I woke up when my face hit the carpet. The rest of me was still hanging off so I brought it down with me. My leg clipped something on the way down. My shoulder landed in a spot that was unmistakably old vomit. Graceful.

My stomach felt worn out and nauseous. My throat, mouth and eyes burned. My limbs were heavy. My head pounded in time with my heart. Shit. I was alive.

I peeled the black mess of hair and beard from my face and pulled myself up to get off the vomit. Plus I had to figure out where the hell I was. I actually couldn’t completely remember last night. Which is rare; I haven’t blacked out in years.

After some difficult thinking I realized at some point during the party last night I had fallen asleep on the couch. With all the furniture still pushed against the walls, couch included, I hardly recognized the space. Someone had stuck throw pillows on the couch behind me to keep me from rolling onto my back. So instead, I rolled off.

My dry eyes scanned over the beer bottles and plastic cups on the table in front of me until I spotted one that was half full; I really wanted to get the taste of vomit out of my mouth. After a swig of stale ale to clean my mouth I started taking in the full scene.

Every surface of the living room and what I could see in the kitchen was covered with beer bottles, cans and plastic cups: The TV stand, the side table, the card table, the kitchen table. Even the floor was littered. Not all from the night before admittedly, but most of them were new. I took another swig. Past the smell of liquor vomit there was also a faint smell of permanent markers nearby.

On the card table against one wall my birthday presents glistened in the morning light. Some were drunk out of more than others. Some were hilariously cheap, some were old favorites and some were quite nice. They were all perfect: Aristocrat and Old Crow. Jameson and Jack. Grapes in homemade moonshine in a Mason jar. 25 year old port wine. And the green fairy herself was here; a bottle of absinthe from the Leopold Brothers’. That last one was a gift to myself. It seemed right to treat myself one last time... before...

On the same table as the liquor was an empty box that once contained 30 cans of PBR; those cans now being room decoration. The adorning bottles were mostly typical American brews but I bought some Mexican and local stuff too. The party litter and my bank account showed no expense was spared. I was trying to go out with a bang and with the furniture haphazardly pushed against the wall and a shrapnel of cups and bottles everywhere it looked like the place exploded.

From where I sat on the floor I could see the cake someone brought still sitting out on the kitchen table. I thought we were civilized with forks and plates but it looks like we gave up at some point and just started tearing handfuls off. I don’t remember seeing that. Next to the cake sat a punch bowl emptied. That one was me; I emptied that. I made a mean punch. I should have probably written the recipe down.

I downed the rest of my bottle. The stale lemon and citrus notes got even funkier at the bottom. And I could smell permanent marker again. That was when I finally noticed the tapestry of marker drawings and writing all over my arms. It looked like I crashed well before everyone left. It beat the hell out of birthday cards at least. They were mostly Happy Birthday, Thanks, penis drawings, a Get Well Soon, a Good Luck in pink highlighter, and several mentions of somebody named Barry. There were also tally marks. I remember now the idea with the markers was to track how much I was drinking but I kept finding more groups of them. There had to be at least 50 across both arms, but there were a bunch of incomplete sets. Next to one group of tally marks circled with it was a message that was drawn with a preposterously shaky hand: “DICKS SUCKD”

My sudden laughter surprised me; I didn’t realize how quiet it had been. In response, I heard a moan of protest come from across the room from the other couch. Connor was still here! He blended in well with the blanket. His normally neat hair was a mess. I saw him turn and stuff his head into the corner of the couch cushion and pull the blanket over himself. Doing that revealed the fact he had taken his pants off at some point.

Connor had his own plans yesterday but those wrapped up early and my party was still going strong. At my insistence he finally came over and I helped him ‘catch up’. First with the spiked punch, which was more alcohol than punch, then when he was well-lubricated I opened the 25 year old port wine and shared a few glasses on the rocks with him. It seemed appropriate, seeing as we had both just turned 25 as well.

Well then, if I’m up I might as well check on the other birthday boy.

I steadied myself onto my knees, then onto the couch, and then onto my feet. My hands were shaking more than normal today but the stiffness in my legs was fine, though they were a little heavy. I must have slept a while because I felt almost sober.

I tiptoed around the cans and bottles towards Connor and leered over his sleeping body. I tried to think of something clever to say but after a minute staring at his blanketed form I fell back on keeping it simple.

“Happy Birthday, Comet!” I cheered a little too loud; it even hurt my ears a bit. I plastered the shit-eating-est grin on my face I could muster. I heard a sigh under the blanket and then he slowly pulled the blanket from his face. He looked like a mummy brought back from the dead unwillingly. But when he saw my face his scowl broke into a reluctant acceptance.

“Happy Birthday, Berry,” he rasped from his cocoon. There was that name again. I looked at the mentions of it on my arm then back at him.

“‘No.... Who the fuck is Barry?” I asked. He answered me with a confused look and rolled over to go back to sleep.

I left him alone on the couch for a moment to head into the kitchen. I was thirsty and my flat beer was empty. I stumbled past the kitchen table with the half-eaten birthday cake and stepped around the puddle of what I hoped was beer by the knocked over keg on my way to the sink. I made for the counter of unused red plastic cups and filled one at the sink. I impatiently downed the lukewarm water when it was half-full then refilled it again. This time it got to the top before I drained it.

While I was refilling the cup for the third time, I noticed from the light streaming in from the window over the sink that I was wearing a deep purple shirt.

I didn’t own a purple shirt.

Well, I mean, I did now I guess.

I took the third refill back into the living room and walked back over to Connor still lying on the couch. Accidentally kicking a bottle and swearing at the spill made him stir again. He strained his eyes open again to look at me. I offered the cup. When he saw what I was offering he moaned angrily and put his hand up to shoo it away.

“It’s fucking water,” I hissed at his protests. Hearing that got him to sit up. He didn’t say thanks but he accepted the cup appreciatively and sipped it like a man unsure what his stomach was going to do with it. I let him enjoy a moment of silence before I tried my question again, “Alright Professor, who’s Barry?”

“You told everyone last night to call you ‘Barry’. And kept asking about someone named ‘Ruby’,” Connor explained this new ‘Barry’ persona to me.

“I don’t think I even know a ‘Ruby’,” I said, more amused than anything. Hearing about my own drunk adventures was great; they were true stories, starring me, that I never heard before. It had been years since I blacked out, at least around others. I didn’t even know I still did that.

“Yeah, everybody played along... but I don’t think nobody knew who Ruby was,” Connor said with a bit of his Arkansas showing. “She wasn’t at the party.” He finished his water and handed the cup back to me. I racked my brain trying to remember ‘Ruby’ from somewhere. The only place I had been to lately had been the liquor store and the grocery store. Was there someone named ‘Ruby’ who worked at one of those? Did she call me ‘Barry’? In my grogginess I couldn’t think of a single instance where I was ever called ‘Barry’. Maybe if I was ‘Barry’ she also had a different name. Then it’d be hopeless.

“Did I do anything else?” I asked for more.

“You went upstairs for a bit. You started hitting the alcohol real hard after the whole ‘Barry’ thing so we thought you went too fast and crashed. But before I could come check on you, you came back down. You smelled like you threw up but you kept drinking and telling everyone to take care of you so they kept giving you more drinks,” he narrated, swallowed a bit and continued. “Then you started telling Rosie how much you liked her shirt over and over so she eventually agreed to trade you since it was your birthday,” he motioned to the purple shirt I was wearing.

I was a little on the short side so I didn’t even notice it was a girl’s shirt. Once I started looking for it though I could tell from the cut that it was indeed a girl’s shirt. Well, that was at least one mystery solved; the shirt was Rosie’s. But that led to a new mystery.

“I don’t know a ‘Rosie’,” I said, feeling the amused grin spread across my tired face.

“She was Harry’s friend,” he informed me while rubbing a headache with one hand.

“I don’t know a ‘Harry’ either,” I said as I chuckled a bit awkwardly. How many friends of friends showed up?

“Really? You acted like you knew each other. Black hair? Told a lot of bad jokes?” Connor tried to fill in the gaps in my memory but there were no gaps to fill in; there wasn’t anything. I shrugged and dropped it. I looked back at my new shirt from the ordeal.

“Well, I guess it’s an alright color,” I said with a shrug. My favorite color was still light green though; the color of absinthe. I looked over at the bottle of absinthe on the table to confirm it was still my favorite. The bottle seemed to answer with the way it shined in the light.

I left my line of questioning with Connor to go check the bottle. Also, you know, I did need to steel myself. So while I was there I uncapped it and took just a short sip. A smooth anise violently shook the jitters from me. The lingering numbness in my mouth left me feeling refreshed and in control.

Before I could do another sip the doorbell rang. Being the least dead in the living room I assigned myself to answer it. I hadn’t realized what time it was, but when I opened the door the intense light of the afternoon jumped out and stabbed me right in the eyes. I unscrewed my stinging eyes to see who brought the sun with them.

The face of the person standing at my door was immediately recognizable but my fumbling brain was having a hard time giving me a name for the face. She looked different. The god rays behind her weren’t helping.

A girl my age was standing there in a blue, flashy top and distressed, heavily torn jeans with colorful tights on underneath. Her face was complimented with long brown hair, a button nose, and a flawless smile. She was a bit more stout than I remembered her last, but it made her cuter. Other than that last bit she was the perfect match to the person from my memories. She held a green Gatorade at her side.

Before I could ask why she was there, or even stop acting surprised, she closed the distance between us and gave me a long, firm hug. The intensity of her shampoo was intoxicating but I eventually managed to put my own arms around her and return the hug. I could tell from the way the wetness of my shirt squished I was transferring some of my throw-up to her but she didn’t squirm from it. At least all the alcohol in it killed most of the smell. After a few seconds she finally released me but stayed nearly nose-to-nose to me. I could trip and fall into those chestnut eyes.

“Happy Birthday, Brian!” she said with her cheerful tone and beamed that wonderful smile again. It felt like a lifetime since we last met. Her greeting reminded me that ‘words’ were a thing and after a moment I found my voice again.

“...Morning, ...Monica?” I replied in confusion. In the silence that followed I tried to adjust my eyes to the light but that made the head beat harder.

“Morning, Brian,” she broke the silence and greeted me again. This time the smile was sadder. “How are you feeling?” she started before her voice trailed off. After a beat her smile returned with a giggle. “Did I come by too early? Do you need a few more minutes?” Monica’s smile grew as she nodded down. I looked down to see what was the matter. And then I understood why she asked.

I was in a girl’s shirt stained with vomit, with my arms covered in penis drawings, still holding a fifth of alcohol... and in my boxers.

“Oh. No, now’s a great time! What are you doing here?” I played it off by leaning against the door frame. Maybe ‘Barry’ answers the door in his underwear?

“Uh,” she seemed surprised by my question. “You... were texting me last night,” she sounded unsure. “Do you remember that?”

“Not exactly. It might have been Barry,” I said, feeding the inside joke some more. I instinctively searched the pockets I didn’t have on the jeans I wasn’t wearing for the phone that wasn’t on me. I turned back to look into the living room; I wasn’t sure where my pants were. “Come on in for a sec,” I said and gestured for her to follow. She made no refusals and came in so I could shut the door behind her and begin the search for my pants.

“Hey, Comet! Have you seen my pants?” I called out as I walked back into the living room. When I turned the corner I saw Comet was up and about now, standing among the party’s aftermath. The long top of his hair was slicked to the side and a little neater now. He had also gotten himself more water. He seemed to still be looking for his own pants as well though.

“No,” he looked around the living room ineffectually as to help.

“Hi, Connor!” Monica called out to my fellow pantsless friend. I turned back to look at the girl who walked in behind me. The look on her face told me she was barely holding in a joyful giggle. “Happy Birthday!” she added. She was also clearly in awe at the state of the living room.

Connor froze unsure for a moment but then relaxed and smiled. The realization of the silliness of the situation seemed to put him in a good mood. “Happy Birthday, Monica.”

I turned back to look at the girl still standing behind me. In my shock of seeing her I had nearly forgotten that since it was May 2nd now, it was her birthday.

“Happy Birthday, Monica,” I said trying to hide the hint of the sudden realization in my voice. “Sorry I didn’t get you anything.“

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Seeing you guys again was the best gift I could get from you! Plus...” She giggled and gestured at our pantsless legs. “What a reunion! I forgot how wild these things got…” She took in the disaster area before her eyes fell back onto the bottle in my hand. “Oh! I got you this though! Trade you,” she gently pawned the green Gatorade she had been carrying off on me and reached for the absinthe in my hands.

I let her take it and she walked it over to the table with all the other liquors to set it down. She looked over all the liquor, cans and bottles on and around the table.

“It looks like you had a lot of... ‘fun’ last night,” she said while looking at the bottles. She turned around and spread her arms out towards the living room. ”So how many were here? You two, your roommates, and ...Barry?”

“No, I’m Barry,” I corrected her. “There were about nine of us when Comet showed up.”

“I think there were around 15 or so at one point,“ Comet added then went back to babying his cup of water.

“Oh,” Monica looked between the two of us as she tried to understand something more complicated. “So you’re ‘Barry’... and you’re ‘Comet’?”. She made air quotes when she said the names. I looked back at Connor. Was I calling him ‘Comet’? ...‘Vomit Comet’? Did he throw up last night and I forget? “Is that from some kind of party game?”

“I guess? I don’t know when it started,” my friend said, unphased by the name swap.

After a quick look around the living room and the kitchen I was stumped, thinking one of our pants should have turned up by now. After Monica offered to call my phone we finally found my phone, my pants, as well as Connor’s, thrown into the closet by the door where we kept the broom and vacuum. After we found them a vague enough memory of “putting our pants up so we could find them again” came to me. It seemed like it had some drunk logic to it but the thinking space in my sobering brain was being crowded out with a headache.

“So, about last night’s texts…” Monica started again now that Connor and I had our respective pants back on.

“Er. Hey, if you guys want, imma head out,” Connor tried to get past me to the door. He wasn’t drunk but he still looked like shit so I gently stopped him with a hand on the shoulder.

“Hey no, stay a bit,” I pulled my crumbled pack of cigarettes and lighter from my back pocket and offered them to him. “Go wake up first. We’ll go talk upstairs. Right?” I turned at that last part to confirm that was alright with Monica. She nodded approvingly.

“...alright,” he accepted after a moment of consideration. “Thanks. I’ll go make some coffee then,” Connor took my gifts and headed for the kitchen.

I cracked open the Gatorade and took several large pulls. The electrolytes were just as much of a shock as the absinthe. When I finally stopped gulping it down I motioned Monica towards the stairs to say I was ready. As we ascended the stairs I started thumbing through my texts last night to figure out what this was about. Monica and I hadn’t dated since high school. And I hadn’t seen her in probably three years. What made me think last night that reaching out to her was a good idea?

In my phone there were a few unread texts from people thanking me for the party and wishing me Happy Birthday, some not in my contacts. I thumbed past those to find the ones with Monica. They started around 1 am:

Me: “M I know you don’t appreciate drink texts but I need some hrlp

Throwing one more part then I don’t know what to do with mydelfm

I’m getting ficking lld and the only reason I’m still alive is because I wanted to see Brianna sjccesed.

Nit I have no money the car is trash and I can’t hold down a job.becjsdr I’m a wkrthlesd.alcohol just my dad”

At this point she responded:

Monica: “Are you okay? Where are you?”

And the conversation continued:

Me: “Upstairs.tjrkeknf up in the bathroom I think I’m done. I drink too fast”

Monica: “Where upstairs? At your house?”

Me: “Ye sorry I left the part.”

Monica: “Is anyone still there?”

Me: “Everyone’s here”

Monica: “Find someone and talk to them. Tell them to take care of you. Go down the stairs carefully too. I’ll be by in the morning.”

Me: “ok i love.you mini you’re by.mest.frkend”

Then three hours ago she started sending texts asking if I was still at home. And here we were. True to her word, she showed up.

I had the urge to flee back downstairs and not have whatever conversation we were about to have. But she had showed up and now I was obligated to spill my guts further. Shit. Why would I send this to her? Because we were dating during my last crisis? Damn it, Barry, what were you thinking?

Next Chapter: 2. The Life Of Brian Estimated time remaining: 16 Hours, 32 Minutes