by Medusa
© 2001 B. Howard, all rights reserved
Miller Light and a Dixie cup. I was thirteen, and he was twenty-six. I shared my cigarettes, he shared his beer (when the grown-ups weren't looking). I refused to share anything else (while the grown-ups weren't looking) and he fell down the stairs. We played badminton in the dark until everyone over the age of twenty-one passed out, and then finished off the beer. At dawn, we raided the liquor closet to find something to get the rank taste out of our mouths. We did. I got caught. I still don't know who told. My mother confiscated my cigarettes and sent me to my room to "Think About What You've Done".
Jim Beam and Wild Berry wine cooler chasers. And the bathtub. The guy who convinced me that "a warm bath will make you feel better" was elected to wash the effects of his advice out of my hair. He carried me, my alcohol poisoning, and my degradation to bed and promised that I wouldn't die. I didn't believe that for three days afterward.
Pepe and George. I danced with a middle aged Mexican and stepped on his feet. I apologized repeatedly for scuffing his shiny black shoes and he said "Si. Tequila!" I danced like a flamingo on acid and fell down. I tried to steal an Arizona cactus but exchanged my prize for a shot of tequila and a bottle of Irish beer. A virgin-looking fellow with more beard than face kissed me and I laughed at him.
Rolling Rock. I wanted to run barefoot in the rain through the graveyard. I insisted on driving myself home, though I did allow my friend to ride along and make sure I got home all right. He rode in the driver's seat.He tucked me in, and walked home while I slept it off. I still don't know where those socks are.
I made friends, I met fools. I made sex and kicked tail. I laughed, and cried. I flirted with ecstasy and felt like hell. I've made memories, real ones. Some I am glad I can't remember. Over a decade later, technically, I'm still grounded. I am sitting in my room, in my apartment, Thinking About What I've Done.
Smiling.
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