After Just Another Night of Drinking

Nineteen-years-old and waking up not knowing where I am.

Waking up after just another night out drinking. I sit up in bed and rub the sleep out of my eyes. I glance around the unfamiliar bedroom, trying to recall as much as I can from the night before.

Massaging my aching temples, I groan and make my way out of bed, ignoring the body next to me.

I stand by the window, looking out, the scenery unfamiliar. I try to figure out where I am. More and more of the night before starts coming back.

Then I think of my sister and panic. She has no idea what happened to me or where I am.

I should be waking up with her at her friend’s place in town as planned, not wherever the fuck I am.

She’s probably crazy with worry.

I’ve broken our number one rule: never leave without telling each other where we’re going.

And last night, I vanished without a trace. Fuck, how stupid.

We promised never to be so reckless.

I sit on the edge of the bed next to Danny. At least I know his name. He hands me a cigarette. Flicks the lighter for me. I lean in, light the cigarette, take a long inhale and a long exhale, ask, “Where the fuck am I?”

He chuckles. “Don’t you remember?”

“Would I ask if I did?”

“At least you’re someplace safe,” he says, grinning. “You sure are stubborn.” And I remember how he wouldn’t let me stay aboard the fishing boat with the Norwegian sailor.

“Oh, someplace safe? Is that where I am?” I stand, feeling the urge to pace and search for a phone. “I’ve got to call my sister. You got a phone?”

“Over there.” He points to the opposite corner, the one place I hadn’t checked.

I butt out my cigarette and go over and dial the number. After saying hello, my sister’s friend says, “Thank God you’ve called. We’ve been worried sick. “Here’s Katt.”

“Where the hell are you?” Katt asks.

I turn toward Danny while answering. “Haven’t a clue, but apparently I’m someplace safe.” I smirk at Danny.

“Don’t play games, Barbara,” she says. “Tell me where you are.”

Pulling the phone cord across the room, I slink over to Danny. “Want to tell me where I am?”

He shakes his head and says, “Kingsburg.”

“Explain how to get here.” I pass him the phone.

He does as I ask. When he’s done, he hands back the phone.

Katt says, “We’ve got to work today. I’ll pick you up later when I’m off.”

“You gotta be kidding. What the hell am I going to do?”

Danny pipes up, “What’s your problem now?” He’s standing, pulling up his jeans.

“My sister can’t get me until late afternoon.”

“So?”

“So? Like, what the hell am I supposed to do ’til then? Where am I supposed to go?”

“No problem,” he says. “You can hang around here. Tell her to pick you up when she can.”

Not what I had in mind. Why can’t I just go home and sleep?

But I accept my situation and follow Danny downstairs.

His grandmother prepares us toast and eggs. Several people soon arrive with a case of beer. Danny and I finish breakfast, thank his grandmother, and join the others outside.

In a field of tall grass behind the barn, we sit in a semi-circle. It’s a sunny day but breezy. I can smell the salt air coming off the ocean. Danny passes me a bag of weed and a couple of rolling papers. “Roll one up,” he says.

I do okay until a gust of wind lifts the papers full of weed out of my hands and up into the air, sending the dope sprinkling into the tall grass.

“Ohhhh, I’m sorry,” I say. “So sorry.” I glance over at him, hoping he’s not angry with me.

He shrugs, and says. “Just roll another one.”

I can’t believe he’s so calm and cool and, most of all, that he still trusts me to do it right.

I finally get a joint rolled, and we pass it around.

The men get up and chop firewood while I sit and talk with the girl I’d just met.

Her stringy brown hair blows in the wind, her glasses slip down her nose. We share a bottle of wine. We share secrets, knowing we’ll probably never see each other again.

Cars drive along the road at the edge of the field. People rushing to get somewhere, while we’ve all got no place to go.

The guys stop for another beer. Another joint. The hours tick by until my sister gets off work and arrives to pick me up.

I go home to rest until the next day, until the next night out, when it will start all over again.

BARBARA CARTER is a visual artist and writer with a focus on healing from childhood trauma, alcohol addiction, and living her best authentic life.