self back on my feet I make way, griping the banister tight, down the rest of the stairs. The front door is ajar, letting in the cold crisp air. I ease myself onto the bottom step. Even through my drunkenness I can feel the pain and know, sadly, that if it hurts this much now, it’s going to really suck tomorrow. Two girls emerge from the party. I hear their voices echo through the stairwell. There’s a clamor, a loud thud, “Oh shit!” I feel awful knowing that they’re slipping in my puke. BOOM! I recognize the sound of an ass making its way down a flight of stairs.

“Are you okay?” one girl calls from the top of the stairs.

“Awww shit!” the fallen girl groans “I can’t afford to break another rib.”

Another rib!? I let out a laugh but quickly cover my mouth to stifle it. Her friend comes down, helps her up and they make their way down together. “I almost slipped in the same spot” I slur almost bursting with laughter. They push past me and out the front door.

The door opens again and the noise from the party fills the empty stairwell but is cut off as the door slams closed. Someone making their way down the stairs slips “Shit! It’s all wet” a boy says as he catches his fall. As he reaches the last flight I press myself against the wall to let him pass.

“Is this your scarf?” he points to the red scarf under the collar of his brown leather blazer. I stare intensely at the scarf hoping for a glimmer of recognition. Filling through my brain I come across a picture of a red scarf bought at the dollar store down the street from my apartment. I concentrate on the scarf with more intensity. Could it be? Yes, it is the same red scarf.

“Ahh…umm… actually it is mine” I mumble.

“Here ya go, I was gonna take it.”

In one quick tug down with his left hand he pulls the scarf from around his neck. I lift my cumbersome arm and accept my scarf. He squeezes his way past me and out the front door. I feel around myself. I’ve got my coat, my cell phone, my bag and everything in it, including the roll of toilet paper I stole from the bathroom. Now I have my scarf back. I pull myself up slowly and in pain. Instead of walking out the front door, I walked back up the stairs. Back to the party! Surly I smelled like puke but I couldn’t tell. I find my beer cup and fill it with water at the kitchen sink. I go into the bathroom, where now of course there is no line for, and wash my hands with shampoo because I can’t find any hand soap. I can’t smell it but keep thinking to myself “I have to smell like puke!” I find Janine in the front room dancing to some sort of ass grinding house music. Fucking Chicago. I try to dance but am soon reminded of my soar back. All the jiggling around makes me nauseous. Some guy comes up behind me and starts grinding in my general direction. I try to match his rhythm but start to waiver.

“Are you alright?” he says with fear rather than concern.

Just as I’m about to fall over Janine grabs me. Not to catch me but to invite me to another party. I look behind her and see 3 guys, one of whom looks like a total douche bag. I ask where it’s at and even though I know I must smell like puke I consider it as we walk out of the apartment. I hope as we make it past the first step that no one slips in my vomit. To my relief no one does. When we get outside and I realize just how close I am to home I excuse myself. “Aww don’t be an adult!” Janine whines. It’s too late. I’ve already stumbled across the street, narrowly escaping an even worse fate than already suffered.

Safely at home in my apartment I am only conscious long enough to make and eat the chicken noodle soup that I will vomit up until 2 in the afternoon the next day. Setting the bowl of soup on a foot stool at the edge of my bed, using it as a make shift table. I shovel the soup into my mouth, hunched over, eating as if someone is going to steal it from me. I become exhausted and with half a bowl of soup left I fall back into my bed, fully clothed, shoes still on. Not only did I miss work but I narrowly escaped death, well at least it felt that way. I spent the whole morning between intervals of clutching the toilet bowl and then laying on the cold tile floor. With every shallow breath that I was sure would be my last I vowed to myself that I would NEVER drink again. I didn’t for almost a month and even then it was with much reservation. When I finally felt sure stomached enough to stay out of the bathroom longer than 5 minutes I smell the pants I had been wearing and yes, they did smell of puke. The rest of the day and into the evening are spent in bed watching TV, weak and sore. I felt like a jerk every time I tried to sit down or roll over in bed and a searing pain shot up my back. But then I’d think about the girl who was afraid of breaking ANOTHER rib and I’d crack up with laughter.