Preamble to a Weekend

(Author's Note: I found this on my computer hard-drive, a note written long ago to help memorialize the experience of waking up on any given Friday during Senior Year. I thought it apropos to publish it in anticipation of a weekend, and to fill the maddening silence between my posts. [One of these days I promise, I will finish Saturday, Parts III and IV]. Of course, my weekends are now spent holding crying babies and fighting sleep at 10 p.m., but these diaries stand as proof that once upon a time, I was really quite the moron. -JPL)

Is this Friday morning?

Somewhere in the fog of sleep, synthesized beats and Christina Aguilera pose a simple threat: if you want to be with her, baby, there is a price to pay. Am I dreaming, or is it a distant echo from tub-thumping Heartland the night before? A burst of static from my left tells me that her teeny-pop voice is actually coming from my radio, and realize too late that I forgot to turn off that blasted alarm before crashing headlong into bed last night.

As her voice beckons me to rub her the right way, the eyes lids slide open and light, horrible, aching light, fills the retina--steely shards of sunlight piercing through holes in a make-shift “stadium sign” shade propped up against the bay window pane. As the pain subsides, I rub my eyes and try to discern my location through hazy, slit eyelids. The air is dusty and the sunlight is blinding. But judging by the smell of dead cigarettes wafting from the crumpled jeans on the floor, the stale beer from the yellow Solo cup on the desk nearby, and the odious odiferousness of a dank, dark subterranean hideout, this is must be my basement bedroom.

The whiny voice of a pop idol is simply too much to handle this morning. One hand with arm swings across the body and smacks the snooze button on top of the clock alarm. Ah, peace. One second…two seconds....I almost get a full three seconds of dreamy lucidity when BANG--the sudden violent motion of rolling my body over has its unintended effect. The brain, shrunken dry from a long night of drinking one-dollar rum and cokes, which was formally lying prostrate against the left side of the head cavity, has finished its journey to the right wall of the head. A blinding pang of pain forces the eyes shut. In the darkness, you can almost hear the dehydrated cerebellum pulling away from the tight rubbery sinews attaching it to the inside the skull. One pulse of pure horror….two pulses of pure horror. Silence, it appears, was a pyrrhic victory!

Twenty pulses later, the adrenaline coursing through my veins forces arms to lift my torso from the pillow and bring my knees to my chest. Adrenaline--which the body begins to burn to compensate for the massive amount of water displaced in one’s body during a night of hard drinking—is preventing me from sleeping through this, the final and worst stage of detoxification. Ug—the second unintended effect comes to pass. A wave of nausea fills my stomach. Clearly, all of this activity has sparked some guttural reaction deep within me. The onset of sickness causes my head to drop back into the deep comfort of the pillow. My face sinks rapidly into a sea of relative tranquility.

The new location for my head only angers the headache raging behind my eyes. Now my maladies struggle with valiant effort to gain my complete attention, such that their separate and independent movements now seem engaged in some sort of sick competition. A symphony of destruction ensues while these two factions from the north and the south of my chest work themselves into fervor. Meanwhile, I concentrate on the cool darkness of my spongy pillow and try not to puke.

Bingo. Twenty minutes later, my maladies call a cease-fire, and all sides scale back their aggressions. I leave the sensory-deprivation of the suffocating pillow and hoist my body upright next to the bed. Balance is still a problem, and I steady myself by grabbing the wooden dresser nearby. Slowly, I work one hand over the other as I slide along the length of the dresser top, disturbing ticket stubs, crumpled up dollar bills, Mardi Gras beads, matchbooks, clean, neatly-folded boxer shorts, and a plastic cup which reads “Senior Bar” filled with water, which slid precariously close to the edge before one shaky hand saved it from falling.

The mere thought of water touching my lips caused me to taste the inside of my mouth. Evidently, I took a shot of vodka, medium salsa, and sawdust before hitting the sack last night. I shotgunned the water in the cup, swishing it around as I leaped from the dresser to the door knob. Too much movement. I rest the top of my head against the surface of the particle board door. As I look down at my feet, I see what apparel survived the violent disrobing last night. One brown dress sock, hula girl boxers, a wife-beater, and a purple bracelet made of paper, stretched thin in several places by somebody who was too drunk to remove it with scissors. Looking swarthy, I must say.

Through swollen cheeks I look down, and my unsteady hand reaches down for the doorknob. This is going to be a long, long weekend....