Abestia

I’m not proud of the fact that years back I used to spend alot of time and money in strip clubs.  This was the pre lap-dance years.  I was working as a foreman in a warehouse that sold outdoor furniture.  On payday, me and a bunch of the guys would cash our checks and head to Spank’y Go-Go Bar in an industrial neighborhood in the lower end of West Orange, New Jersey.  Everyone knew Spanky’s had the hottest girls around.  The strip club ritual is, in hind site, lame. Hot girls in G-strings walk around the server side of the bar, covering the nipples of their topless breasts, soliciting salivating men who are leaning over the bar and copping one-dollar feels by placing single bills between boobs. A strange way to spend several hours and lots of money.

I’m pretty sure I was 20 years old. Definitely using fake ID. I remember several Tequila shots.  I remember beer after beer after beer.  I remember vibing with a smokin stripper from Brooklyn named Angela who had long curly blond hair and fabulous breasts.  I remember spending several hours at the bar.  Then a few of us smoked a joint out by the car.

I was plastered.

I decided to drive to my parents house in West Orange, just a few miles up the hill.  On the way I scraped the concrete divider on Eagle Rock Avenue.  I managed to make it home safe.

I entered the living room giggling and staggering and making no sense.  My mom and dad were watching TV. 

“Go Upstairs,” she said, shaking her head with a look of disgust.

Weak kneed and dizzy I carefully navigated the creeky wooden stairs, holding the railing tightly with both hands.  I knew I was in trouble. 

The next thing I remember I’m laying in my single bed and the room is spinning.  I can’t even get up to go to the bathroom.  Then I’m throwing up, profusely, in my bed, puke projectiling out of my mouth, my face lying sideways on the pillow.  Throw up all over the pillow, bed, my face and clothes.  My older brother, whose stayin in the next room comes in screaming,

“Eeeeew, Ew your disgusting!  Ewwwwww Maaaaa.” 

My mother comes upstairs and they are both watching me, disgusted.  By now I’ve managed to lean over the bed and I’m letting loose all over the old, hardwood floors. 

The next thing I remember its Thanksgiving morning and I am sure that my head is going to explode.  I can’t move, and when I do, instantly, I am throwing up again, this time in the bucket that mom had left next to my bed.  As I’m doing so, she comes in the room with another bucket, filled with hot water, ammonia and a mop.  She drops it on the floor, angrily, and says, “Clean Everything,” turns and walks out.

This becomes the worst hangover day of my life.  The headache doesn’t pass till the following day.  I never leave the room.  I throw up several more times throughout.  At one point, after dark, I manage to put down a half bowl of mushroom soup.  This is all I eat on Thanksgiving of my 20th year.