VOMITORIUM

Fri|07.19

you've gone to the dogs again and I'm not placing bets on you coming home tonight anything but blind

Ben's van, parked somewhere. Neither Mena nor I know where we are. We suspect Florida. We're pretty high. They've told us twice, maybe three times, where we are. Some creek. It feels so far away.

Mena's in the front with Ben, and I'm in the back with Dooley. We've been drinking Tanqueray and grapefruit juice for hours, hours, and smoking dope, and I hear things, and Mena is doing some coke with Ben and every so often Mena and I look at each other and crack up.

We are just such a mess. "Where are we?" I whisper to her. "Floooorida," she whispers back. It feels so true. It's not true.

"Come into the back," Dooley says. There's a bed there, against the window. I'm waiting until 16 to have sex, that's what I decided at 12. No special reason. That doesn't stop him from trying, bless his heart. He thinks he's gonna change my mind.

I can't lie down without spinning. I prop myself up against the window, unable to get more prone than that without being sick.

"Air," I say into his ear, then push past him. "Air."

But there's no way out, what a big vehicle, no doors? No.

Mena looks back at me.

"Air," I tell her. "Air."

She tells me later that she was seeing little devils jump up and down on the hood of the van. Right then, though, she screams.

There's something outside, around us, and I begin a chant.

the cops are here the cops are here the cops are here the cops are here the cops are here

Dooley is next to me now, trying to reassure me, Ben turns around to stare. He's never liked me.

the cops are here the cops are here the cops are here the cops are here the cops are here

"Hey, shut her up."

Dooley is on it, he hands me a drink that I ignore and he rubs my legs. "There aren't any cops, no one is here. See the road? It's the only way in, see it?"

His voice is dim and far away, I lower mine since it's bothering them so much but I can't stop saying it the cops are here the cops are here and finally Ben starts up the van and we go.

Oh. Much better. I get Mena to roll down her window and I gulp in air.

They let Mena and me out a block from our houses and we hold onto each other and stagger home.

Drops fall from the sky and we try to run but have some problems, then start laughing, then get wet but make it to our houses. It's pouring now. I pull down the heavy garage door, I'm the last one in so I lock it with a thick steel bar and stand there, so drunk. So unbelievably drunk.

Inside the house, say hey to my parents, who are still up, go directly to my room. Change into the long t-shirt that I sleep in, and then know without a doubt that I'm going to throw up. My brother is in the bathroom and I can't wait, I open the kitchen door and go through the garage and out the back door onto the patio into the pounding rain and retch over and over. I've never been so sick. I've never felt this way, ever, and I throw up for a long time and I stand in the rain and dimly I think that it's good that it's raining, it will all wash away and no one will know, and when I feel a bit better I walk back inside, and my mother looks at me, wet from head to toe in my nightshirt, and says, "Where were you?" and I mutter, "Just making sure it was locked," and gesture toward the garage.

"The garage door?"

I nod and head toward my room.

"But you're all WET."

I keep nodding and close my door. She doesn't investigate further.

when will you realise that as above so below there is no love

Blue Oyster Cult playing a bar under their code name Soft White Underbelly so we pile into a car and go. It's Christmastime, home from college, hanging with neighborhood friends Emmy and Elle, and Elle's new boyfriend, whom she will later marry. She's pregnant, but doesn't know it. So am I. Neither do I.

Emmy and I plan on drinking very much a lot. We hate being home, it freaks us out. We avoid people from high school, cringe while passing old haunts, but we love it, too. Our families, our mall, the streets we wandered, the old party places.

We go for walks at night to smoke and talk. Emmy often has a small bottle with her, and we take hits along the way.

Elle still lives here, and she shares the dirt. Who's dead, married, pregnant, jailed. Nose jobs, mall jobs, blow jobs, Elle knows all. This new guy is from a different state, he's stationed here. Later, we'll discuss whether he's good enough for Elle.

Emmy and I jostle our way to a spot at the bar and have several shots, beers, while Elle stands next to her man, sipping a white Russian.

I bum a smoke from the guy next to me and he looks familiar. His name is Levi. "Levi Drammock?" I ask, and in my miiind I'm back in time, thumbing through my brother's yearbook staring at Levi Drammock for long minutes, knowing that this was the coolest name that had ever run beneath my fingers. Levi Drammock. He was cute, but it was those words that got me. Levi. Drammock. I made up his life while touching his small square black name, and inserted depth and a haunted sense of loss into his grainy eyes.

It must be fate, him standing here next to me. Fate. Levi Drammock, whose face I had memorized years ago. "Are you related to Elaine Drammock? We went to school together," I say, knowing full well what they are.

"Yeah, cousins," he says, and turns away.

Hmmmph. Not fate for him, apparently.

I try a few more times with no luck.

Emmy nudges me and I follow her finger and it's pointing at Ron and Jon from high school and they laugh and say hey.

Heyyyyy.

But they're not cool, they call Emmy their old name for her under their breath and it's so rude that we snub them like Levi just did me, and the band starts, and I snake my way close to the stage.

I'M BURNIN I'M BURNIN I'M BURNIN FOR YOU

We make it home, Elle's sober boyfriend driving. Emmy and I drape our arms around each other in the back seat, drunk as fuck.

"Not feeling so good," one of us whispers.

I throw up that night. I throw up the next morning.

It's Sunday, and my niece is being christened. It's cold, still, and there's static in my hair and in my clothes and I hate winter, and the outside world reeks of car exhaust. Snow crunches under our feet. I struggle to keep things down. Breathe, just breathe.

Breathe.

I leave in the middle of the service and walk around the block. I'm just so sick. I haven't been hungover like this in a long time. Was I really that drunk?

No, I realize later that night, as I shiver and ache. I have the flu. I have it for three days. I throw up a lot.

Soon I get better, I guess, although I still feel queasy and nauseous. I'm not sure why. I don't think it's the flu anymore, it can't be.

I get on a Greyhound, and I go back to Boston. Break is over.

until that's true you'll find your things all stacked out on the landing, surprise, surprise

My brother and Mena, in the front seat of my parents' station wagon, me in the back seat, sprawled out. We're drunk, Mena and me. Coming back from youth group at my church.

I'm fine, just buzzed, but Mena drank way too much. It's snowing, it's been snowing all day and night, and it's quiet and cold and beautiful with a little wind, just a little. Nice and dark outside.

We're one of the only cars out in this weather. Jay drives carefully, but with confidence. He's a good driver. He can drive a tractor trailer, an 18-wheeler, he knows how. He just chooses not to. The eight-track is playing The Cars.

"Life's the same, moving in stereo," I sing softly, wishing I could hear my voice singing into a fan. That's what this song reminds me of, summertime, singing into the fan for the voice-altering effect.

"Jay, I'm sick," Mena says. "You gotta pull over."

"There's no shoulder," Jay says, annoyed, and keeps driving.

"I'm gonna puke, I'm gonna puke!" Mena says, and opens the door. We're still moving. Jay slows down and we begin to slide. Mena's head is out the door and she is vomiting onto the road as the car spins slowly and my brother shifts into neutral and pumps the brake lightly but we're not stopping, and Mena finishes, pulls the door closed, and we hit a mailbox.

"Aw, shit," Jay mutters, and tries to back up. We're stuck in the snowbank. The mailbox is tilted, and he gets out to look at the car. It's fine. But we're stuck, and he wants us out of there before anyone inside notices how we hit their mailbox.

He instructs Mena to hit the gas as he pushes.

"Get your ass out here and help, Cee!" he growls at me through the open door, and I roll my eyes and move like I'm going to do that, yes sir here I come sir, but I'm faking it. Luckily the car moves before I can get out there, and we're off again.

"Thanks for all your help," he says over his shoulder.

I push down the flash of annoyance and concentrate on the song.

"Your long black hair, it tickles my skin-skin," I whisper with the music, and look at the snow falling.

"Oh no," Mena says, and next thing her head is out the door again.

If that was me, my brother would probably push me out of the car, but it's Mena and she's gorgeous plus no relation. So he's nice to her. He stops in the middle of the road, no one is coming anyway, and pats her back. I don't listen to her because it will make me throw up too, I know this from experience.

I roll down my window on the other side of the car. It's like I'm alone and it's nice. It can seem perfect sometimes, the air. The night.

Mena collects herself, and we go on, pull into our driveway. Say good night.

and you will see that what's wrong with me is wrong with everyone that you want to play your little games on

Sun|07.14

The vomit chronicles continue. Just letting you know. About the vomit.

The people who'd arrived with me in San Francisco were drifting on to other places, other homes. After a week, Brenda and I were the only two from our bus trip left in the hostel, and we shared a room.

She was a drinker, I'd discovered. Kind of a secret drinker. She had to be drinking more than wine coolers, which was the type of bottle that was always in her hand, because she got mean, and slurred her words, by the end of the night.

WINE coolers?? It was baffling. Maybe I was a snob; maybe it WAS possible to be all fucked up only on wine coolers. But I just couldn't buy that.

I suspected her of having a secret stash of something stronger that she added to the coolers, or maybe drank in addition to. I was all about suspecting things.

I didn't actually realize about the drinking until late one morning, after a week had gone by at the hostel. I put it together by looking back. Every stop we made on the bus, she stocked up on alcohol. But it was her own, unlike the rest of the people who went in on a bunch of beer that they would drink together at night. She stayed in the back, sipping on wine coolers.

It explained her mood changes. And it explained the vomit in the bathtub that morning in the hostel. I stared at it in disbelief, gagged, ran out, fanned my face. Damn.

She had taken a shower before me, and was gone by the time I'd stepped out of bed. I had spent most of my night with James, and had slept in that morning.

So now, if I wanted to shower, which I really really did, I had to clean the puke out of the bathtub.

I hate other people's messes. Fucking clean up your own shit. ARGH. Plus like, me and puke don't get along. I'm very suggestible. But I wanted to shower and get the hell out of there for the day. I turned on the water and let it run. The puke was pink and reeked of sickly sweet alcohol, and it was chunky. Why, I didn't know. I moved the nozzle around to get all of it washed down the drain. I left the room and let the water do its thing.

Fucking addicts. I mean, hello. Did you not NOTICE that you puked in the bathtub? Did this escape your attention somehow? Am I your maid? Is this good for my feet, is that why you left it? WELL THANK YOU! THANK YOU VERY MUCH!

There was no cleanser or anything similar under the sink. Oooh, air freshener. I sprayed it into the tub, hoping it had some kind of freaky cleaning ability that went along with the WICKED FRESH smell.

The water washed it down. The water washed it all down.

Okay, fine. On with the day.

some day boy you'll reap what you've sown you'll catch a cold and you'll be on your own

Sat|07.13

This a chronicle of vomit. Reading it is up to you.

It was hard to get up. It is most days. I lounge in bed, listening to the radio, until I have 30 minutes left to get ready for work, which is what I need. Sometimes I leave myself 20 minutes, sometimes 10. Sometimes I get up when I should be leaving. Most days I'm not even tired, I'm just resisting, procrastinating.

That's not the case on Friday. Friday I'm exhausted and still dreaming while I shower, dress, feed the cat. I hope no one talks to me today. I hope no one wakes me up.

It's cooler outside, nice. I get to wear my jacket, yay.

I choose a single seat on the left side, old trolley, filled with tourists going to Fisherman's Wharf. I look out the window. Hibernia Bank, still chickenwired, boarded up, falling apart. A beautiful building. Something needs to happen there. Robert Goulet's picture on a marquee, South Pacific, end of July. He looks tired. Jaunty but tired.

The men playing chess by the Payless near Powell, some standing around watching, some talking, to themselves or others, the crowd spreading out, unruly for a morning.

A young punk catches my eye. He's early twenties, tall, solid, good looking. Is he really a punk? The back of his leather coat advertises GG Allin and it doesn't look homemade. Do they sell them that way now, say, at Macy's? He's half-listening to an old bearded man who is gesturing madly. He steps away from the old man, looking bored. He's dark, his eyes, features. As he walks closer to the sidewalk I see that his short mohawk is not just orange, but is pink and orange and purple.

Good looking kid, I think, in my father's voice. He spits. Ew. Still, despite the spitting. HES A GOOD LOOKING KID IS WHAT IM TRYING TO SAY. He spits again, and spittle hangs from his chin.

Just as I think, wipe your chin, he steps off the sidewalk, opens his mouth, and orange vomit gushes forth like liquid sun. Except gross. He doesn't even bend over. He's a fountain of vomit.

I can't look away fast enough, I've seen it. It replays in my mind like a film loop, him stepping off the curb, the burst of bright bright PUKE. I fight my gag reflex and try to concentrate on the people in my train, I look at braided hair and someone's shirt and then the shoes a few people away. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

I cover my mouth. I can't stop gagging. I breathe deeply through my nose, my mouth still covered by my hand. Tears are filling my eyes. Throwing up is not an option. I swallow again and again and concentrate on air, fresh air. Someone's face. Other thoughts. I keep it at bay.

Just before my stop I feel safe enough to let go of my face and Jesus Christ. WHY do I look out windows.

It's a question for the ages.

Okay, maybe not. But still.