hey, hey, my, my

I drank myself into oblivion last night. Much like every other night. This one differed slightly. I woke up with my arms wrapped around some lady.

She was blonde. Kind of fat, but not old fat as there weren’t any stretch marks or weird discolored patches. I’d guess 24 or so. She smelled like cheap beer and so did I. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, seeing clearly that I’d brought her to my place, not me to hers.

My head hurt. Badly. Not a dull ache, but a full-on bizarre feeling of agony. For some reason, Neil Young’s “Hey, hey, my, my” echoes in my head. A random moment that will never be explained.

Feeling woozy, I get out of bed. Thankfully, I have my boxers on. Scurrying about trying to find underwear in a funk with some stranger laying on your bed is not something to take lightly.

Making my way to the bathroom, the puke comes. I didn’t think I was going to purge last night’s excesses, but apparently, the body had other thoughts. I see from what comes up that I must have had some kind of chili-based product. It’s never really “food” when you put chili on top of it. From Lucky Dogs to Sheetz fries, bad things come with chili on top.

I find a t-shirt strewn about on the floor. Not a hard thing to do in this place as I tend to just chuck them everywhere. Same with shorts. And socks. Have I mentioned I’m not a very clean person? I go outside into the sun. It feels nice on my face. A welcome relief from the horror that will unfold in a few minutes or hours, whenever the creature in my bed comes to life. I scan the driveway. No other cars. That means I have to give her a ride somewhere or pay for a cab. Disappointment swells. No chance of her sneaking out while I’m showering later.

I go back inside, open the fridge. A half-drank pint glass of beer sits on the shelf. I love it when I do something like that. I never drink them, but my drunken mind believes that it is something worth saving. I take out the glass and take a sip. It’s cold, but flat. I pour the rest out. The 20-year-old me sighs somewhere. But fuck that guy, he ain’t coming back to give me the power of strong erections and long, flowing locks of hair. I reach back into the fridge and pull out a bottle of Amber. I pop the top and take a long swig. It feels right – getting drunk before I go back into the bedroom. Soon, I’m six beers in. I feel good with a buzz now. The day’s getting better.

Instinctively, I climb back into bed. I take off all clothes right before doing so. I spoon with this overweight princess that I have no idea who she is. I get a hard on. It’s nice. I fall asleep.

A few hours later, I have this overwhelming feeling, so I open my eyes. She’s staring at me.

“Hi!” she says way too cheerily.

“Hello, darlin’,” I say. Don’t know why I said darlin’, it just seemed to fit.

“I had a great time last night,” she smiles while she says that. It’s that kind of smile, implying impure thoughts. She’s obviously a bit of a shy gal. Ha.

“Me too,” I lie. Not that I didn’t have a great time, because waking up next to a naked woman implies a good time. But I simply don’t remember. Never will. If I end up marrying this girl, which won’t happen, she’ll have fond memories of last night. Will ask me about it all the time. I, on the other hand, will remember getting up from said night and barfing in the toilet. The first time I’d barfed since the 1990s from drinking. Oh, and chili.

She nuzzles up to my chest. I put my arm around her. I get a hard on again. There’s a definite pattern here. I’m kind of hopeful that she notices, not that there’s a lot to notice.

“So, what do you do?” she finally asks after a couple minutes.

“I didn’t tell you last night?”

“Nope.”

“Well, darlin’, I’m a writer.”

“That’s neat. What do you write?”

“Nothing right now.”


“Huh?”

“Well, I write about life. My life. Your life. Everyone’s life.”

“You’re going to write about me?”

“Most definitely.”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

“Too late.”

“Don’t worry. I want you to write about me.”

My hard on went down immediately on those words. It’s like thinking of Angela Landsbury naked. Not the 1950s version, but the “Murder, She Wrote” one. Time is a terrible thing. Especially if you’re a barren branch, as the Chinese would call me. I can feel melancholy sweeping over my body and mind. A frown has appeared on my face.

“What’s wrong?” she says.

“Just…um…”

“What?”

“You just said something.”

“What? … I’m so sorry.”

She reached for my dick. I guess that’s her way of conflict resolution with a guy she just met. A guy who doesn’t even remember her name.

I rolled over to stop the inevitable. Not that I couldn’t use a nice blow job or fuck. I just knew it wasn’t going to be a good idea.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“Not your fault, darlin’,” I said. “I’ve got issues you couldn’t imagine. Maybe one day, I’ll tell you about them.”

I didn’t have plans to tell her. It just seemed the right thing to say.

“Oh…OK.”

She pulled the sheet up over her body. It was nice to have a warm body in bed next to me. I put my arm around her, placing my hand on her belly. She took my hand. We went back to sleep. It was the best sleep I’d had in years. So good, I didn’t mind missing work that day. Although my boss felt slightly different about it, firing me the next day.

I never saw that girl again. But, before she left – in a cab – she told me her name. It was Rebecca.