Maybe I’d Done Something New!
“I’m going home,” Larry announced one night as we sat at the Sharwood.
“Why?!?” I whined. “It’s barely 10:00!”
“Gotta get some rest!” he laughed. Larry handed me ten dollars, kissed me, and left.
I remember ordering a shot of root beer schnapps with my new money and then I remember: nothing.
A blackout. A big, empty space appeared in my memory where my life should have been.
I awoke on a floor, desperately dry-mouthed, willing my eyes to open so I could find my cigarettes. I reached out and clonked my arm on something hard – a table maybe, or a wall.
Then someone snorted.
My eyes flew open: I was not at home.
I was among the bodies on the floor of someone’s living room. There was a guy snoring on a couch – likely the noise I’d just heard – and two more guys and another girl were sprawled around using jackets and magazines as bedding.
We were all still clothed, which I found to be a soothing revelation. I was still wearing boots, and my hips hurt where the studs of my jeans pressed.
But I had never seen these people before in my life. And I had no idea where I could be.
Maybe I’m in Ohio, I thought. I’d often gotten drunk and asked someone to drive me to Akron to see Bonnie. And the people around me were young enough to be in college.
I had no idea how much time had passed since I’d bought that shot of root beer schnapps. It could have been hours or days; I could have flown on a plane and never known I’d done it.
I had no idea what day it was. I wracked my brain for a clue; nothing appeared.
I could be anywhere, I thought. Hawaii or Myrtle Beach, or maybe I’m in Ireland! I’d always wanted to go to Ireland.
As I fumbled to quietly light a cigarette, I acknowledged this exciting notion: maybe I’d done something new!
It was still dark outside. I pulled myself up, then stepped over bodies to make my way toward what turned out to be a kitchen.
Thirsty.
I opened the refrigerator door: no Diet Coke, but at least a dozen Budweisers inside. I grabbed one, feeling guilty for stealing from the Irish strangers.
I didn’t want to wake anyone by cracking it open, so I stepped outside. I stood at the top of a wooden staircase, streetlights sparkling in the distance. This house was on a hill, overlooking at least a hundred houses below.
The world was dark and silent.
I plopped down in the doorway, imagining. I could be anywhere. If I’m in Ireland, I’m never going back.
As I sipped my beer, light appeared in the distance, slowly brightening the city beneath me. It took me awhile to realize I was watching the sun rise.
Everything was breathtakingly glorious; the world turned orange and caught fire as I watched.
The houses became clearer. They were older homes so – maybe Europe, maybe Ohio. I thrilled myself by being simultaneously nowhere and everywhere.
Then, just as I was wondering how I’d ever get home, I saw something familiar: an American gas station.
So much for Ireland, I thought. And then it dawned on me with the force of a nuclear blast: I knew that gas station.
It was the only gas station in town. I was still in Pitcairn.
My travel dreams crashed around me, irrevocably destroyed. I finished my beer, grabbed another beer from the strangers’ fridge without remorse. Then, devastated, I headed for home.