I look around and see that Frank and I have indeed shut down the place. Before the bartender can object, I scurry to the bathroom for one last pee and now the world is tilting at an uncomfortable rate, and I have to hold onto the toilet seat like I'm riding a mechanical bull.
When I return to the bar, Frank is getting up from his stool, and I pull out my phone and open the Uber app, planning to offer Frank a ride home. A second later, the door to Ricky's opens and a police officer walks in. This guy is the dictionary definition of tall, dark and handsome, and that's what I tell Frank. Loudly.
"Thanks for coming, Officer Vega," Shirley says, slipping her purse onto her shoulder.
"Evening, Shirley."
I smile at Officer Hottie, but his mouth remains a tight little line as he assesses me.
"These the two who need to get home?" he asks Shirley.
I shake my phone at her. "I'm getting an Uber. You didn't need to call the police."
"Karl isn't picking you two up. Frank has puked in his backseat one too many times. He's done with drunks. Officer Vega here is going to see you home."
Drunks? Did she just call me a drunk? I'm drunk as in the verb, but not the noun, certainly. Shirley looks determined and definitely a little fed up, and so does Vega, so I decide to keep my outrage to myself.
Internally, I direct my indignation toward Seth. He was supposed to be my ride home, and he ditched me. Okay, I ditched him. Whatever.
Officer Vega's squad car is parked right outside the front door of Ricky's, and Frank slides into the backseat like it's routine for him, which it apparently is. I follow him inside and press myself against the door, praying Frank isn't going to hurl. He's already snoring before we even leave the parking lot, which seems like a good sign. Without realizing it, I start humming the theme to the television show "Cops." Then I add the words.
"Bad boys, bad boys, what you gonna do—"
"Stop," Vega says from the front seat. "Please, I beg you. Stop singing."
I stick my tongue out at him, but comply. It's also possible I fall asleep on the ride home because the next thing I know Officer Vega is shaking me awake. That last things I remember are leaving the bar, getting into the police cruiser and eating blueberry pancakes with Idris Elba...on second thought, that last part might have been a dream.
Dizziness has fully set in now, and I have to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other as I walk to the house. Officer Vega stands outside his vehicle, watching me from the farm's parking lot. I stumble over a hole in the lawn, but remain on my feet.
"I got this," I tell myself aloud, as if the task of walking is something that I'm struggling to master. Because I am.
I concentrate hard on walking up the front porch steps. One foot touches each step, not two. That would be wrong. Only toddlers need to go up stairs that way.
Unfortunately, it takes me a long time to locate my keys in my bag, and when I find them I squeal and hold them up like treasure. When I turn, I see that Officer Vega is still watching me, and I know I should be embarrassed, but that feels like something there's plenty of time for in the morning.
* * *
Birds haveno respect for hangovers. My headache is compounded by every squawk from outside my window. I would sell my soul for noise canceling headphones or a sound machine. The sun's deadly rays are also a problem, but at least I can cover my eyes with a quilt. There's nothing I can do about my ears.
I need water. I need coffee. I need someone to pronounce me dead so I never have to leave this bed. Every time I roll my head to one side, there's a sloshing sensation like someone has put my brain inside a magic eight ball. Will I survive this hangover? Answer remains cloudy, try again later.
Staying in this bed forever is not a terrible plan. That way I won't have to deal with Dan and the fact that I shat where I ate. This is a nice mattress. I've had better pillows, but these will suffice. Sure, I'll atrophy eventually, but I can figure out some exercises that require very little head movement.
I doze in and out of sleep, various parts of the previous night's adventures floating through my consciousness. Did I ask Officer Vega to give me a ride home or did he arrest me? Neither one seems to be the correct answer. I definitely made a suggestive comment about his handcuffs that I now regret. Running into him again is going to be humiliating to say the least—another reason to never leave this bed. My saving grace is that I didn't vomit in the squad car, at least not that I recall.
My mouth is like sun-dried adobe at this point, and there's no choice but to seek hydration. Plus, I have to pee. I didn't take these things into consideration when I planned on remaining in bed for eternity. I'm sure I look ridiculous, standing myself up with as little head movement as possible. I need to pause after I swing my legs over the side because a wave of nausea hits me in the gut. I never throw up from drinking. Never. It's an achievement I wear like a badge of honor. Only this seems to be the point at which I give up my badge...
The wave of nausea passes, and I'm alright again, although whoever is rocking this bed side to side needs to stop. I feel like I'm on a raft at sea.
Everything is going to be fine. There's a tap in the bathroom that will bring forth delicious running water, if only my legs will take me there. Thank god Seth finished tiling his bathroom. I seriously could not deal with him seeing me like this.
There's no cup in the bathroom so I hang my head over the sink and drink straight from the tap. Sweet relief. When I look up in the mirror, I realize that somehow I managed to take off my dress last night. I'm naked except for my underwear. My mascara and eyeliner have streamed down my cheeks, and I make a valiant effort to swipe my face with a washcloth. It's not an improvement. With my makeup gone, I resemble a body in the morgue.
The effort I've spent drinking water and turning myself into a corpse has taken up most of my remaining energy, and I still need to pee and get back in bed, where someone will find my remains. Good-bye, sweet world.
Once I'm on the toilet, I locate my dress. It's wadded up in a ball on the floor with my purse tucked against it. Good to know I made it in here clothed and still have my wallet and phone. I check my messages, and I'm relived to see Dan hasn't contacted me again. Not yet, anyway.
Once I'm back in bed, rehydrated and exhausted, I close my eyes and fall into a deep sleep. When my phone rings, I grab it and punch the answer button, just to make the noise stop. I don't even consider who's on the other line, which is a horrible idea because it's the last person I want to speak with right now, my mother.
