Friday morning, 5:00 am, Orem, Utah.
Cocooned in a quilt that feels like an elementary school sick day (the days I’d lie awake watching “Price Is Right” in my mother’s soft arms, a woman, who at that moment, only cared to check my temperature and feed me popsicles), I wade in and out of lucid dreams, dreams of flight and other super human powers, dreams of politicians buying me drinks. The only noise in a one block radius is the crisp mountain wind brushing trees against my home and my warm cat breathing deeply, resting against the backs of my knees.
Friday morning, 5:00 am, Chicago, Illinois.
Immersed in a stench of vulgarity—cigarettes, cheap liquor and faceless, prurient men—I run my fists aimlessly through my bag, grasping at anything that feels like my key card, until I find it, stumble through my door on the 13th floor, and creep into my bedroom, unsuccessfully trying to be mindful of my sleeping roommate. I click, click, click the keyboard until every histrionic thought of mine has been recorded and then slip into my bed, wearing what I’ve been wearing for the past 24 hours.
Friday afternoon, 3:00 pm, Orem, Utah.
I clock in at Five Buck Pizza and spend the afternoon, sipping ice water and driving pizzas to pristine Mormon families of eight that occasionally invite me into their Jesus-encrusted, candle-scented homes as they write out a flower decor check. The only thing I fear is their inability to give me a tip, which they always apologized for with the eerie charisma and manners of the cast of Pleasantville.
Friday afternoon, 3:00 pm, Chicago, Illinois.
I’m drenched in sweat and grimy oil, last night’s mascara embedding itself under my eyes. My stomach is in familiar hangover knots, the L is booming past my building every five minutes, and I’m experiencing lucid nightmares for the first time. Ugly faces, filthy places, and I can’t fly away this time. I attempt to wake myself; my disfigured roommate says, “Good morning,” but I fall through the floors, crashing into past heinous experiences, which have somehow transfigured into a symbolic code of fake-tit porn stars offering cunnigulus with injected lips and religious leaders attempting to throw me into mental institutions. I’m realizing, once again, that I’m still dreaming, when I try to wake but find my friendly, but still disfigured roommate replaced with darkness, ambulance sirens, and the pushy voices of paramedics. The cycle repeats four times, until at last I’m awoken by painful thirst. I turn to my roommate with relief; she isn’t disfigured.
Friday evening, 8:00 pm, Orem, Utah.
With my pizza delivery tips, I have my 22 year old friend pick up a five-liter box of Koolaid flavored wine. For the hundredth time, I thank him for his service and hop into a car with my equally underage friends. We leave the reverent Happy Valley and start our tri-weekly, 45 minute drive to Salt Lake City, anticipating yet another blasphemous, but “Cheers”-esque party with our solid group of formally religious friends. My friend is pulled over for speeding, and in the typical Utah Nazi fashion, the cops ask us when the last time we smoked weed was. Never. That wasn’t the question, they say. When was the last time you smoked weed? They pull us out of the car, along with our wine, and we’re left with yet another unaffordable alcohol ticket.
Friday evening, 8:00 pm, Chicago, Illinois.
Haggard and dry, I force my heavy body downstairs for a cigarette, where, as usual, I run into my fellow alcoholics. There isn’t a 21 year old in sight, but this doesn’t prose a problem. I enter the 7-11, and with the worst feigned confidence, tell them my birthday is September 22, 1998. I mean 88. What I meant was 86, but the manager doesn’t mind. He hands me the bottles with a sexual grin, and I’m the savior of my band of acquaintances for five minutes of the night.
Saturday at midnight, Salt Lake City, Utah.
Shaken up by the ticket and the harsh way in which we received it, we’re even more determined to drink until our faces are numb. We coax another 21 year old into going to the store before beer o’clock, and we’re not short for the evening. Suddenly, we’ve forgotten about morally strict cops and involve ourselves in a typical Rothschild vodka, PBR, and electro-fueled dance party. We dance carelessly and awkwardly, flailing and making Joseph Smith jokes, when suddenly, we view cop lights flashing through the dusty blinds, like Jesus Christ on the Day of Reckoning. We hide in the bathrooms and closets together, holding hands like scared children. Once again, we dodged a visit to the Telestial Kingdom—Mormon hell—and raise our red plastic cups to our collective invincibility.
Saturday at midnight, Chicago, Illinois.
We’ve killed the liquor but have been offered more by a fresh set of acquaintances, which we drink outside, obvious, and fearless of everything but the armies of bitter homeless that seem to loom in every one of Chicago’s crevices. We’re pissing in parking lots and throwing our cigarette butts where we please. The only thing on my mind is finding the most sexually appealing kid around. Without much effort or sophistication, I find him, and after a brief shallow compliment or two, we kiss sloppily in an alley. He and his friend offer to take me to a bar up North. I follow them several blocks away from the party, all the way to an anonymous train stop. They pause, turn to me, and change their minds, “They will probably card. You should go home.” Without a recollection of their faces or the location of the party, I walk towards the Sears Tower, drunk meandering down an unknown street and laughing by myself at the horror, pleasantly convinced that this is the night I’ve finally lost my invincibility.
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