It’s Open! Please?
I was so drunk that I’d forgotten the name of the hotel; if it hadn’t been etched into the keytag for my room, I’d never have found the place. But all I could think about was my empty bottle of schnapps.
That mother fucker drank my last drink, I thought. He probably thought I could just buy more.
But I knew my drinking time was limited. And now all the bars were closed.
Like all the other times I’d been drunk in my entire life, I’d ended up nowhere near where I wanted to be, doing nothing like what I’d wanted to do, with some strange guy on top of me and wondering if I would ever get home.
All of my drunken episodes were the same. I thought I was having spectacular adventures but they were all unpredictably messy, and always ended with something I didn’t want. Once I started drinking, my decisions were made based solely on getting more alcohol, more drugs, more more more. More was all that mattered.
The rest – the men, the sex, waking up wherever I landed – that was payment for “more.”
I sat on the curb outside and stared at the asphalt. In front of my eyes, the pavement melted, waves of color swirling over the black.
I sat up, eyes wide: my first-ever alcoholic hallucinations. I’d heard about but never experienced them.
I panicked and called my neighbor, Louise, from the nearby pay phone. It was maybe 4 a.m.
I called collect because I had no cash. Louise accepted the charges.
“Are you okay?” she answered.
“I just want to check on Kitty,” I drawled.
“Are you okay!” Louise repeated emphatically.
“Well I was raped, and that mother fucker drank my last drink.” I told her about Marvin and Meadville and the hotel, then she abruptly hung up.
I plopped on the curb and watched the asphalt swirl.
Moments later, the police arrived and found me in the parking lot. “We got a call from a Louise. She wants us to make sure you’re okay.”
Both officers were male.
“I’m fucking fine,” I said. Swearing came to me so easily when I was drunk, especially when people were – like police officers – preventing my continued attempts at making poor choices.
“We’d still like to ask you some questions,” they said.
I sighed.
When I’d finally convinced them that I didn’t need a hospital, I went into the hotel room. Marvin’s wooden leg was next to the bed. He sat up a little. I walked over and started kissing him, climbing on top of him, trying to have sex with him.
I figured payment was definitely owed.
Gently Marvin rolled me onto the bed, placing my head on the pillow.
“Just get some sleep,” he said calmly. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
When morning came, I was shivering, teeth chattering, the DTs setting in. Marvin gave me his sweatshirt for the ride.
An hour later, we stood outside of the hospital in Erie where the rehab awaited.
But I saw a bar across the street.
After losing my last drink to the would-be rapist, I desperately wanted one more chance – to do it right this time.
“It’s open! Please?” I begged.
Marvin shook his head. “No more bars,” he said. “You’ve gotta go in. And I’ve got to go to work.”
“Work?”
Marvin nodded. “I’ve got to go in today.”
I tried to remove Marvin’s sweatshirt, but I was shaking uncontrollably.
“Give it back when you get out,” Marvin said.
I hugged and thanked him, and walked inside to rehab.