Words I Might Have Ate

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Fuck my life, I’m dead. I am actually dead. I must have drunk myself into oblivion last night and then died from alcohol poisoning. It’s the only reasonable explanation for the angry pounding that has currently taken up residence in my skull.

But if I’m dead, than why can I feel an uncomfortably sharp pain in my leg? Aren’t dead people supposed to be dead and unfeeling? So I must still be alive.

Okay, quick test time. Just open your eyes, Billie. Easy enough, right? And then you’ll have your answer and you’ll know once and for all if you’re dead or alive.

But opening my eyes is easier said than done. By the time I work up the strength to open my eyes, I’ve come to the conclusion that I must still be alive because there’s no way in hell being dead would be this painful. The pain in my leg has turned into a dull throbbing and my head is swimming in dizzying circles despite my tightly shut eyelids.

My bedroom slowly comes into focus and the first thing I see is Zero staring balefully at me from across the room, like she knows I’m hung-over and absolutely miserable. A whimper escapes my dry mouth and I clutch at my temples gently.

What did I drink last night? My mind scrambles to fill in the missing pieces of the evening and I find myself counting the number of drinks I had consumed on both hands. I give up after running out of toes and settle on slowly rousing myself from bed.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed –how did I even get home last night?—proved to be a more difficult feat than originally anticipated. The room lurches at my sudden posture change and my head screams in agony. Before I can do anything else, an acidic swell of vomit races up my throat and I clamp my hands over my mouth desperately before sprinting from my room and into the bathroom.

The door bangs against the wall loudly and I drop to my knees, my hands falling away as the first bitter mouthful of puke begins to pour from my lips. I gag attractively and another bout comes up, splattering against the porcelain loudly. A pitiful groan escapes from me and I grip at the rim of the toilet frantically, desperately trying to keep myself from tumbling headfirst into my own vomit.

There was Heineken first, I remember that. And then came vodka with Mike outside by the bonfire. And then we went back inside for another beer when Tré brought out the weed. We smoked the bowl and then did shots in the kitchen with the birthday girl. Things after that are blurry, I vaguely remember trying to steal someone’s bike but I couldn’t even stand properly, let alone balance on two wheels. I had tumbled into the concrete steps, cracking the back of my head on the railing.

I reach down and tug my pants up so I can examine my leg. There’s a gash running from my ankle to halfway up my calf. There’s dried blood all down my leg and staining my socks a brown-ish red color. I wince as I prod the cut experimentally with my fingertips. It doesn’t seem to be too bad.

I stagger over to the bathroom closet and pull out a towel before running it under the tap. My leg stings angrily when I apply the cool pressure and I hiss angrily between my teeth at the pain. I wipe my leg clean before stripping off my socks and pants and throwing them in the corner of the bathroom. I’ll wash them later.

By the time I unsteadily wander back into the kitchen, I’ve been conscious for about half-hour now and there is still no other signs of life in the apartment. I can hear Tré’s unceremonious snoring from out in the living room and Mike’s bedroom door is shut which means he’s probably still passed out.

I chance a glance up at the clock and my eyes widen when I realize what time it is. I have to be into work in thirty minutes. Swearing colorfully under my breath, I sprint into my room and desperately search for something reasonably clean to wear into work.

I settle on a pair of faded jeans and a striped blue and gray shirt that’s a bit frayed at the end. By the time I run my hands through my hair a few times and spray myself with some aftershave and liberally apply deodorant, it’s been about ten minutes. I glance into the mirror after brushing my teeth and decide I don’t look too bad for having a complete night from hell.

After popping a few aspirin and swallowing them dry, I grab my wallet and keys from my nightstand and turn to rush from the room, bumping into the table in my haste. The book tumbles to the floor and my stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch as the realization that I still haven’t gotten any further in my reading comes to mind. I brush it aside as I step over the novel and resolve to make up for it later before I rush into the kitchen where I scrawl out a short note to Mike explaining that I was running late and that I was borrowing his car. Hopefully he wouldn’t mind.

His keys are lying on the desk by the front door and without a backwards glance at the pants-less drummer snoring under my coffee table, I slam the front door behind me and take off for the garage with only ten minutes left to get to work.

-X-

She went away for the holidays.
Said she’s going to LA
But she never got there.
She never got there.
She never got there, they say.
The KKK took my baby away.
They took her away, away from me

There is nothing more relaxing than cruising down San Pablo Avenue in the late afternoon with the windows down and some classic punk blasting from the shitty car stereo. I had been off for only ten minutes and I was already more than halfway home with the wind blowing in my face and a cigarette dangling from my lips. I was in a good mood, my last fifteen-minute smoke break behind the dumpsters had left me feeling quite relaxed and content with the world at the moment.

Driving has always relaxed me. Whenever I was upset, and back when I had my own shitty car, I used to get behind the wheel and just drive around the East Bay Area with the windows down and my music blaring. It was my safe haven a lot of the time back when Mom and Adam first got married. There’d be a huge fight and I’d go straight to my car and just drive. It was like a drug to me, except without the annoying crash hours later.

I’ve never been more happy to pull onto my street. I had just pulled a nine-hour shift at the bar, which was bad in and of itself. Normally I was used to only working five or six hours a day. But today I had to cover someone else’s shift while also taking care of my own work-load all while being hung-over. It wasn’t my best day ever, to be honest.

I pull the car into the garage and shut the engine off. The stripped down guitars cease their wailing as I pocket the keys and climb out of the driver's seat. A smile finds its way onto my face as I step over a few empty cans of beer that we seem to have spilled on the garage floor last night on our way up to the apartment. The landlord would have our heads if he realized we profusely littered the grounds in our inebriated states.

I kick a few out of my way as I shut the garage door and take the stairs up two at a time to our apartment. The door is unlocked which isn’t a surprise and as I enter my home, I am struck with how quiet it is inside. Mike’s keys are deposited on the desk and my shoes are quickly abandoned under the coffee table. The kitchen is empty, save a note written on the back of a notebook, propped up against a bottle of water.

It’s in Mike’s familiar scrawl and it explains that he had taken the bus out to his job and since I had the car for my shift, would I be able to come pick him up at eleven when his shift was over? I glance up at the clock, noting that it was only a little after nine and therefore, I still had several hours before I was to pick him up.

A quick scavenge of the cupboards and the refrigerator had me coming up empty-handed, except for a box of frozen pizza and a carton of orange juice. I glance hesitantly down at the expiration date before shrugging and setting the oven to preheat.

As the oven protestingly begins to warm up, I trudge into my bedroom and drop my keys and wallet onto my nightstand before bending down and picking up my book. I was still on page thirteen, about two pages short of reaching the end of chapter two. According to David’s agenda for taking the English test, I had two weeks max to finish the book and prepare with him for the exam. I was so far behind already and I had only been at this for a few days.

Puckering my lips out, I realize that I must sit down and knock out quite a bit tonight if I want to stay on track. I can’t procrastinate any longer if I want to remain on schedule. A tired sigh escapes me before I run a hand through my hair absentmindedly a few times before turning on my heel and exiting the room. I cross into the living room and drop down onto the sofa before pulling open the book and finding my place on the page. I furrow my brow as I try to remember what had happened so far in the plot. As the events slowly come filtering back into my subconscious, the oven beeps once at me, letting me know that it was done preheating.

I happily put the book down on the coffee table and stand back up. I couldn’t be expected to do some serious reading on an empty stomach. I hum a random song under my breath as I walk back into the kitchen and push the pizza into the oven. After setting the timer, I rummage through the few random cups we have left in the cupboard and select the glass that looks the cleanest. It just so happens to be an old wine glass but I don’t give it a second thought as I rinse it a few times with hot water before pouring myself a glass of orange juice. I just need a vessel for my drink.

I peek in on the pizza and make a disgruntled noise in the back of my throat as the pizza hasn’t changed at all since I stuck it in the oven. But then again it had only been in there for a minute. I take a sip of my drink and swish the liquid around my mouth a few times before swallowing. The drink is refreshing and I glance over at the carton to double check that it’s not expired. It would be just my luck to misread the label and drink expired juice. The date printed on the top of the carton lets me know that I still have two days before it goes bad and I grin happily as I conclude that Mike must have bought this the last time he went to the grocery. Whenever that was.

Speaking of, I hadn’t been in such a long time that it’s no wonder our kitchen is practically barren. I need to cash last week’s check before I can go pick up some food though and that would require a trip to the bank. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before I can even think about going to the bank and cashing that check, I need to make a list of what needs to be bought.

A quick dive into the junk drawer yields me a slightly wrinkled piece of paper with random numbers written on it and a pen that advertises the casino down on the bay. Tré must have swiped it the last time he went.

I settle myself down at the table and write grocery list across the top of my paper before underlining it twice neatly. A mix between a snort and a chuckle escapes me and I find myself laughing a bit more at what Mike or Tré might say if they walked through the door right now and found me sitting at the kitchen table with a wine glass in one hand and a grocery list in the other.

I smile to myself as I begin to contemplate what we could possible need at the supermarket. The only other noise in the room besides the ticking of the clock is the low humming of the refrigerator and the steady dripping of the sink faucet. My mind wanders as I listen to all three noises individually and all at once. What if ---

The front door swings open and crashes against the wall loudly. I swear loudly at the sudden noise and slosh half of my juice down my arm. Tré strides into the kitchen, a goofy grin plastered on his face as he catches sight of me sitting at the table.

“What’s up?” He asks, throwing himself into the chair opposite me. He cranes his head to the side as he tried to read my list from upside down. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” I mumble, crumbling up the paper and tossing it in the general direction of the garbage can. “Just song lyrics. What’re you doing here, man?”

He shrugs, stretching out in his chair and propping his feet up on the edge of the table. “There’s nothing going on tonight party-wise so I decided to stop by and see how my dearest friends and bandmates are doing on this fair and lovely Tuesday evening.”

“Well let’s see,” I make a face and take another sip of my juice. “I just got home from work and Mike’s still at work so... nothing.”

The realization that I’m holding a wine glass of orange juice finally seems to register with Tré and he casts a puzzled look at me, his eyebrows coming together in a frown. “Having yourself a screwdriver? Don’t you know drinking alone is the first sign of alcoholism, Billie.”

I flip him my middle finger before taking another swig of my juice. “Piss off. There weren’t any other clean glasses in the cupboard. And I wasn’t about to risk contaminating my drink with old cups. This is pure orange juice,” I point at the carton that proudly boasts pure concentration. “You don’t just waste this kind of shit away.”

Tré peers at my bloodshot eyes and grins widely, his lips slightly crooked. “Are you high, Billie Joe Armstrong?”

“What?” I have the audacity to look affronted at his accusations. “Of course not, Tré.”

He roars with laughter, slapping his knee comically as he struggles to regain his breath. “You are so baked right now, Beej. I’m assuming you did this at work?” I nod once. “How on earth did you even manage to find your way home? It must have taken you ages to find the right bus.”

“For your information,” I begin in a snotty voice. “I drove to work so the public transportation system wasn’t graced with my presence on this particular day. However, I—“

The oven’s shrill alarm goes off and both Tré and I jump at the noise, glancing over at it in distress. Once I realize it was just my pizza, I smile sheepishly before going over to the oven and using the dishtowel to pull the food from the rack.

My stomach growls at the sight of the steaming, cheesy creation and I can’t stop myself from pulling a pepperoni from the pizza, cruelly burning the tips of my fingers and my tongue in the process. I swear colorfully, sucking on my fingers as I break a few pieces off and throw them on a paper plate.

Tré watches on in amusement as I sit back down with my five slices and happily begin to munch on my dinner. “You know, it’s a lot more amusing to watch stoned people than it is getting stoned yourself.”

“Really?” I ask, a string of cheese hanging down my chin attractively.

“No,” Tré snorts and helps himself to a piece of pizza. “But seriously, how much did you smoke tonight? You look absolutely blitzed, dude.”

I scrunch my face up and pucker my lips out as I think about the joint I had smoked behind the dumpster. “Just one.”

“One huge, fat one,” Tré corrects me, shaking his head. “You’re loaded.”

I make a childish face at him before continuing to stuff my face. Food has literally never tasted this good in my entire life and I’ve eaten quite a lot of food in my time.

“What time do you have to pick up Mikey-boy?” Tré inquires, glancing up at the clock. “If it’s soon, I’ll drive. I’m not so sure you should be behind the wheel right now.”

I ignore his blatant jab at my driving abilities and look up at the digital clock on the oven. “He gets off at eleven.”

“And it’s ten fifteen, which means we should probably leave soon,” Tré thinks out loud. “Where are his keys?”

“Living room,” I answer, taking another healthy bite.

Tré leaves the kitchen in silence as I finish off the last of my pizza. The last few slices are taunting me from across the room and I make a split-second decision to finish it off before we leave to pick up Mike. I down the first piece in a mere four bites before opening the juice carton again and taking a healthy swig of the liquid.

By the time Tré returns, I’ve finished off both the pizza and the juice and I’m feeling quite pleased with myself, albeit a bit full. He laughs at the content expression on my face before holding out my shoes. “Come on, Billie. Let’s put your shoes on and go pick up Mike. It’s ten thirty.”

I belch attractively before accepting the shoes from my friend and quickly shoving my feet into my sneakers, ignoring the ties and opting instead for wriggling my foot around until everything popped into place. The kitchen’s silent once again and I amble out into the living room to see Tré holding my book in one of his hands.

The bottom of my stomach drops out and I find myself panicking. What if he asked questions about the book like Mike? I couldn’t keep up with two sets of lies between my two best friends. I’m skilled, but I’m not that skilled.

A tiny voice in the back of my head just reminds me that I can always just tell the truth and get everything out in the open. It’s a lot easier than lying and everyone’s happier in the end. Mike and Tré are your two best friends in the whole entire world and they won’t care that you’re trying to get your high school diploma. They’re true friends and true friends are supportive, no matter what.

“I’m assuming this is Mike’s book?” Tré questions, waving the piece of literature a bit as he speaks.

I shrug and pull the book from his grasp. “It’s mine. I-I heard it was a classic and so I decided to give it a go.”

Tré raises his eyebrows at my statement and shakes his head before starting for the door, keys in hand. “I don’t think you realize just how stoned you are right now, BJ. But you’ll be feeling it in a few hours.”

An uneasy feeling spreads through me at his words and I glance down at the book in my hands. I’ve already wasted an hour and a half of my evening that I could have spent with my nose in the book, attempting to catch up.

Upon hearing Tré’s impatient jingling of Mike’s keys, I drop the book down onto the sofa and head for the door. I’ll just read in my room when I get back from picking up Mike.