Prompt A: Tell a story about a time you got drunk before you were legally old enough to do so.
Tuesday. The most unappreciated day of the week. No one waits for it and, in fact, no one even notices its existence. Think about it for a minute. Monday is the start of the week. Wednesday is hump-day, Thursday puts the weekend in view, and well Friday-Sunday goes without saying. Tuesday is left all alone and without notoriety. Tuesday deserved to be celebrated with whatever we could afford, which wasn’t much.
We were broke college students relying on the refunds from dropped classes, allowances from parents and the undeserved credit allotted us from soul-suckers like Citibank. And in the craziness of finding ourselves and unsuccessful acclimations, we celebrated Tuesday in the hopes of having something to unite us. Something on which to build a past and to use in future stories we’d surely tell amongst others longing for the carefree days of yesteryear.
My story started, while home over Winter Break, with a phone call. An inebriated phone call to a best friend whose innocence and unsuspecting nature created a haven of safety for brute honesty.
“Let’s fuck,” I exploded, the words racing through wires to find their landing in his ear. “I want to fuck you. It’s been on my mind lately.”
“Are you drunk?” It was, of course, rhetorical as the answer was obvious. I slurred my words loudly and offered myself to him numerous times.
“No. I’m not drunk! I’m drinkin’, but I am not drunk,” I protested unconvincingly, taking another gulp of the bitter forty-ounce malt liquor. I light a cigarette and took a longer than usual drag.
“Okay. Let’s talk about this when you are not drinking.”
“Or you can just come over. I’m really not drunk, and I really do want to fuck. Besides, even if I am drunk, a drunk man speaks the truth, right?” It was a weak attempt, but looking back, I am pretty certain that I knew he would never call my bluff. He wasn’t that kind of guy, and he didn’t need to take advantage of a weak moment just to get some.
“And what about your boyfriend? Remember him? Fuck Kristina, why are you doing this to me?”
“What boyfriend? He keeps telling me I’m not wifey material, and he doesn’t want to be with me. So, I don’t have a boyfriend.” I was getting angry and the length of time between swigs of malt brew was becoming shorter and shorter.
“Then why are you still with him? Besides, I told you, I’m not talking about this while you are drunk.”
Silence. In my head I pleaded with him to come visit, yet I remained silent, listening to the sound of his even-paced breaths. Finally I found my voice and said one last time, “Come over. I wanna see you.”
“Tomorrow. When you are sober. Get some sleep.”
He lingered for a moment and then whispered goodbye hastily. The line clicked and then went dead. My forty was gone, and I cracked open another. Tomorrow would be here soon.
